#the boy with the demon blood. (visage)

[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?”

[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

[cyberneticlagomorph]

So there you stand in that room.

The you that is Not You pointing his fingers at Adrian with a smile and says, "You, pretty boy, we've got a score to settle!"

Your ghost stiffens with panic, teeth gritted with rage. 

Don’t you fucking TOUCH HIM.

“You!” Zilch snaps his fingers at your wife like she’s a dog and you feel a cold thread of fear slither down your spine. “Leave, but don’t bathe, I’ve got something planned for you later.”

Jeanne snaps her head around to look at the thing wearing your skin, “Care to run that by me again?” She stands up, and you can see Adrian snap out of whatever half-drunken stupor he’s in just long enough to edge away from the apparent danger.

Zilch makes your face smile in a way that’s much too cool and smooth and unlike You. “You heard me! Me and blondie need some privacy, but once I'm done with him, I've got a special treat all lined up for you.”

And Jeanne just smiles, sweet and saccharine. 

Entirely Wrong in the most terrifying way. "How thoughtful; I'll have time to touch up my makeup." She glances back to Alucard before making her exit.

On second thought, Zilch can keep your body. You have no intention of being in it for the absolute RECKONING Jeanne is going to bring down upon you later on.

Zilch watches Jeanne go, turning to Adrian who squares his shoulders and downs the last of his drink with practiced skill.

Something grabs your ghost and yanks you backwards through a nearby wall, out into the hallway. You are cradled in the palm of an absurdly huge demonic hand, and gently presented to the seething visage of your wife. 

“Care to explain?” Is all she says, voice a harsh whisper.

You try to explain, you try very hard in fact, but being a ghost with no body means nobody with a body can exactly hear you. It’s a miracle Jeanne can even SEE you like this. You drag your hands over your face, and try to think of a solution.

Body body body you need a temporary body.

Something with a mouth preferably. 

You hop up and disappear down the hallway, later coming back with Jeanne’s childhood stuffed cat, Charles. Jeanne raises an eyebrow at you as she watches your ghost wiggle into the tiny plush body of her favorite stuffed animal. 

“Can you hear me?” Your voice still sounds way too organic for your liking but you can fix that later.

“I can now, mind finally asking my question?” She gestures at the room you’ve left Adrian and Zilch in, gestures at it with the barrel of a gun.

“Ok so after we had that dumb fight, i went to stay with Ma for a few days to clear my head so I wouldn’t put his through a wall and I must have fallen asleep during some paperwork or something, but I didn’t dream about snakes like I normally do, there was a dream demon there and he tricked me into making a deal with him.” You flap your cute little paws in panic, waddling back and forth as you rattle off your explanation. “He cheated I swear, I didn’t shake his hand on purpose, but now he’s LOOSE in my body and I don’t know what he has planned with it but it can’t be any good.”

Jeanne holds a hand up to silence you, then uses that hand to pinch the bridge of her nose and sigh oh so deeply. “We can go into the contract and its legitimacy later; once we do this I want you to promise me that you'll sort out this horse shit with Adrian; I was getting depressed just being in the same room.”

You have no blood to blush with, but you feel your cheeks heat nonetheless. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good, now how are we going to get that thing out of your body? My usual methods of exorcism can be quite… damaging.” You both wince inwardly at the thought. “I could try one of my summons perhaps?”

You shake your little fluffy head so hard you’re afraid the stitching will give and it’ll just fly off of your neck.

"Fitting for Jubileus, too much for you. Fair enough." She hums and looks very thoughtful.

"I just need him OUT and then we can work on it from there I think?"

"....have you tried extracting him by yourself?" She tilts her head.

"...goddamn it." You hadn’t.

"This all happened just this morning, yes? I wouldn't be too hard on myself if I were you." She kneels and picks you up, it’s a strange but not unwelcome sensation. 

“You hold him down, I pull him out?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You aren’t exactly sure what you were expecting to see when you went back into that room, but you truly wish it wasn’t This.

Zilch is stradling Adrian, pinning him down, two hands on your husband’s bare chest, two more cupping his face a little too firmly so he can’t squirm away from a wretched vile mockery of a kiss. Zilch’s tongue, YOUR tongue snakes around the inside of Adrian’s mouth, pressing against his cheeks, exiting his nostrils, his ear holes, gently caressing your husband’s cheeks and eyeballs, threatening to burrow into his sockets.

Adrian has his nails dig into your flesh, blue spilling through his fingers and hissing where it starts to eat away at him. It’s clear that he’s trying to force Zilch off of him but one he’s drunk, two your body is well over 750 pounds as a baseline, and three Zilch is in it. Were he sober this wouldn’t even be an issue, but he’s not because you’re a selfish piece of shit and you left him to marinate in his own dark feelings. 

Zilch moans and you snap, diving forward. Your spectral hands sink into your stolen body, and then the rest of your ghost follows suit. Jeanne grabs your body by the shoulders and starts to pull, but you don’t budge.

You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to be looking for in here, but you keep looking nonetheless. It’s like bobbing for apples blindfolded, reaching out and hoping you hit something solid before it can go even further down hill. Zilch is there, wrapping spindly limbs around Adrian’s soul, trying to tear it out and replace it with himself like he did to you. You slam into him with the force of a meteor and dig your fingers into his eye sockets until he screams and lets go. Zilch flails and shrieks, spilling starlit blood into the void around you, you sink your wretched little teeth into his neck and DON’T

LET

GO

You drag the demon up and out of you, shoving him  into the waking world with a wet tearing sound like flesh being ripped asunder.

Jeanne gives your body one last heave, expecting further resistance that doesn’t come and you’re both sent flying backwards with the force of it. 

Adrian, his airways finally freed, starts to choke and cough, gasping for air. 

Just above the wreckage of your life floats a triangle in a tophat with a moth instead of a bow tie, he’s missing a good chunk of his head that’s struggling to regenerate. Jeanne shoots him in the eye without hesitation.

Zilch Cipher’s smoking remains crumble into dust and vanish back to whatever dimension they came from.

He’s not dead, and you know that, but that’s a different problem for a different day.

Your husband, throat raw, stares at you with bleary eyes and says. “Mind cluing me in on what the FUCK just happened?”

[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-

[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!

[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.

[sirserpentine]

Thread Tracker:

Drafts:13 Inbox: 0

Mainverse:

Before the Hotel:

@aracniss

Careful. Arackniss has returned, worse for the wear. Pentious wants to help him. NSFW

@circus-frog

Ow. Between them, they have two arms, one voice and zero legs.

During the Hotel

@hazbinned:

We're trapped due to Madam Trainor! Angel's night-time prank ends up with him and Pentious getting locked up in Pentious' room. Time for a sleepover!

The Stage is Set. Alastor and Sir Pentious have decided to put on a play in the hotel and the rehearsals have started. Shenanigans ensue. (Part 2 of The Partner Directors.) /MY TURN

At the Blood Ball. Sir Pentious accompanies Alastor and Angel Dust to Rosie's ( @cannibalxroses ) Ball. Waltzing, food and drinks. And a lot of complicated emotions. /MY TURN

Distraction. Pentious wants to offer his friend ( @angie-long-legs ) a chance to have some fun. It requires him to avert Valentino's attention.

You're gonna need a bigger boat. Husk and Sir Pentious try to make the best of a forced fun day on the beach, but some disturbing freaks of nature do everything in their power to ruin it for them.

The Road Trip of Hell. The Hotel Gang decides to go on a week-long road trip to the edges of Pentagram City and beyond. What could go wrong? /MY TURN

@radioiaci:

Beach. Pentious invites Alastor to join him for a little break while on the beach

In stitches. It's been two weeks since Pentious patched Alastor up after a nasty siege in the hotel...

Human Holiday. Two demons go on a very unusual vacation to the living world. /MY TURN

The Dawn. Pentious recovers from his injuries and gets used to a new reality with Alastor's help.

@dark-ambition

Shedding. Angel catches Pentious at a vulnerable moment.

Hamburg Steaks. Pentious and Angel Dust decide to order fast food for lunch. Unfortunately, Pen is a bit out of touch with current cuisine...

