#anyway mildly supernatural au

[ghcstao3]

john gets stranded in what is essentially the middle of nowhere on a road trip because of his car breaking down out of the blue and a torrential downpour that had not come up once on the forecasts he made sure to check a million times over before leaving for his voyage.

it’s strange, the place he finds himself in. he hasn’t seen another car in ages, surrounded by thick forests and no civilization, save for an old general store he remembers passing just before his car called it quits. the rain and dark skies appeared out of nowhere, almost like he’d entered some bubble isolated from the rest of the region.

in any case, in all his panicked stupidity and the hope that he’d maybe be able to get help sooner, john decides to trudge back the kilometre or so to the shop.

dim yellow lights glow in the midst of all the rain, and he’s mercifully greeted by a fading open sign just as he approaches the door. he pushes in without a second thought, eager to escape the downfall.

inside is about everything he’d expect; essentials, canned foods, toiletry, snacks. hardly anything special, though soap is immediately filled with a pleasant warmth that melts away the shiver that would have otherwise set into his bones.

he doesn’t browse. only moves toward the empty counter and prays someone will show up eventually.

not that he’d hate waiting around in the store. it’s far better than his car, in any case.

but just as john takes a step forward, a throat clears behind him.

“‘bit wet out there, is it?”

the deepness of the voice reverberates through john, startling. comforting. he whirls around to face the owner of said voice, and all he sees is tall, broad, dark as his eyes climb to meet irises the warm colour of black coffee.

“a bit,” john agrees, albeit slowly. he realizes he had never heard footsteps, let alone saw anyone else in the store just seconds before. he’s not sure what compels him, but he adds, “my car broke down.”

the man inclines his head toward john, his eyes almost analytical, considering something about john that has nothing to do with his current predicament. it’s hard to judge what he’s thinking, with the mask obscuring the lower half of his face.

“unfortunate,” the man says. “you’ll have to wait out the storm for help.”

john’s heart sinks. he still had so much travel left ahead of him—and who knew how much longer this weather would last?

disappointment must be clear on his face, as the man’s furrowed brows soften into a polite sort of pity before he lets out a quiet sigh and silently directs soap toward the counter.

“wait here,” he instructs.

the man disappears into another room, returning very shortly with a styrofoam cup of coffee and a set of clothing of which he unceremoniously drops on the counter.

“better you’re in dry clothes while you wait,” he explains. “bathroom is just in the back. i have a call to make.”

john nods, swallows. “thank you,” he says, hesitantly reaching for the clothes, “i really appreciate it.”

the man huffs. he stares at john a few moments too long, john almost feeling itchy under his gaze—though, somehow, in a good way.

“my name’s simon, if you need me,” he grunts.

john nods again, offering a polite smile before turning to head to the bathroom. he pauses after only a few steps and turns back to say something, but the words die on his tongue as he sees simon has all but vanished.

john bites his tongue, shaking his head before he continues on his way.

the patter of rain is still heavy outside, nearly matching the squelch and squeak of wet shoes on the tile. the bathroom isn’t difficult to locate, and john finds it easy to admit to himself that he’s more than grateful to not be in clothes that cling to his skin.

though maybe had his mind not been so preoccupied with a dark gaze and full baritone, john might have noticed that the products lining the few shelves were not in fact all normal. perhaps he would have noticed jars of herbs and bones, bottles sealed with wax and labelled as spells. maybe he’d have seen the array of things considered otherworldly.

but he doesn’t. instead, john returns to the counter and the cup of coffee; to simon once he returns and a shadow that doesn’t quite follow his movements as it should.

maybe having his car stop working didn’t have to be such a bad thing, for the time being.

