Title: Sauveteur
Disclaimer: I do not own the series or characters involved in this story.
Warnings: AU, Supernatural, horror elements, gore, violence, romance, inaccurate occult information
Relationship: Hiruma/Sena (includes Sakuraba/Sena, Sakuraba/Takami)
Summary: Sena may work at the unassuming Belle, Booke, and Candele, but between running the cashier and restocking incense, he's collecting demon spawn and fighting sentient houses. And trying to win back his missing soul, but, hey, that's another issue entirely.
Notes: The various spirits in this story are not based on folklore or historical information. While a story utilizing historical demons, angels, and other spirits, as well as their summoning and banishing rituals, would be no doubt thrilling, this story is meant to be more fun. We have writhing tentacles and oozing goop. Please do not expect any of the characters to adhere to proper demonic or angelic hierarchies or behavior or appearance. We're going for weird and creepy and fun, not historical and folkloric.
Chapter One
It was raining in Hell. Sena checked his phone, glad that he'd made the choice to bring an umbrella, and looked out through the sheets of water that were staining the streets. It didn't rain often, but that it would rain today, of all days, when the shipment was coming in and he was already strapped for time, seemed fitting.
His whole life had been a mess of bad decisions coupled with worse weather, so this was just par for the course.
But he had an umbrella. The situation could be much worse, he told himself. He could even see the shuddering, clanking vehicle shambling towards him. The shipment was on time, and even the rain was lightening up as the car pulled in front of Sena and shut off with a hiss.
"Kobayakawa, is that you?" the driver said, rolling the window down just enough to yell through. Sena nodded, peering into the back. Three boxes, tapped firmly shut, sat, shielded from the rain. "Where's the car?"
"In the lot," Sena replied, speaking loud enough to be heard over the rain. It was slowing to a sprinkle now, and the vast expanses of road and skyscrapers that lined this section of Hell were easily seen. The driver huffed, kicking open the passenger door and motioning the young man in.
"Get in," he ordered.
Musashi was as gruff as ever, but Sena couldn't hold back a small, private smile as he slid in the car. Once he was seated, he slid off his helmet, grateful for the freedom. Musashi eyed him as he drove toward the lot.
"Can't believe you wear that thing," he commented.
Sena held the helmet fondly. The headcover had been made specifically for him, the eyeshield a seemingly blank screen when viewed from the outside. But inside, when he was wrapped in the heat of it, the screen lit with hundreds of dots, scribbles of information, graphs and symbols flicking faster than most people could understand. He kept his gaze down. "I have to. You know."
"Don't want others seeing your face. I know," Musashi grunted, pulling into the lot and stalling the car again. An awkward silence fell about them, each refusing to move.
Sena was just about to open his door when Musashi asked, "How is the bastard, anyway?"
He paused, fiddling with the helmet. "He's…the same." He laughed, nervous breaths breaking the sound. "Go up and see him?" he offered.
Musashi shook his head, and with that, their conversation was over. Another painful moment stood between them, and then Sena was slipping his helmet on. The two men were hopped out of the delivery car and began loading the boxes into Sena's dull beige van.
"…succubus spawn, might not want to touch that with your bare hands," Musashi mumbled. He listed off a few more items – hellhound bones, octo-eggs, herbs and spices Sena could barely keep track of. "Sentient tentacles, you know how to handle those."
Sena nodded gravely.
When the last box was packed (resin from the hellish variant of Dracaena draco), Musashi slammed the trunk closed, and the two men stood near each other. Sena still stared downward. As far as demons went, Musashi was a good one – honest, fair, and direct. But he still couldn't look at him. He knew it didn't have to do with demonic auras, and Musashi looked exactly like a regular man so there were no horns or glowing eyes to fear, but he kept his eyes on the ground as he handed him his tip.
"Uh, have a, uh, good day," Sena stammered.
With tip in hand, Musashi was off – and the rain came to a soft, unassuming end.
Hell was quiet, just the way Sena preferred.
He'd been down enough, been doing the job enough, to know Hell. To know the roads, the landmarks, the parks. To know it wasn't fire and pain. Hell was work, was life like before – just endless. Eternal. Maybe there were places, nestled deep in the spotless skyscrapers, which were torturous. But Sena didn't need those. His boss didn't need those.
What Sena needed was to get home.
He was halfway there, zooming along the highway, when bright flashing lights, cones, and waving winged guardians alerted him to a checkpoint up ahead. An unexpected, unannounced checkpoint. And that was when Sena realized it could get worse, much worse.
So much worse, he thought, fear rising up in his gut as he saw the angelic guards peering into the car ahead of him.
Angelic checkpoints didn't just set up in Hell randomly. He'd been doing the job for years, and he hadn't once run into an angel in an official capacity. But five, six – no, seven of them were up ahead, chatting coolly with the driver of the shiny red sports car, harbingers of law, order, and eternal captivity in a solitary cell. Fear mixed with awe. They were beautiful, in a cold, sharp fashion. Their wings hung about them in huge rainbows of color and light.
But fear was still the stronger emotion, slicing his stomach to pieces, and with hasty motions, he tapped the screen on the dashboard and prepared for the inevitable.
As he drove up to the checkpoint, the sports car passing through without issue, he reached up and clutched at the collar of his black, body-tight suit all the same.
There was one rule in this job. One rule.
Don't lose the cargo.