@daddymothxxx Wingspan. Sir Pentious is intrigued about Valentino's wings. Also, Pride Month is coming! @rradiio

The Hellanovela. Pentious meets Arackniss in a dark alleyway after some long decades. /MY TURN

Afternoon stroll. Sir Pentious makes acquaintance with Rosie, the charming Overlord of Cannibal Town.

Doubled! Sir Pentious welcomes an alternate version of himself into his realm.

The Naughty Stool. Kuwako doesn't take kindly to Pentious' disrespect. /MY TURN

@poisonedspider Pole Dance. Angel gives a very hot performance at the club. /MY TURN Is it true that snakes have two...? Angel Dust is curious about some rumours he heard. Oh boy- Beautiful. Angel and Sir Pentious apologise for past grievances.

Father's Day. Angel has big news for Pentious.

Gala. Pentious decides to surprise Angel with an elegant night out. Beach. Pentious invites Alastor to join him for a little break while on the beach. /MY TURN

Sneak-in. NSFW /MY TURN

Ledge. Pentious tries to prevent something horrible from happening. (Trigger Warning.)

@visage-of-hell

Karaoke Night. Pentious has never looked forward to a Wednesday so much!

@angie-long-legs The princess was sitting there, barbeque sauce on his titties... Pentious notices Angel alone at the Blood Ball. This won't do! /MY TURN

The flood. Pentious helps and cares for Angel when he is amid some traumatic memories.

Sobriety. The heartwarming story about how a spider and a snake learn that they have so much more in common than they thought. :)

@hellpride Canoodles. Lucifer's had enough of Pentious' accidental innuendos. NSFW

@top-shelf-tender

Sand. Pentious and Husk meet on the beach after their surprising encounter.

Surprises. Sir Pentious shows Husk new sides of himself. NSFW

@aracniss

Can't wash you away. Pentious and Arackniss meet again by chance. There's lots of boxes to pack.

Hurt. Arackniss shows up at the hotel looking for someone specific.

@greedonya

Hers. Mammon can sense greed.

@helluvaflames

Fixer-Upper. Stolas summons Pentious to the palace for a few reparations.

@madsxientific

Disagreements. Baxter and Pentious have vastly different views on the creation of the egg boiz.

In Heaven:

@hazbinned Reunion. Emily and Sir Pentious infiltrate Hell to say hello to their friends. /MY TURN Crepes. Alastor brings Pentious breakfast. Honeymoon phase times 1000. /MY TURN @poisonedspider

We meet again. Angel redeems and ascends to Heaven. He has an old friend waiting for him there! /MY TURN

AUs:

Verse: Probation @hazbinned An alternate reality where Sir Pentious and Alastor both perish in the battle against the exorcists. They end up in Heaven together, as Angels on probation, which wouldn't be too bad if Pentious could still remember something... Emily tries her best to guide their lost souls. Overture. The first redeemed Sinners arrive in Heaven. Verse: Everlasting Sun @veneror in the 1970s, Cyrus Pendrous, a sheltered vampire born in the Victorian era follows the guidance of a self-help book and travels all the way to New York in search of new experiences. He meets a dazzling and sweet drag performer named Angel Dust. They are whisked away on an adventure that takes them all the way to Europe.

Sunrise. A vampire and a drag queen walk into a bar... Verse: Pending @exalted-slaughter Pentious tags along with Lute's evil schemes, never quite knowing if he's going to end up impaled with her spear at the end of the day. Being her sidekick, um, partner in crime, that is, can at least never be boring.

Blasting off again. The airship exploded, and Pentious fears for his life. Verse: You Are the Light After Our Storm @radiiosugars Alternate reality. Rosie sees a potential match between two sewing widows and sets them up on a blind date. Maybe it isn't too late to dream of a family?

The blind date. The two Victorian single pringles are set up.

Verse: The Unholy Crusade

@hells-sirenqueen

Comfort. There cannot be enough in the Unholy Crusade.

Verse: The Flying Serpent Sir Pentious is an elusive Overlord, who oversees a community that resides high in the air.

@top-shelf-tender

Up and away. Pentious finds an injured Sinner out on a patrol after an Extermination.

Archived:

@nebula-gaster

Buzz the Coach. Pentious and Buzz meet on the street, and the former's incompetence inspires Buzz to.... help him?

@hazbinned

The Partner Directors. Alastor and Sir Pentious can't bear the sight of cheap television programs any longer. Out of mutual agreement, they decide to burn it to crisp and make more civilised entertainment themselves. Angel joins their pitch party.

@radioiaci

Dadalastor. Alastor is tasked with looking after the Egg Boiz for a night. Are there some things that are too much even for The Radio Demon?

Bite. Some simple wound mending takes an interesting turn. Fangs are involved.

Blood Pancakes. Pentious surprises Alastor with a peculiar dinner. Things are rather GAY. NSFW

[artyandink]

we could be more | dean winchester | 18

Summary: Ivonne Rainer was practically a trained killing machine. Stripped to the bone then built back up by her father in order to become one of the best, like he was. She was forced into hunting when she was nineteen, having developed powers that couldn’t be explained. That is, until she was paid a visit by Azazel’s lackey. Her powers were gone, she needed help, and that’s when she found her father’s journal. Pointing to Sam and Dean Winchester.

SERIES MASTERLIST

WHAT IS AND WHAT SHOULD NEVER BE

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : HOUSE OF MEMORIES - PANIC!AT THE DISCO 

I opened my eyes, adjusting to the surroundings. Which was mostly blood. And fire. And more blood. “What the hell-“ 

“Hello, Ivonne.” I saw a demon in front of me, a short, pudgy man in a suit. He looked like a five year old with a big forehead. I chuckled, smirking. 

“Looks like I’m in it.” 

“We’re been waiting for you.” 

“Flattered.” I sniped. “Who are you?” 

“Demon.” 

“And you’re wearing a suit like you’re the boss? Keep dreaming.” He was silent, so I laughed again. “Oh, so you are? I was expecting more of an intimidating visage, really. But good on you, I supposed.”

“No-no.” He grunted distastefully, then put on the smirk again. “Lucifer’s… on holiday. My name’s Crowley, the demon who’ meant to handle you, and you’ve got the penthouse here. You’re in Hell, honey, and there’s no escaping.”

Dean woke up in a bed that wasn’t his, looking around in confusion. He got up and walked into the living room of the apartment, then took out his cell and called Sam.

‘Dean?’ 

“Sam?” 

‘What's going on?’ 

“I don't know. I don't know where I am.”

’What? What happened?’ 

“Well, the uh, the Djinn. It attacked me.” 

‘The gin? You’re drinking gin?’ 

“No, asshat. The Djinn. The... scary creature. Remember? It put its hand on me and then I woke up... in a weird place.”

Sam chuckled. ‘You mean your apartment, the place you live?’ 

“And Beanie… oh god, Beanie… she’s dead.”

’Who’s Beanie? Who is she, Dean?’ 

“Ivy. Our Ivy, don’t you remember her?” 

‘Dean, you're drunk. You're drunk-dialing me.’ 

“I am not drunk. Quit screwing around!” 

‘Look, it's late. All right, just get some sleep and, um, I'll ... see you tomorrow. OK?’ 

“Wait, Sam. Sam!” Sam hung up, so Dean searched his contacts. 

No Ivy.

“Dean.” Mary Winchester frowned when she saw her son at the door. 

“Mom?” Dean whispered, his voice breaking. 

“What are you doing here? Are you all right?” 

“I don't know.” 

“Well, come inside, then.” She led him inside, concerned. “What’s going on?” 

“Let me ask you a question. When I was a kid, what did you always tell me when you put me to bed?” 

“I-I don’t understand-“ 

“Just answer the question.” 

“I told you angels were watching over you.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I don't believe it.” He hugged her tightly, tears threatening to fall down his face. 

“Honey, you're scaring me.” Mary murmured. “Now just tell me what's going on.” 

“You don't think that wishes can, can really...” 

“What?” 

