Raven entered her room and immediately sighed. You were sprawled across her meditation rug, wings folded like cushions behind you, head resting lazily on one of her grimoires like it was a pillow. A candle floated awkwardly in the air near your head—wrong aura, wrong scent, and definitely not one of hers.
“You moved my ward circle again,” she said, stepping around you like someone avoiding a sleeping cat. Her voice was flat, but the familiar tone of tired fondness was there—buried under years of sarcasm.
“I enhanced it,” you beamed up at her, holding up a scribbled napkin. “Added a little sparkle. Positive reinforcement runes. One of them literally purrs when you chant.”
She blinked once. “You made my protection spells purr?”
“I thought it would be cozy! You’re always so... gloomcore.”
“I am a half-demon whose father wants to devour the multiverse,” she deadpanned.
“And I’m a half-angel whose father sings galaxies into existence and gets really offended by EDM. Look at us—Yin and Yang.” You gave her your usual grin, bright and wide, the kind that somehow never cracked no matter how many apocalypses you’d faced together.
“You’re in my room again,” she muttered, walking past you to fix the candle. “Every time I leave.”
“Because your room smells like old magic and unsolved trauma. I feel at home here.”
“You have your room. Go bother Beast Boy.”
“He keeps throwing socks at me when I try to redecorate.”
She turned slowly, arms crossed, cloak drifting with her movement. “And what gave you the idea I’d be more welcoming?”
You tilted your head, placing a hand over your heart like she’d wounded you. “Because deep down—beneath the void, the sarcasm, and the haunted poetry phase—you love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Semantics,” you hummed. “Soulmates tolerate with extra affection.”
She rolled her eyes and sat at her desk, dark eyes skimming the briefing notes waiting for her. The calm between you fell quiet, but never cold. You watched her, reading with that signature brooding stillness she wore like armor. She was the night sky—heavy, endless, sometimes storming. You were the daybreak, loud and tender in all the wrong places. And yet, somehow, you'd always been drawn together.
“So,” she said, not looking up, “our fathers are meeting tonight.”
“Yup. End of the world type bonding moment. Daddy Lucifer and Daddy Trigon, sitting in a tree. Spelling doomsday in infernal.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“When I’m not terrified on the inside? Sure,” you said, sitting up straighter. The glow around your shoulders dimmed. “If they align—if they agree—Earth might crack in half just from the weight of it. They were never meant to share space. That much fire and darkness in one room? The universe might sneeze and delete Canada.”
She let out a low breath. “We’re going to stop them.”
“Yeah. Because we’re the product of their worst mistakes. And somehow, we turned out... okay?”
“Speak for yourself, your dad loved your mom . Mine was taken against her will .” she muttered, standing up and pulling her cloak tighter.
You smiled at her back. “I am. I mean—look at you. Trigon’s heir, but you fight for peace. You meditate. You feed stray cats. You let me live.”
“Barely,” she said dryly, moving toward her spellbook shelf.
You rose beside her, your hand grazing hers briefly as you reached for your own gear. “They gave us their blood. But not their hearts.”
She paused. Just long enough for you to catch it. That flicker in her expression—the small part of her that didn’t hate hearing those words.
“You’re an idiot,” she said softly.
“True,” you replied. “But your idiot.”
And as the Tower alarm blared overhead, and the mission loomed—the two most dangerous bloodlines in existence waiting to shake hands and shatter the balance—you and Raven stood side by side. Opposites. Equals. Bound not by fate, but choice. Soulmates, not because destiny demanded it—but because against all odds, in the darkest and brightest corners of the universe, you'd found each other.
Ready to face your creators .
Again. As always.