(part two)

[huxkisser]

just had an idea for a fluffy modern kylux au where kylo and hux are married and move into a little suburban house with their cat millicent. kylo has worked through a lot of his issues and is on better terms w his family, and hux has been healing from his own childhood trauma w years of support and therapy. they both have good jobs they enjoy and a good group of friends, and hux is the happiest he’s ever been.

but he still feels this hole in his chest whenever he thinks abt his mother. he never knew her, and brendol had told him that she had left because she didn’t want to be around hux. hux had believed it growing up but eventually came to realise that a lot of the things brendol told him weren’t true, and that his birth mother had probably fallen victim to brendol’s abuse herself.

and so despite how content he is he always has this strange mixture of sadness and curiosity sitting at the back of his mind. and the feeling only weighs on him further when he sees his husband and mother in law interacting. he loves leia of course, but he can’t shake the nagging feeling of wondering what his own mother would be like, if she would extend the same fondness and warmth to him that leia does.

one day not long after moving into their new home millie decides to explore the neighbourhood. hux, exasperated, goes looking for her, and finds her in the garden of a quiet yet polite older woman with greying red hair and sad but soft eyes.

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #3: Of Apples and Academic Frenemies

Au where Jason and Danny are attending the same college course on mythology and classical literature and they are always getting into debates about the depictions of the characters and the historical context of stories and stuff bc the both have a different exposure to the myths. Like Jason knows literal demigods and Amazons but Danny knows Pandora and the Greek myth related ghosts plus time travel from Clockwork and the infi-map. The debates can get heated at times but the respect each others intellectual takes.

This creates a peculiar situation where everyone in the class thinks they are academic rivals who hate each other (except for the few with their shipping goggles on and sense the homoerotic tension underlying their debates) and are deeply invested in watching them interact like their own personal drama even thought at this point in time they are at best friendly acquaintances and at worst annoying classmates.

Jason rants to his family about his debate partner/rival bc he’s happy to have some who will talk to him ad-nauseam abt this stuff but also bc he wants to complain about how Danny's a “smart but annoying little twink who’s got some real audacity”. And while the batfam is happy that Jason is experiencing some normal life things like an academic frenemy they’d love to stop hearing about this guy's “smug fucking smirk” and the “annoying gleam in his eyes". They are worried that Jason will snap and beat this guy up for being too annoying. Well, except Tim who thinks Jason would rather make out with this guy than debate with him.

One day the course decides to do a big themed party/fundraiser to save up for a class trip to an excavation site of some temple ruins or something. Both of them volunteer for the organizing committee bc of the offered extra credit. This encourages the two of them to start seeing each other more and to hang out outside of their classes so the can work on event planning. Over time they actually become pretty good friends (Danny's presence filters Jason's toxic ecto and cures pit rage due to increased exposure. It was happening anyways as classmates but the close proximity sped up the process) and Jason and Danny develop mutual crushes on each other.

For the event they do, like an Olympic games style format and have people sign up in teams for events a couple of weeks beforehand. Anyone in any sort of classical/mythology related course can join and they opened the event for public spectating. They have a few traditional events like a foot race, long jump and chariot race. But the also have some silly ones like Medusa's Snakes, where they shove their faces into bowls of whipped cream and fish out gummy worms, Pandora's Amphora, where they stick there hands into a box/jar of mystery contents (grapes, slime, a live animal like rats or kittens, a bunch of glitter, soda, etc.) and whoever keeps their hand in the longest wins, and Gladiator Fights, where they try to knock each other into a foam pit with those foam and rubber jousting sticks and the such.

Neither Danny, nor Jason want to participate for fear of their physical/supernatural abilities being discovered so the both get talked into doing the emceeing and commentary for the events. They make a really good duo, snarking and bantering with each other, playing off each other's energy and providing fun commentary to the events. Everyone, including the batfam who came to spectate, is a bit baffled by how well they are getting along bc last they checked these two were rivals of a sort, mildly annoying at best and actively antagonistic at worst. However, they really seem to be enjoying themselves.

The last event of the day is a trivia contest, which they both decide to take part in and let someone else take over the emceeing. The final winning trivia question is "what trope was falsely understood as a marriage proposal or declaration of love by misinformed media, that was actually closer to a ploy of seduction and indication of sexual desire according to Greek texts" and the both ring in at the same time to say "tossing an apple to someone" and an tie for the win. They both go up on stage to receive the prize (idk a gift card or smth) and shake hands before walking away in opposite directions.

Then suddenly Danny calls out to Jason just before he leaves the stage and chucks an apple he seemingly produced out of nowhere at him. The apple has a note with the time and date of a dinner reservation on it and when Jason looks back up at Danny he see the slightly flushed boy tentatively smiling at him.