“Forget it. I’m just happy you’re here, is all.” He took her shoulders. “You're beautiful.” 

“What?” 

“Hey, when I was uh... When I was young was there ever a fire here?” 

“No, never.” 

“I thought there was.” He smiled. “I guess I was wrong. Dad's on a softball team.” 

“He loved that stupid team.” Mary chuckled. 

“Dad's dead? And the thing that killed him was a...” 

“A stroke. He died in his sleep, you know that.” 

“Hey, Nate. Nate!” A boy of around eight dashed down the stairs, jumping down the last three. A blonde woman who looked in her early 20s ran after him, while a slightly older guy followed at a slower pace. “Nathan Michael Rainer, get back here! You can play Captain America another time; your bedtime was fifty minutes ago!” The surname struck a chord, and Dean’s eyes widened. Could she…

“Lily!” The guy called, then threw up his hands in exasperation. He then turned to Dean and Mary in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Winchester, I didn’t know you were having guests around.” 

“No, that’s ok, honey, it was a surprise to me too.” Mary laughed, then gestured to Dean. “This is my elder son, Dean.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Dean held out a hand, which the boy shook. 

“You too, man. I’m Carter.” Carter grinned, then looked behind him. So… that was Carter Rainer.

“Hell of a grip.” 

“Back atcha. Excuse me, my brother’s on a sugar high. Shouldn’t have let him eat ice cream after seven. Or eat ice cream at all.” He jogged off, and Mary shook her head with a giggle. 

“Who’s…” 

“Oh, come on, Dean.” Mary sighed. “Carter’s Sam’s best friend and you definitely know this. You’re drunk, aren’t you?” 

“No.” Dean shook his head. “‘Course not.” 

“Well, Audrey and Michael’s kids are over for Christmas while they’re having their anniversary together in Hawaii. Though it’s hard managing Nate without- oh, speak of the angel.“ The doorbell rang, so Mary rushed to open it, the person behind her masked by the hug they gave each other. 

“I hope I’m not late to the party.” The voice broke Dean’s heart, and he had to gulp back tears, heading into the dining room to recover, but still peering through the door. She’s alive. “Is Nate in bed?” 

“Too much ice cream.” 

“Ok, so he’s a race car by now, got it.” Ivonne Rainer walked in, taking off her beanie and leather jacket, hanging it up. Then, just as Nate ran past, she scooped him up, making him giggle. “Someone’s not sleepy, huh?” 

“No!” Nate pouted, folding his arms. “I want to stay up, like the rest of you.” 

“Oh, but you’re sleepy, Nate.” She insisted. Then she moved her pointed in a loop around his face, his eyes following as the circle got smaller. “You’re getting sleepier, and sleepier, and boop!” She tapped his nose. “You’re really sleepy.” Nate yawned, and she smiled, kissing his forehead. “There we go.” Then she turned to Quinn, who emerged from the kitchen. “Quinn, you get the honour of putting Sleepy Nate to bed. I’ll help Mrs Winchester out.” 

“Sure thing.” Quinn smiled, taking Nate upstairs. Dean blinked; it was hard to look at her the same after seeing her as a dreamwalker, being the cause of Ivy’s death and also being a hardcore psycho. However, it was good to see her, well, normal.

Ivy turned to Carter and Lily. “You two better get some sleep too.” 

“We’re 23 and 20, sis, not 15 and 12.” Carter smirked, rolling his eyes. The ages at which they died.

“I’m 27, so I hold the cards.” Ivy retorted, ruffling Carter’s hair. “Head up, short stack.” 

“I’m four inches taller.” 

“You used to be four inches smaller.” 

“Yeah, when I was twelve.” 

“Go and I’ll get you a burrito for breakfast.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Lily and Carter saluted in sync and headed upstairs, and Ivy turned to Mary with a triumphant grin. 

“Madness fixed.” She laughed. 

“Thank goodness, I can finally rest.” Mary joked as they went into the dining room. Dean’s eyes instantly fell on Ivy, his breath hitching. She looked the same, except she looked happier. Less worn, and she had a tattoo of three flying birds on her collarbone. The scar on her eyebrow was the same, her freckles were in place, but she had a few more laugh lines, and she had dimples when she smiled. 

She looked beautiful to him. Well, she always looked beautiful.

“Should I put on a cup?”

“That would be amazing. Oh!” Mary exclaimed upon seeing Dean. She walked up to him, guiding him by the arm to face Ivy. “Dean, this is Ivonne, you haven’t met her yet. She works in the force in Jersey. Ivy, this is Dean.” 

“Dean?” Ivy smiled, giving him a look which made his knees weak. “The Dean? Big brother, Dean?” 

“That Dean, yeah.” Dean nodded, and they shook hands, though his hand lingered for a bit longer than he’d intended it to. 

“It’s great to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She grinned, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Been dying to see the dude that raised Sammy.” 

“Yeah. You’re, uh, you’re lookin’ at him.” 

“I’m glad I am.” She turned to Mary, taking her shoulders gently. Is this what she’d be like had her siblings survived? “Mary, I’m gonna set some dinner up for Dean in the kitchen, you relax. Watch some TV.” 

“Thanks, sweetie.” 

“No problem.” She shrugged, then turned to Dean with a crooked, winning grin that mirrored her usual one, making Dean’s heart leap from his chest. “D’you want dinner, or are you gonna keep standing there?” Dean blindly followed her into the kitchen, at a loss for words. “So, the Dean, what d’you do for a living?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Try me, why don’t you?” 

“I… I’m a… hunter.” 

She grinned, though there was a flicker of something else. “Not that hard, is it? Dad’s hobby was hunting before he married my mom. Taught me how to shoot, so I went in the force. Majored in Criminology and also did a side course in folklore.” 

“Shoo in at the academy, I’m guessing.” He chuckled. 

“Oh, you have no idea.” 

“I might.” She didn’t respond, busy cutting a cucumber with surprising accuracy. He stared at her, and at the necklace hanging from her neck, smiling softly and almost breathlessly. “Good with knives too?” 

“Perks of havin’ a mom who’s good in the kitchen and a dad who’s good with guns.” She looked up, catching him staring. “Whatcha starin’ at?” 

“You.” He blurted, then caught his words. “You, uh, cause you’re… you’re beautiful.” 

“Thanks.” She giggled. “And here I thought you were the take it slow type.” 

“Oh-“ 

“I’m just kidding, you’re good. No harm in complimenting a woman.” She passed him a plate of salad and a plate with a burger, both of which he dug into happily. The salad? More reluctantly, but still. “If we’re trading compliments, then I think you’re handsome.” 

“Do you?” He chuckled, looking up. 

“I do. I say it like I see it.” 

“I’m familiar with it.” 

“So, Dean, got a special lady where you’re from?” She had a twinkle in her eye, and Dean bit his lip, smiling. 

“Yeah, yeah I do. I did.” He nodded. 

“You did?” Her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Yeah, past tense.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it-“

“No, I can. It was a while ago.” He gulped, swallowing the tears. “I called her Beanie, cause she was always wearing one, but, uh, her name’s… Hazel.” 

“I’d love this Hazel.” Ivy smiled, sitting down with a cup of tea. “My middle name’s Hazel. Tell me more about her.”

”She was… badass.” A goofy grin spread across his features, lighting them up. “Always had a plan, always knew what to say. She’d set me straight if I needed to be set, and her smile…” 

“Let me guess, it can light up the room?” 

“Nah. It could cause a power outage.” 

“That good, huh?” 

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for y-her.” He caught his words. “If she was still here.” 

“Sounds like a lucky girl.” She smiled. 

You’re that lucky girl.

“No, I was a lucky man.” She made a face as if she was deducing something for a split second, then it looked like she pushed the thoughts down. 

“Do I- Do I know you from… somewhere?” 

“No.” He shook his head. “Probably not.” 

“You just seem…” She let out a sigh that bordered on nostalgic, “familiar.” 

“Like you’ve just met someone but you feel like you’ve known them forever?” 

“Pretty much.” She tilted her head. “You’re a strange one, Dean Winchester.” 

“And is that a bad thing?” 