He pulled up slowly, watching the symbols on the screen of his eyeshield light up in recognition of the angels. A small list of names appearing on the screen, and he focused on the angel closest. A tall, wiry man with glasses and dark hair, his wings a smattering of gold and blue and white.
'Ichiro Takami' popped into focus on the screen.
Sena breathed. Slow, steady, and quiet. He could hear his heartbeat, thudding in his chest, almost fast.
And then, shoving his foot on the gas, he ran.
There was the sharp sound of angelic gunfire. (He'd seen those boxes of bullets. 'Angelic silver bullets – purified for maximum destruction!' He'd seen those guns. He'd fired those guns, once.) There was the squeal of the tires as they whirred against the pavement.
There was the beep as he slammed his hand down on the magical screen, and the dashboard flared to life in a mess of glittering sigils and signs. With a taste like brimstone, the car shot forward, and shot to safety.
When the smell of foul eggs had faded, Sena tossed off the helmet and pushed back in his seat. Happy, sunny light poured from the sky above. The skin-tight suit was uncomfortable, growing sticky with sweat, but Sena sat for a moment in the warmth of the sunlight. Hell was wonderful, when it was quiet, but Earth – Earth was the best.
Earth was home.
He sighed. He was definitely late by now, and a quick check of his phone confirmed that he was well past any appropriate time. There was nothing for it but to unload the packages and set them in the shop, and the consequences would be the same if he did it immediately or in a few minutes. His heart needed a break, too. The runaway had caused it to leap and clamor in his chest.
But the suit was getting more uncomfortable by the second, and with stiff, begrudging movements, Sena slid from the van. The shadow of Belle, Booke, and Candele cast heavy as he lugged one package after another into the backroom, and if he used a bit of magic in his gloves, that was only fair.
The sentient tentacles jostled ominously in their box, and it was with no small relief that he shoved them into the recesses of the storeroom.
Smiling at his work – boxes piled high, the storeroom stocked once again with all manner of unpleasant ingredients – he fled to the bathroom and shed the suit.
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the clothing. It was imbued with thousands of spells, symbols woven into the fabric, and it could perform all manner of useful tricks. He could run twice as fast in the thing, not to mention his ability to jump halfway up buildings and climb up walls with his fingertips. But it was tight, and hot, and black, and whenever he caught himself in the mirror wearing it, he always felt like it was more of a brand. After all, red leathery wings were sewn into the arms, and the number '21' was embroidered on the back.
He didn't mind working for Yoichi Hiruma, but sometimes he wished the whole world didn't know.
Decked in casual clothes and the store's apron, though, he felt much more at ease.
Ease which instantly vanished when he walked into the main room of Belle, Booke, and Candele and was greeted by his boss.
Yoichi Hiruma was an intimidating man. There were no soft edges to him, in direct contrast to Sena's endless soft curves and petite form. Hiruma was tall, and pointy, and demonic. He was everything Sena had to fear – ruthless, cunning, and ambitious. But, most of all, demonic.
Most people who visited the little occult shop simply thought Hiruma enjoyed the art of frightful presentation. Sena knew – much too well, he thought with a shudder – that Hiruma was truly, wholly, completely a demon. Soulless as Satan himself, some said. (Musashi said. The first thing Musashi had said when he met Sena, to be precise.) Yoichi Hiruma might even been Lucifer's son, or maybe a cousin, because just as he was cruel he was charismatic. Yoichi Hiruma could slit your throat and you'd try to thank him for it.
(And, because Sena was an utter fool, seeing the blond demon striding toward him with murder on his face made his cock perk in interest. It was only the last shred of decency that Sena possessed that kept an unpleasant and horrifically embarrassing erection from mucking up the situation even more.)
"You're late by a fucking hour," Hiruma said. Of course there weren't any patrons in the shop to distract Hiruma or force him to play at decent behavior. Sena closed his eyes briefly, readying for the oncoming storm.
But Hiruma didn't launch into a usual tirade (complete only when he had dismissed Sena to cleaning out the jars used for storing especially disgusting spawn), and instead snapped, "How did the fucking checkpoint go?"
"Uh," Sena stammered. Hiruma knew. Hiruma knew, like he always knew. "Uh, I got past it. I ran past it," he amended.
Hiruma ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the younger man before rolling his eyes. "The shipment better be fine."
"Everything's fine!" Sena assured, leaping up. "No damage. Not even a scratch on the van."
"Succubus spawn was there, right?" Hiruma pressed. Sena nodded eagerly, and after a moment of Hiruma glaring at him, green eyes growing hotter and sharper every moment, gestured roughly to the bookshelves. "Go organize the damn books. Kids were in here earlier messing around."
Sena relaxed, his shoulders slumping in relief. This wasn't punishment at all. That Hiruma mentioned the checkpoint, that he brought the issue up – Sena allowed himself a brief moment of calm. It was rare that Hiruma did not have every detail of a plan ironed out and prepared for, but the man was, well, a demon, not a god. He was cruel and sharp, and Sena had the scar to prove it, but it seemed the checkpoint was not considered Sena's fault.
He happily reshelved Teen Witch by Silver Ravenwolf back in its place.
Life at Belle, Booke, and Candele – tiny occult store on the corner of 5th and Main, house and host to a demonic, charismatic owner and his younger, halfway-efficient assistant – was good.