#and death say hello to him haha he gets no proper tag

[mewkwota]

Do you think since the castle at this time was formed through Maxim's will, that Death may have taken form similarly? Well you can call me a wanted outlaw because I sure am reaching for the sky like I always do with these random comics. ( J` O`)J

This was what I was thinking while doodling Death in his various designs. Not to mention, when I see a ribbon, I may accentuate them.

This was also an excuse to touch-up how I draw Juste, as I made the dumb decision of forgetting the little bow on his outfit-- I did not add that onto Death's cloak by the way.

[bredsticon-blog]

title: ¡quake! & ~the wave~

desc: by day, you're a reporter for a sketchy newspaper called the exposé. by night, you're a hero named ¡quake! (the exclamation points actually stand for the ground shaking). you and a fellow reporter, brandon arreaga, have recently found the lead on a villain's identity: ~THE WAVE~ (the tildes actually stand for the water... er, waving). ~THE WAVE~ is also your archenemy. who is also brandon arreaga. ...whoops.

part: one (déjà vu)

tags: superhero au, dark! brandon arreaga, humor, love square, gender neutral reader (as always), cussing, mentions of drug use, alcohol, & death (later on)

word count: 1.2k

notes: i have a really large kink for weird multipart aus so expect more to come :^) i have an edwin and austin one coming up. whichever i update first depends on the responses i get

You're not groggy and foggy this morning. You haven't had your coffee yet and the sun isn't peaking through the boarded windows, but you don't stumble around your room, either. Not like there's much to stumble around. Furniture is hard to move from house to house. That, and you stuffed too many confidential documents in the couch cushions to trust any moving company.

In fact, you're never groggy and foggy in the mornings. You don't need to drink coffee. You could step outside in your costume, turn to the wall of flashing lights and microphones, and say three words: "I want chairs." and every furniture designer in the world would scramble to ship their best pieces to you. Not that they'd know your address—you've made certain that no one would—but they'd try.

You make your way to the living room, gingerly stepping over piles of unopened letters covered in kiss prints and heart stickers. Your fans discovered your past home, so you had to move before they found out who lived there. A box T.V., slouching on one of your untouched packing boxes, blares in the corner. You grimace and cover your ears, but you can still hear it.

"International supervillains quake at the sight of ¡quake! Haha, that was a nice one, wasn't it, Normani? Last night, ~THE WAVE~ was found plotting to stea—"

You dart to the TV and turn the volume down one notch. It goes mute. There you go, that's it. Bliss.

Not for long.

Something goes off near your hip. You scramble in the deep plush of your pajama pockets. It's like an earthquake. Your skin vibrates along with it. Your fingers clasp around smooth plastic, and you tug your phone out.

"HELLO, STERLING."

Your boss's voice explodes in your ears; you grimace, throwing your phone to a couch.

"Yes, boss?" you say, answering to your alias. Sterling wasn't your actual name, but that's what your boss calls you when she's on the phone. In case someone's tracking.

From the couch, her voice is less booming. "Sterling, a certain friend of yours has told me that you moved again? Without telling me?"

But just as terrifying.

"Yes, boss. People found my address and started sending things. Most were good but... gross things, too. Y'know how it is now. Normals have a fetish for me. My kind."

You give her a second to respond.

"You're lucky I pity you, babe." Your boss is one of a kind. She's the only person in the world who pities you. "If you weren't you, if you didn't have your condition, if you didn't always give me the juiciest stories, I'd damn near fire you for moving so much. On my bill. This is the sixth time this year, no?"

You nod, then realize that it's a phone call. "Uh- yeah. It is."

Since you're a "superhuman," the government requires that you register to UN, fingerprints included. Your superhero identity would be tacked on every piece of ID you ever own.

The thing is, you're one of the only heroes with a living archenemy. Which means you don't exactly want everyone to know who you are. Which also means that the government doesn't know you exist. Can't file taxes, buy anything substantial, or get a proper paycheck. You just rely on your boss's money to keep you afloat. Every time you move, it's been on her card.

She sighs. "Fine, fine. Just keep up the good work. You being... you is worth it."

"Will do."

"Speaking of good work, I have an assignment for you. You know that person that's been bugging you for the past few years? Well, after the information you gave me, Brandon's found something new on them." Her voice takes on a sparkle. "This is gonna be big. If this doesn't blow up our paper, I don't know what will."

Your eyebrows shoot up. Wait a minute—is she talking about the bane of your existence? ~THE WAVE~? The person that's been messing you up ever since you got your powers?

"The thing is, my darling Sterling, it's so big, I will need your sharp senses. Brandon refuses to leave this story, so both of you are going to work on it."

There's only six reporters working for the Exposé—and she's putting two on one story. That's one third of her entire business. On one story.

"Now, dear, could you tell me your new address so he could do a little hop and skip to your place? Some of this stuff is deeply sensitive."

You whisper it in the a special code you two formulated. Your ears pick up a faint scribbling sound, and she speaks once more.

"Wonderful, wonderful. He'll be over at three!"

She ends the call.

You gulp. Your house is the definition of a wreck. You have fan gifts addressed to ¡quake! all over the place, and as far as Mr. Arreaga is concerned, your name is Sterling, and you're just a humble reporter. You haven't brushed your teeth yet. You didn't take a shower in two days. Your good fits are still in your car. It's two o'clock.

As the great Captain America once said: Fuck.

You speed through your personal hygiene, going in and out of the bathroom to dig through boxes. You knew you should've unpacked sooner. You knew it, and you didn't.

After that, you take all your gifts into the basement. Or, rather, roll them into the basement, since you couldn't carry some. Being ¡quake! didn't give you super-strength, and one person literally gave you a tree (their prized Pennantia baylisiana). You have no idea how that went through UPS, but it did, and you also had the ignorance to bring it with you when you moved. You truly question why little kids look up to you.

You aggressively dust the house, push around furniture, pick a good fit, and sneeze a good fifty times before finishing. The boarded windows look suspicious, but you can just say you're a conspiracy nut. Brandon doesn't much about you, so you can make up whatever bullshit you want. Chances are, he'll believe it.

None of your coworkers know that much about you, really. The other five are pretty much brothers, while you've kept to yourself. For good reasons. You haven't killed your archenemy yet. Until then, you've vowed to keep your hero life away from your personal life. It's the only way to keep everyone safe. Especially when it's your archenemy.

So you chit chat with them, act friendly but not too friendly, just average. You bring good stories, though, the latest scoop, all that. Even if you hold back a bit, you know enough about the criminals in this area to satisfy any paper. It gives you a good excuse to act like you're leaving for an assignment when you're actually just punching ~THE WAVE~. Your coworkers don't know more than they need to. And you plan on keeping it that way.

The doorbell screams. You kick the last fan letter into a corner, and you rush to open the door.

Brandon gives you a smile.

He's cute, but still just your coworker. You gotta keep him at arms-length. You smile back, knowing you look completely dead inside.

He meets your eyes. His are dark. Like an inked signature. Like a new moon on a cloudy night. It flips a switch in you, a spark of coldness, a wisp of familiarity, and your eye twitches. Déjà vu. He stares at you. Neither of you speak.

Then he blushes. "So, uh, I'm guessing this is where the infamous Sterling lives?"

--

a/n: i know this sucked ass. dont remind me