“I work in the force. Strange is a normal thing.”

The next morning, Dean woke up, and the first thing on his mind was the Djinn. Then he thought of someone who can help. He got up, walking over to where he thought Ivy would be, which was… making Nate eat his breakfast. 

“You’ve got it.” She ruffled his hair, then saw Dean. A smile lit up on her face, and she walked over. “Morning, Dean. Whatcha want for breakfast?” 

“To talk. To you.” He gulped, and a look of concern crossed her face. 

“Yeah, of course. C’mon, Mary gave me John’s study if I ever needed quiet time.” They went into a small room with well kept books on the shelves, and she shrugged. “What’s up?” 

“Do you have any books on folklore? Like… creatures and stuff? I’m curious about one.” 

She took off a book, the exact book she used to use when she was alive, flicking through it. “Mhmm. Which one?” 

“Djinn.” 

“Djinn… got it.” She tapped a place on the page. “I can barely read Ancient Greek, but what do you wanna know?” 

“If they can really grant wishes.” 

“Yeah, they… can.” Ivy furrowed her brow, staring at him weirdly. “Dean, these are mythical creatures. You can’t possibly think they’re real.” 

“I do.” He stepped forward, the coil in his head snapping. “And something tells me that you think the same.”

”What-“ 

“I know more about you than you think. Ivonne Hazel Rainer, born on January 9th, 1979 to Audrey and Michael Rainer. Your favourite colour is the orange the leaves turn in fall. Your favourite band is Led Zeppelin. During high school, you had a phase where you were a blonde babe.” 

“How do you-“ 

“Your leather jacket was your father’s. You stole Carter’s beanie, but that’s fine cause you got him another one for his birthday. Everything you know about fighting came from your dad.” 

She took out her gun, aiming it at him, fire blazing in her grey eyes. “Are you some kind of elaborate stalker? If you are, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out.” She flicked off the safety when the doorbell rang, and she put the gun down, putting the safety on. “You’re safe for now, douche.” She stored the gun in her waistband, hiding it with her shirt, then jogged down to the door and opened it to reveal Sam and Jessica. 

“Sam, man!” Carter yelled, and Sam grinned. 

“Carter!” They bro hugged, while Ivy hugged Jessica tightly. 

“How have you been?” She asked Jessica, who then started gushing about her day. Dean started talking to Sam, but found that their relationship wasn’t what it used to be. “Hey, Sammy.” She smiled. 

“Ivy!” Sam hugged her, but Ivy had to stand on her toes. “How’s work? Catch any bad guys?” 

“Loads. Now come on, I’ve made breakfast.” She looked up at him. “Am I shrinking or are you getting taller?”  

“Neither.” When they got inside and everyone headed to the kitchen, Ivy pressed her forearm to Dean’s collarbone and shoved him into a side room, pinning him to the wall. 

“How do you know so much about me, huh?!” She interrogated. “What are you, a psychic? Shapeshifter? Demon?” 

Dean’s eyes widened upon hearing it. “You don’t work in the force, do you-“

”Answer the question!” 

“I know all that because I knew you. In a place where you had a much worse life.”

”You’re lying.”

”Would I have your gun if I was?” Dean took out Ivy’s - his Ivy’s - gun, showing it to her. 

“My gun.” She breathed. “What… how?” 

“Girl called Hazel? That’s you. I somehow got into this reality where everything’s great, but it isn’t. There were newspapers in your office of incidents that I was meant to stop. With Sam and you. And you’re not meant to be alive.” 

“What are you talking about?”

”In my, uh, reality, you’re a lot rougher around the edges. That’s cause Quinn? She dies of cancer because your dad took her on a hunting trip that got her turned, and he OD’d her with dead man’s blood and made it look like cancer, so she died. Your dad dies because a dreamwalker carved his heart out. Then the dreamwalker, who you found out much later was Quinn, possesses Carter and makes him murder your mom, your then unborn brother Nate and Lily. Then you shoot him in self defence. All of this happened when you were nineteen, and you went on a monster killing spree until you were twenty six, which is when you met me. A year later, the dreamwalker comes back, and you reveal the truth. It forces you to kill your boyfriend and almost kills your dad. Now, you also had a rune preventing you from using sorcery that was meant to go to your brother. That could only be broken by a love sacrifice, and to break it you pushed me out of the way of Quinn’s attack and…” He paused, gritting his teeth, “you made me kill you.” 

“And why?” 

“So she couldn’t get to you again.” 

“You’re made of bull, you know that, right?” She scoffed, taking out her gun. “I don’t believe you. I really don’t.” 

“Look at me.” He ordered, “Look me in the eye, Beanie, and tell me if I’m lying.” 

“I don’t need to look you in the eye to tell.” 

“I loved you!” Dean burst out, breathing heavily. “Hell, more than I’d like to admit. I’ve tried to get over you, but I… I can’t.” 

“Still full of-“

“Just take one look at me and tell me whether I’m lying. Please, Beanie.” 

She sighed in defeat, then gave him a long, hard look. “You’re not, are you?”

”That’s what I was tryna tell you.” She let him go, biting her lip. 

“You better be telling the truth. Otherwise I’d skin you alive. In the meantime, we’ve got your mom’s dinner party.” 

A plate of asparagus was set in front of Dean, making Ivy chuckle. “Wow, that... looks awesome.”

“To Mary.” Ivy raised her glass. “Happy birthday.” 

“To Mary.” Everyone clinked their glasses together, sipping. Sam and Jessica shared a kiss, and Dean smirked. 

“What do you say, later we get you a cheeseburger?” She grinned, leaning closer to him. 

“You’re an angel.” Dean whispered.

“I know.” 

“How’d you become such a cool chick?” 

“Ask my dad, not me.” 

“All right. Jess and I actually have another surprise for Mom's birthday.” Sam announced, turning to Jessica. “Ah... You wanna tell 'em?” 

“They’re your family.” Jessica insisted. 

“Alright.” 

“What?” Mary asked excitedly. “Tell me what?” Sam held up Jessica’s hand, entwined with his, a ring flashing on it. “Oh my God! That's so wonderful.” We all stood up sans Dean, hugging each other. 

“Don’t forget the boys, Sam.” Carter grinned, clapping Sam on the shoulder. 

“Oh, come on, Carter.” Quinn chastised with a smile incredibly similar to Carter’s. What is he thinking? They’re twins, of course they’d be similar. “We’re so happy for you.” 

“And come to think of it,” Ivy teased, hugging Jessica, “you were both shyer than Carter in his teens when you met each other.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Sam rolled his eyes playfully. 

“That’s no way to talk to your marriage planner. Now, c’mon, we need to break out the champagne! And no, Lily, you’re underage.” 

“Come on!” Lily complained. 

“Lily, just one year.” 

“One year’s too long.” 

“Sorry, bite size.” Carter smirked, sipping champagne. “You’ve gotta wait.”

“You ok?” Ivy asked, sitting down on the sofa beside Dean and offering him a beer. He gladly took it, sipping it. 

“Sammy and I don’t get along.” Dean lamented, and she shrugged. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” 

“I can fix things with Sam. I can make it up to him. To everyone.”

”Doesn’t make a lick of sense, dude.” She took a sip. “My alternate version, what did she say to you before she died?” 

“She called me a dumbass.” He grinned, then faltered. “Said that she didn’t want to die so soon, but she had no option. She made me promise that I wouldn’t blame myself for her death, even though I’m the one that did it.” 

“She asked you to do it, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then don’t blame yourself.” She shrugged, then laughed. “She sounds like a smart girl.” Ivy turned, seeing him staring with the same look as yesterday. “What?” 

“You’re so much more happier here.” He chuckled. “It’s relieving. To know that if all that crazy shtick hadn’t happened, you might be… who you are now. You wouldn’t be so hard set, so averse to new opportunities-“ 

“What new opportunities?” 

“This.” With that, he cupped her cheek, kissing her. He pulled back almost instantly running a hand through his hair as he internally cursed himself for kissing someone who was a stranger to him in this world. “Damn, Ivy, I’m so sorry-“ He was pulled back in for another kiss, Ivy holding his shirt but then cupping the nape of his neck. Then something seemed to switch, and she pulled back, standing up. 

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but… no.” Ivy let out a breathless chuckle, shaking her head as she ran a hand through her hair. “Whatever this is? It comes from your love for your Ivy, not me. I can’t replace her, Dean. I’m not rough around the edges like she is. My family’s alive, Dean, and i’d very much like it to stay that way, but we need to get you back. To your family.” 

“I’ve only got Sammy left in my world.” He frowned, “I’m not sure I want to go back.” 

“Well, you need to, buddy.” She clapped his shoulder. “C‘mon, let’s get you to wherever the Djinn was.” 

“First…” He held a finger up, “I need a silver knife.” 

“You kidding me?! It’s 12 in the morning!” 

“I still need it!” 

“Fine, but get the largest one, yeah? I’m waiting in the Impala.” 

“You don’t have the-“ She held up the keys. “Yeah, should’ve known you’d swipe ‘em from my pocket.” 

“Mhmm. Meet me in the car.” 

Ivy was tapping the steering wheel impatiently when Dean got in, holding up the knife. Then after him came Sam. 

“Sam?!” She hissed to Dean. 

“Wha…” He turned to see Sam. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m coming with you.” He panted.

”No, he’s not.” Ivy refused. 

“You're just gonna slow us down.” Dean grimaced. 

“Us?!” Sam exclaimed indignantly. “What, is Dean some undercover cop?” 

“You could say that.” Ivy huffed. “Sam, this is dangerous and you could get seriously hurt.” 

“Well, tough.” 

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

”Nope.” 

“Ok, but don’t blame me and go crying to Jessica if you get hurt.” She floored it, driving off. 

“What's in the bag?” Sam asked, spotting the bag in between Dean and I. 

“Nothin’.” Dean sighed. 

“Nothin’?” 

“Nothin’.” 

“Fine.” He grabbed the bag, starting to open it. 

“Sam, you don’t wanna know what’s inside.” Ivy groaned. 

“Oh really?” He took out the container of blood, making her shake her head. “Blood?” 

“We needed a knife dipped in lamb’s blood.”

”You needed a silver knife dipped in lamb's blood, why?” 

“There’s this thing, a Djinn. We need to hunt it.” Dean explained. 

“Stop the car.” Sam ordered. 

“This is why I said you shouldn’t come along.” Ivy snapped. Sam pulled out his phone, dialling a number. 

“I mean, you guys are obviously having a psychotic breakdown, and-“ She grabbed his phone, throwing it out the window. 

“We’re not psychotic. This here? It’s real.”

”My phone-“ 

“Tough, kid.” She sighed. “Listen to me and listen to me carefully, Sam. I’m not a police officer. I’m what people like me call a hunter. And I hunt demons, ghosts, you name the supernatural creature, I hunt it. Dean does too. A Djinn grants wishes, and Dean here seems to be stuck in one. Got it?” 

“What about Carter? Lily, Quinn, Nate, do they know this?” 

“Nope. They don’t know a thing, and you’re not gonna tell anyone, you hear me?” 

“Loud and clear.” 

“Good. Now sleep.” 

“But-“ 

“Sleep.” 

They pulled up at the Djinn’s hideout, and Sam woke up with a jerk. “Where are we?” 

“Not in Kansas.” Ivy quipped, getting out of the car. “We’re in Illinois.”

”And you think there’s something in there?” 

“Yeah.” She nodded exasperatedly. “Yeah, he does. Let’s go.” They headed inside, but found nothing. Yet. 

“See? There’s nothing. C’mon, l-let’s just go.” There was a sound, and Sam yelped. “What the hell is that?”

”Stay behind me and keep your mouth shut.” Dean ordered. They stalked through the halls, then they split. Ivy checked on the bodies hanging from the stands, muttering under her breath. “What if that's what the Djinn does? It doesn't grant you a wish, it just makes you think it has.” Dean wondered, making her join them. 

“Listen, it might come back-“

”What if I'm like her? What if I'm tied up in here some place? What if all this is in my head? I mean it could, you know, maybe it gives us some kind of supernatural acid, and then just feeds on us slow.” 

“That doesn’t make sense.”

”It's - it's like more and more like I'm catching flashes of reality. You know, like I'm in here somewhere, and I'm - I'm catatonic, and I'm taking all this stuff in but I, but I can't snap out of it.”

”Yeah, OK, look. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're right. I was wrong. You're not crazy but we – we – we need to get out of here. Fast.” Sam tried to pull Dean with him, but Dean detached himself. 

“I don’t think you’re real.”

Sam took Dean’s arms, gripping them tight. “Dude, you feel that? You feel this? I'm real. This is not an acid trip. I'm real, and that thing is gonna come down here and kill us for real. Now, please—“

”There’s one way to be sure.” Dean pulled out the knife.

”Woah, what are you doing?” 

“It’s an old wives’ tale. If you’re about to die in a dream, you wake up.” 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. That's crazy. All right?” 

“Do it, Dean.” Ivy urged, stepping forward. 

“You stay back!” Sam snapped harshly. Everyone appeared, surrounding him. “Why did you keep digging? Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone, Dean?” 

“Because this isn’t real.” Dean shook his head. “Ivy’s meant to be dead.” 

“She’s alive here.” Carter insisted. “You love her. Don’t lose her.” 

“It's everything you want. We're a family again. Let’s go home.” Mary pleaded. 

“I'll die.” Dean whispered. “The Djinn'll... drain the life out of me in a couple of days.” 

“But in here, with us, it'll feel like years. Like a lifetime. I promise. No more pain. Or fear. Just love and comfort. And safety. Dean, stay with us. Get some rest.” 

“You don't have to worry about Sam anymore.” Jessica smiled. “You get to watch him live a full life.”

”Don’t listen.” Ivy begged. “What’s dead should stay dead, Dean. You’re not going to get anything out of this.”

”Why is it our job to save everyone? Haven't we done enough? I'm begging you.” Sam stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Give me the knife.” 

“Do it.” 

“I’m sorry.” Dean lifted the knife, plunging it into himself-

I gasped, my eyes flying open as I tried to sit up, but my head collided with wood. Straight wood. 

“What’s going..?” I panted, looking around, but meeting the boring sight of oak each time. “Am I in a coffin?” 

I started banging on the ceiling, yelling out. 

“HELLO?!”

”IS ANYONE THERE?!”

”I’M BURIED ALIVE!”

Oh boy.

A/N Time!

I feel like I should explain this episode. Dean loves Ivy, as he revealed, but his idea of a dream world with Ivy is her living the life she was supposed to, where her family’s alive. It’s also where she’s getting with him on HER terms (my sweet boy’s a gentleman) and not because it’s what he wants. And she encourages him to stab his elf because the Djinn made a mistake when interpreting that Ivy’s ‘always on Dean’s side’ because she encouraged him to break free.

Anyway, that’s enough wafflin’ from me.

Love y’all, and feel free to comment, reblog and like!

Arty :)

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[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 🖤⚰️

[varl-the-sloth]

A Scarlet Slaughter

An exhausted and wounded soldier draped in red beheld his greatest nightmare, a terrible mockery of life. Amidst a field of corpses, the lone Death Knight stood; its once black armor now stained with the blood of his fellow soldier. It moved slowly towards him, a distinct lack of haste in its approach. A stillness hung in the air as it loomed over him with a gore-caked runeblade in its clawed hand, with only the din of rainfall and distant battle to punctuate the night. He could see no discernable face upon the Death Knight's visage, only the perpetually-grinning sight of a skull staring blankly back. "You monster," he had managed to say between pained breaths, "I'll kill you!"

He spit at the skull-faced Death Knight, though it was difficult to tell if he had hit his mark. The Knight did not deign to respond and the rain quickly washed any signs of spittle away.

"Strike me," it finally spoke.

If ever there was a chance, that was it. The Scarlet poised his blade to strike at the heart of the unholy creature and lunged, but his blade failed to pierce armor and glanced harmlessly to the side. "Again," the Knight demanded.

Another strike of the sword aimed at the Knight's shoulder. The man's whole arm rattled violently as his blade bounced right off.

"Kill me. I am waiting," it spoke once more.

The Scarlet soldier wailed on the Death Knight with his blade. Blow after blow, every strike of the sword harmlessly rung off of its wretched saronite armor with nary a scratch. With the last of his strength wasted, the soldier dropped his sword to the ground with a hollow clatter. It was hopeless. He could never fell the undead.

"How droll, but now you know the futility of your faith. You will die knowing the Light has failed you, " the Death Knight spoke flatly as it reached for the Scarlet's throat and lifted him off the ground. The soldier choked as his windpipe was slowly crushed under the force of the undead's grip. He gagged and tried to yell out, but he could not find his voice. With a sickening snap, his head lulled to the side and the whole of his body fell limp. The Death Knight released the fresh corpse and it awkwardly collapsed to the ground.

"No way. Varl? Varl! That's you, isn't it?" a gravely-sounding voice suddenly called over the sound of the rainfall, followed soon after a howling cackle.

"Oh, fuck me," Varl grumbled to himself.

A worgen, heavily scarred and worn from an age of bad ideas, stepped into view. He wore dark robes suited for combat and in his wake followed a small horde of demons. He looked around at the scene of carnage before addressing the Death Knight again, "Phew, boy. You really did a number on these guys." The Death Knight turned to face his brother, making his disdain known as he spoke, "...Mian. How good it is to see you." Mian nodded. Whatever vitriol Varl's voice conveyed went completely ignored. "Yeah, man! I thought I'd see you around since I heard the Forsaken were going to lend a hand. It's been a while, always so busy these days with 'Forsaken business', right?" the worgen said, leaning forward to jab Varl with a cheeky elbow.

Before Varl could answer, "Forsaken business" came to him. A rail thin undead, wearing leather armor adorned with the crest of Lordaeron, climbed down from a nearby rooftop and stood before Varl to salute. "Executor! I am ready to report," she proclaimed.

"Good. I will hear it, Deathstalker," Varl responded, holding a hand up to Mian for him to keep quiet during the report. Mian glanced between Varl and the Deathstalker with his maw firmly shut, but his excitement at finally getting to see Varl at work was more than palpable.

The Deathstalker launched into her full report, "Priority targets have been assassinated as per your instructions. We've some wounded, but all will make a full recovery. Scarlet resistance is waning as they are beaten back to their last foothold: the cathedral. Victory is inevitable. Lastly, your abomination reports a complete massacre. What are your orders, Executor?"

"The Deathstalkers are to lend their blades to the battle. Retrieve any wounded allies you may find and bring them to a medic. This is to include the Alliance as well. Do not discriminate. Otherwise, I will feed you to my abomination, am I clear?" Varl issued his commands, "And speaking of Killzone, you may issue them my order to patrol the outskirts of the city and execute any Scarlet stragglers that may attempt to flee. Dismissed, Deathstalker."

The Deathstalker saluted once more before answering with a, "For the Forsaken."

Varl parroted the motto back as the undead ran off to continue her duties, finally turning back to stare at the worgen that had whiled away the time by having some sort of hushed discussion with an imp that had perched on his shoulder.

"Mian. This is hardly your fight, what are you here for?" Varl asked of the warlock.

Mian rubbed the back of neck as the imp hopped off from his shoulder. "Ah, you know," he said vaguely as he turned to look back toward the distant sound of battle, watching a meteor of fel hurtle through the sky and disappear behind the horizon of the cityscape before a loud crash had heralded its landing, "the wife."

If Varl could grimace, he would. The Death Knight rarely feared mortals, but Mian's wife was a terror unlike any other.

"When Sam heard that some Scarlets were squatting in her house, she had some pretty choice words," Mian continued, "so we're kicking 'em out."

"Right. Of course," Varl muttered as he stepped over Scarlet corpses. A rune on his blade began to glow sickly green as he waved a hand over the deceased. The Knight's necromantic powers willed the dead to slowly rise to their feet, groaning and shambling after their new master.

"Also... Killzone? Really? Seems a little on the nose for you, man," Mian prodded with a snide remark.

"It was a name they chose for themself. They insisted upon it," Varl clarified as he gazed upon his newly risen army, "Enough chatter. We wouldn't want to keep Sam waiting."

[clarenecessities]

idk who wow toons is but you blinked so nicely asking for asks so: 🧠 what do you like most about this thang

anon i want you to know i laughed out loud at this like a goober <3 thank you vm

i have absolutely no idea why, but 'toons' are what you call different characters on world of warcraft.

in the interest of not Drowning mobile users i'm putting most of them under a readmore but these are my three favs! sétanta, his mom seidrin, and seidrin's brother ulfhedrinn.

the thing i like most about wow toons is you can literally do whatever the fuck you want :) seidrin and ulfedrinn are children of the canonical Wild God (who came back recently! yippee!) Goldrinn, who's an enormous wolf spirit that loves being badass. so those two are technically also wolf spirits who have troll & orc visages respectively

sétanta was my first toon, he's my little baby boy. his dad is a priest of elune (who Goldrinn thinks is a pushover liberal and has no respect for) so he doesn't have a wolf spirit form/visage situation, he's just kind of recreated the worgen curse wholesale. it's awesome. and i can do what i want :) he's not like the other werewolves. he's specifically cursed.

ulfhedrinn is newer but i kind of love him. his visage is technically a Mok'Nathal orc (they're part ogre) (like Rexxar, who's literally Darkwolf from Fire and Ice) but for some reason the game won't let you do "hybrids" with "unplayable races" so whatever u know. whatever. he reproduced asexually by mixing his dna with some demon blood, which is highly inadvisable, but he was like "um no son of mine is going to be so fucking weak that Sargeras could corrupt his mind" and he was right. his son Galdrulf is basically a demon hunter (the class, not like, professionally) and sooooo fucking stupid. but he's good at fighting and loves being a badass, so he's a credit to the pack <3

[manwalksintobar]

Ntozake Shange to Eisa Davis

          querida antigua eisa,

you almost got it-you really did ‘born of the blood of struggle’ we all were/ even if we don’t know it/ what if poetry isn’t enuf? whatchu gonna do then? paint     ? dance     ? put your back field in motion & wait for james brown to fall on his knees like it’s too much for him/ what? too much for james? yeah/ didn’t you ever see the sweat from his brow/ a libation of passion make a semi-circle fronta his body/ a half-moon of exertion washin’ away any hope he had of/ standin’ it/ can’t stand it & he falls to his knees and three jamesian niggahs in a stroll so sharp it hurts bring him a cape that shines likes the northern star/shinin' i say like you imagined the grease in the parts of yr hair or yr legs/or yr mother's face after rehearsal after she had you/ james falls to his knees cuz he “cain't take it"/he's pleadin’ please please please don't go we look to see who brought james brown to the floor / so weak/ we think/ so overwrought with the power of love that’s why poetry is enuf/ eisa/ it brings us to our knees & when we look up from our puddles of sweat/ the world's still right there & the children still have bruises tiny white satin caskets & their mothers weep like mary shda there is nothing more sacred than a glimpse of power of the universe it brought james brown to his knees lil anthony too/ even jackie wilson arrogant pretty muthafuckah he was/ dropped no knee pads in the face of the might we have to contend with/ & sometimes yng blk boys bleed to death face down on asphalt cuz fallin' to they knees was not cool/ the way to go/it ain't fallin' to our knees is a public admission a great big ol' scarlet letter that we cain't/ don't wanna escape  any feelin'/ any sensation of bein' alive can come right down on us/ & yes my tears & sweat may decorate the ground like a veve in haiti or a sand drawing in melbourne/ but in the swooning/ in the delirium/ of a felt life lies a poem to be proud of/ does it matter? can ya stand up, chile? the point is not to fall down & get up dustin' our bottoms/ i always hated it when folks said that to me/ the point eisa/ is to fall on your knees & let the joy of survivin' bring you to yr feet/ yr bottom's not dirty/ didn't even graze the earth/ no it's the stuff of livin' fully that makes the spirit of the poem let you show yr face again & again & again i usedta hide myself in jewelry or huge dark glasses big hats long pillowin' skirts/ anythin' to protect me/ from the gazes somebody'd see i'd lived a lil bit/ felt somethin' too terrible for casual      conversation & all this was obvious from lookin' in my eyes/ that's why i usedta read      poem after poem with my eyes shut/ quite a feat/ cept the memory'd take over &      leave my tequila bodyguard in a corner somewhere out the way of the pain in my eyes that simply came through my body/ they say my hands sculpt the air with words/ my face becomes the visage of a character's voice/ i don't know i left my craft to chance & fear someone wd see i care too much take me for a chump laugh & go home this is not what happened? is poetry enuf to man a picket line/ to answer to phones at the rape crisis center/ to shield women entering abortion clinics from      demons with crosses & illiterate signs defiling the horizon at dawn/ to keep our      children from believin' that they can buy hope with a pair of sneakers or another      nasty filter for        cheap glass pipe/ no/ no/ a million times no but poetry can bring those bleeding women & children outta time up close enuf for us to see feel ourselves there/ then the separations what makes me/ me & you/ you/// drops away & the truth that we      constantly avoid/ shut our eyes to/ hold our breath hopin' we won't be found out/ surfaces/ darlin'/ & we are all everyone of those dark & hurtin' places/ those dry bloodied memories are no less ours than the mornin/ yes the mournin' we may be honorable enuf to endure with our eyes open the coroner cannot simply bring her hand gently down our eyelids/      leavin' us to the silence of not life/ the solitude of the unreachable can ya stand up, 'chile? hands stretched out to touch again not so you can get up & conquer the world/ you did that when you cdnt raise yr head & yr body trembled so/ you scared yr mama that was when the poem took over & you gave you      back what you discovered you didn't haveta give up/ all that fullness of breath/ houdini in an emotional maze/ free at last but nobody can see how you did it/ 'how'd she get out'/ nobody'll know less you tell em/ do you really wanna write/ from twenty thousand leagues under a stranger's wailin? can you move gracefully randomly thru the landmines that are yr own angola/ hey, your bosnia! are you shamed sometimes there's no feelin' you can recognize in yr left leg? does the bleeding you'll do anyway offend you or can you make a sacred drawing like ana mendieta that will heal us all? do i believe in magic? hell yeah. shd you? i don't know. don't know how yr gonna find yr way out the maze/ ancient as it is no one can tell you the secret/ not me/ not aunt angela/ not yr mama beautiful as she is/ i usedta watch her legs cut thru space like a ninja in      ballet shoes/ i wanted to be tall & clear-eyed like yr mama/ & you come tellin'      me i cd beat you up in a school yard/ no my daddy wda bought the school yard & paid kids not to hurt me/ so what you see is not what you get i am not a poem/ i am savannah's mother/ savannah sat with her bottle      thru the children's class at stanze's once we moved to texas/ but i was always lookin’ for your mother's legs to come slicing the air/ ten years later/      2000 miles away/ed mock dead/ tower of power fallen/ sly stone disappeared/      oakland like the back of my hand/ now unknown/ "get it & feel good" i usedta      say sometimes still do/ diffrence is i cherish stupid lil things now/ did yr      mama tell you raymond asked our whole class after a bout with possessed drummers and gravity/ if we ever took our dance clothes off/ he could smell us comin'       cross the Bay Bridge/ he shouted & pranced like somekinda stallion/ like his sweat      didn't stink too/workin' in the other realm is dirty work/ makes us smell bad/      did yr mama tell ya? i know she didn't let ya believe makin' art was not a messy      business/ she cdn't have/ we were trained too well is poetry enuf, eisa? that's gonna be up to you? is poetry enuf for me? why do you think i wrote 'for colored girls' i wanted yall to come out from under yr starched pinafores & pressed      heads with some notion of dream & sanctity of spirit/ looks like some of it worked but remember i'm still writin' still dancin' fell on my knees so many times now/ i wrote rev. ike for a prayer cloth it's serious like that peaceful like that i sweat when i write/ do you?           the original aboriginal dancin' girl           love,           ntozake

[0junemeatcleaver0]

Lestat/Armand for the prompt, the most depraved but still sweet thing you can think of (because I’m exhausted and I need someone else to write it too, so help me God 🥹🥹)

Lestat/Armand Rating: E Features: Whump (IE: Lestat beats the shit out of Armand, but it's consensual, no worries), thoughts about the past, revelations, aftercare cloaked in sarcasm because these two can never get too vulnerable with each other. Post-canon; in this version Lestat has actually at least tried to do some work on himself.

𝔽𝕦𝕔𝕜 𝕄𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕐𝕠𝕦 ℍ𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕄𝕖; ℍ𝕚𝕥 𝕄𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕄𝕖

It sounds less like meat slapping meat, and more like meat slapping stone.

Lestat tries to remember if it was like this the last time, but it doesn't matter. So much has changed since then--individually and between them.

Where once he had done this purely out of rage, now he does it from a place of...of what exactly he's unsure. Armand had made the request of him, which quickly became a demand. And when Lestat still refused, Armand had backed him into a corner--

"Louis was happier with me, you know. Everyone knows it. There's no denying it."

--until Lestat reacted on his worst instinct, slapping Armand hard across the face.

He felt like an idiot. He shouldn't have allowed himself to be lead like this--to have given the little demon what exactly what he wanted.

Harder.

Armand forces the word into his head.

Why? What's the meaning of--

With a closed fist. Do it.

Lestat looks at his hand as though it had only just sprouted at the end of his arm. His palm was still slightly pink from the impact, even though Armand's face has already regained it's smooth, even tone.

You've done it once before. Armand reminds him.

That was different.

I want you to do it again.

That night in Paris, forced into his mind. Lestat beating the boy mercilessly, intent on killing him, on wanting to be rid of him once and for all.

"This is madness." He whispers. "I can't--"

Don't make me drain you.

And then suddenly that memory--the inciting incident--is in his mind but Armand isn't the one who put it there. Armand pressing his fangs into Lestat after dropping him into a haze with the Mind Gift, pulling great draughts of blood from him. The memory edges him closer and closer to fight or flight so when Armand thinks DO IT at him, it's pure impulse to raise his hand and strike him again.

And then once more.

Armand had well and truly been a monster in those early days. For all of Lestat's postulating about the Savage Garden and being a monster outside of the control of even Satan himself, Armand had been unnerving to him.

For Armand had actually inhabited everything that Lestat had touted and when met face to face with the reality, Lestat found himself terrified. A true monster wrapped in the most pleasing visage--beautiful enough to draw you in and dazzle you before you could stop him from inflicting terrible cruelty upon you.

Lestat shivers at the memory as he strikes Armand with a closed fist, connecting with his ribs.

There was a reason Lestat had kept Louis and Claudia from the others. Marius had seemed an anomaly in civility. What he knew of the rest of his kind had frankly chilled him to the core. Even after hearing Armand's story--a story that did not match up to the one he would later tell David, a fact that would forever plague him--he could not fully trust the vampire, even if he had begun to feel more empathy towards him.

He hadn't really begun to recognize whatever version of 'humanity' they had allotted to them until Armand had turned Daniel.

Lestat lands a blow to Armand's jaw and stops abruptly, realizing what he's doing.

Armand raises his bowed head, attempts to fix his gaze upon him with glazed eyes. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor between them and reaches out--catching Lestat's wrist in a lightning fast grip to press his palm flat against the arousal growing in his woolen trousers.

Reflexively, Lestat flinches back, whipping his hand away.

The fact that Armand likes a bit of rough play is perhaps the worst kept secret in all of vampire-dom. Lestat had assumed it stopped at being taken hard and perhaps smacked around a little--startled to find that being the victim of a brawl could make him this hard in so few hits.

Do it. Do it. Don't be a coward! Do--

Something snaps inside of Lestat and he grasps Armand by a fistful of hair by the back of his head, pulling him in close to strike him thrice more with his free hand.

The monster is in him, too, that's the problem. Armand's cruelty has always appeared from the outside to be dispassionate, but Lestat is also cruel and he enjoys it. Enjoys having control, enjoys taking life. It's one in the same, really. And while he's made great strides in the past few years he cannot pretend as though this isn't still a part of him--this desire for ruination.

No one brought that desire out of Lestat better than Armand.

Harder, Armand insists.

Finally, Lestat obliges without a second thought, striking him so that he stumbles back and trips over the low table behind him, falling to the floor. Lestat is on him the next second, straddling him as he continues the beating.

Time ceases to matter--if it ever truly could matter to their kind. He doesn't know how long it takes for Armand's pitiful moans to turn to gurgles as he begins choking on his blood.

His guard is down, mind open and Lestat takes a peek as he cocks his fist back again. Sees himself on that lawn in Paris, beating Armand senseless. Sees himself here and now, looking down upon Armand, backlit so that his hair is a bright yellow halo surrounding his head. Sees the two versions of himself blending and turning momentarily into Marius's face for a split second before he's himself again, fist still held back waiting to be thrown.

He brings his hand down to the carpet beneath them, momentarily stunned.

I missed him so much then.

The thought is weak but unmistakable.

You looked so much like him. As though you could have been his son. I hated you for it. I wanted you so badly.

And suddenly Lestat is horrified again, unprepared to see this part of their shared past through a new lens--to know that the reason Armand had imprinted upon him like a duckling was because he looked so much like his old Master. That he derived some sick pleasure from the beating he'd dealt him.

That he might only love him due to his love for Marius.

Lestat rolls off of him, laying on his back next to a sprawled out and broken Armand to stare at the ceiling for a long moment, numbed. There are no more thoughts--his head static.

He turns his head to look at Armand. He's hit him so hard--the trauma so deep--that he's still badly bruised. His hair is matted with blood, left eye glued shut with coagulation. His bottom lip is split and his perfect cheeks are purpled.

Slowly, Lestat sits up and begins undressing Armand with shaking hands. His knuckles are sore--he can only imagine how Armand feels. When he sits the boy up to pull his shirt down his arms--his torso a bed of bright blue blooms--the blood runs free and thick down Armand's slack jaw.

"Did you get what you want?" He mumbles. "Are you satisfied?"

"Yes." Armand croaks. "Thank you."

The horror falls away suddenly, replaced by affection for this approximation of a broken child before him. Carefully, he helps Armand remove his shoes and trousers.

"He wouldn't have ever beat you this badly."

"I'm glad one of us is certain of that."

He is certain, but only because he has to be. Refuses to think less of Marius. He thinks maybe that is another thing that binds the two of them so tightly together--their devotion to the Roman.

"Can you walk?"

"Of course. You didn't strike my legs."

"Keep up the attitude and I might."

A thought. No, a memory. A scene he'd read in Armand's sad little pornographic book--a switch coming down again and again against the backs of his thighs, wielded by a stern Marius, the scene crystalline in the way a memory only could be, frozen there for eternity.

"Don't threaten me with a good time." Armand mumbles. His swollen lips in a close approximation of a smirk.

Lestat dumps him on the bed. Armand moans in pain, his ribs in obvious disarray. He's fairly certain he hasn't broken them--runs a steady palm along Armand's flank to make sure.

"Hold still." Lestat mumbles, swinging a leg over Armand's legs. It's different this time--Lestat planting kisses instead of punches to each bruise, pressing is own blood against the injuries with his tongue.

He works him over just as slowly as he had before, correcting their shared wrongs with each kiss until Armand's torso is all the same pale shade of marble once more. Lestat sighs, slicing his tongue open again, letting gravity drizzle a ribbon of blood onto Armand's swollen eye and rubbing it in with a gentle thumb. He watches as the skin mends itself, the bruise falling away, almost appearing to sink into the skin until it is no longer visible.

He saves Armand's lips for last, bending to kiss them bloodlessly and tenderly. They have the same color and over-plumped fullness of a plum. Armand hisses when Lestat's lips make contact, pained. Lestat hushes him, sliding a hand between them to stroke Armand's half erect cock as he kisses each corner of his mouth.

"You don't have to--"

"Hush."

Armand plumps against his palm in just a few strokes, moaning when Lestat pets the head with his thumb, wincing when each moan pulls the split in his lip a little wider. A droplet of blood wells up on Armand's bottom lip and Lestat licks greedily at it as his thumb swipes a bead of precum off the tip of Armand's cock.

"Christ, please." Armand begs, breath pouring into Lestat's mouth.

Lestat opens his tongue again, licks the blood over Armand's bottom lip and into his mouth as he strokes him faster. Armand comes with the second mouthful of blood Lestat passes to him, body going completely limp.

He waits for Armand to recover for a moment before slapping playful at his hip.

"Up. Up now. You're sweating all over my bed and your hair is disgusting."

Armand remains dazed for a moment before scowling, throwing a pillow at Lestat's retreating back.

"And where are you going?"

"Calm yourself, imp. I'm drawing you a bath."

[assanx]

@natemichaelson location: The City of Dis notes: Bonito Flakes

The buster blade cut a creature vertically in two as Assan turned as he did, a mad grin on his demonic visage. The markings across his scarred face line his tongue as well as Assan smiled wildly. "Blast away!" The Grave Titan fell into two halves and then went flying through the city as it crashed several of the burning buildings. Prometheus usually complained when Assan did that because then he just had to run that much farther but the demigod was fast so was it that big of a deal if it was fun?

Assan landed on the palm of his hand, turned and pushed himself off the ground as if he was made of air. The sword he wielded was two or three times his size and worked more like an extension of his arm than anything else, quick feet carried him along the wall where he'd lept as he threw himself towards a crowd of the corpse eaters. These things had a way of keeping people from coming back, useful to the bad guys, rude for the good guys. He dozed for a moment, gosh he was so sleepy, but Assan landed with grace and twirled the blade that Nirvaan had made for him. It was so much fun, finally Assan could enter his villain era. He cackled lowly as he thought about all the food rations he'd stolen over the last nine nights, but thinking about food made his stomach growl. "Explode!" Came the voice caster's command as the corpses infalted and then blew up, their viscera scattered everywhere as it rained guts and gore upon the wannabe shinobi.

He'd forgotten how much fun fighting could be when it was for a cause. For years Assan had been looking for something to put his all into, he'd been drafted into the assassins when he was just a child, at their fall and the death of his mentor he'd lived a hundred lives: pirate, assassin, thief of honour, blade for hire. Nothing felt better than this because his purpose here was noble and great: by fighting for Octavian the phoenix was going to give him a lifetime supply of cake, nothing could have been more meaningful to Assan than that. The foursome marched forward, the demigods + Nate had business with that tower, and if Octavian died Assan was never going to get that cake.

"Go!" Assan had shouted at Prometheus as a Bloodletter rose between them, Komos was gone, it was just Assan and Nate now. Their party had been halved and Assan couldn't count on Prometheus to heal his scratchy throat anymore. Commanding him had come with a cost, and Assan popped the cap on his cough syrup then chugged it. Littering on the streets of Dis as he tossed the empty plastic to the side. "I guess it's time I started taking this seriously." Assan said telepathically into the nephilim's head, their seraph blade was useful, if they pinned something with it then that thing couldn't use its magic anymore.

On the rooftops Bloodbeasts poised to strike with projectiles of ichor, golems of infused crystals joined the Bloodletter in front of them. Everything was always about blood here, and did everything have to always be red? It was so lame, these Asphodel losers had zero sense of style: they were like Nirvaan like that. No, Assan wouldn't insult that little lame boy warder fey by comparing him to these freaks. Even he was cooler than them, and that was really saying something.

Assan raised his sword and grinned as cough syrup dripped from the corner of his mouth: "Bonito flakes."

[wipbigbang]

Round 3 of the Regular WIPBB art claims is live! You may claim as many fics as you want, just fill out a separate form for each and give each claim a different username.

Art claims for this round will be open until August 7th!

This is just one of the stories still available for claiming...

Naruto #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)

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