" What do ya say Jase? Will you go out with me?"

And instead of replying Jason just straight up kisses him in front of everyone. Everyone else is gobsmacked by this whole turn of events except Tim who's cackling his head off, screaming "I FUCKING KNEW IT". When the two of them break apart they grin at each other widely and Jason drags Danny of the stage presumably to go make out somewhere.

[beanghostprincess]

Silly vampire buggy being so very normal about it while the rest are absolutely FERAL is so funny.

Buggy, before Roger passed, still on the Oro: hmm, I'm kinda thirsty-

Shanks, ripping his already open shirt further off: Oh Dear, Oh My Look At ALL THIS So Very BITEABLE SKIN, Sure Hope There's No VAMPIRES Thirsting Near Me, Wink Wink!!!!

Buggy: I bet Gabban still has some juice boxes. I hope he has that guava one. I'll be right back!

Shanks, half naked and drooping: 🥺😟😥😫

<><><><><><><><><>

Mihawk: I read this interesting novel yesterday which gave me much to ponder.

Buggy: oh? Awesome! Which was it?

Mihawk, side-eying Buggy pointedly: it was a supernatural romance between a human and vampire. It was rather explicit and had many scenes which piqued my interest.

Buggy, absolutely Not Getting It: oh man. I usually hate those. It's a toss up between bad writing or the vampire is always a top. Like? Give me gay bottom vampires too, we deserve to be recognized!! Oh, Hawky, can you hand me my sunscreen?

Mihawk: ........... here.

Buggy: thanks, love!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Crocodile: hey you drink blood.

Buggy, sipping A+ out of a care bear cup: yeah?

Croc: does it work on Logia users? Or would your fangs need Haki to pierce us?

Buggy: hm. Good question? I dunno, actually!

Crocodile: seems this could be a learning experience. Would be a shame to not experiment. I know how much you like your science.

Buggy: I do like science. Yeah. Yeah. You're right! I SHOULD experiment on that!!

Croc, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging down his cravat: uh huh, well, I suppose we ought to get to it- where are you going

Buggy: to my workshop! Science waits for no man!!! Nor clown, in my case. Man clown? Vampire? Who knows. Wait. Am I a man...? Hm, what is the gender today... wait, have I eaten at all? I don't remember. Anyway, I need to grab my suit, I'm low on sunscreen again. Oh, remind me to add that to the next shipment request. Oh, I should also grab a bloody mary!! That sounds great! Okay. Bye bye!!

Croc, halfway undressed, watching Buggy run outside, start swearing bc he didn't pull up his hood and is cursing the light, before tripping flat onto his face: ............. shit.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy rarely pushes the limits of his abilities BECAUSE of the vampirism. If he uses his DF more than usual, it makes him hungrier. And once he hits a certain point, he begins to lose his already loosey-goosey sense of humanity. It scares him to be so cold and uninterested, especially since he always feels things turned up to eleven. When his hits that point, EVERYTHING turns off. At best, he'll be mildly annoyed, angry, amused - but it's like being in a glass bowl, watching things happen from the outside. It terrifies him.

His partners...? Well. It does things to them too, but terror isn't exactly the dominating feeling... 👀

((Also, the romanticism of blood. Of life energy. Of an exchange of that out of love. Of giving parts of yourself to sustain and satiate another. Carrying pieces of someone else in your body to propagate your own life. Of giving and taking consensually the liquid which carries your time. The inherent provocative nature of taking someone else's essence into yourself with full permission and full understanding because they receive so much from you in turn that it is simple, easy, logical to consent to this.))

Vampires 🥰

THE FIRST ONE IS SO REAL EFJKBWEJKBWJEKBF Shanks does that constantly he's DYING for Buggy to bite him and the clown won't even notice he's trying so much. It's ridiculous. Shanks and his failguy moment simping for a vampire that doesn't want his blood.

Mihawk and Crocodile trying to flirt and failing miserably because Buggy is always oblivious to what they do is amazing and no matter the AU it's always like this. I adore. They just want their vampire boyfriend to bite them :(( Failguys.

The last thing you said is so real. Vampires can be something so romantic and I think usually books/TV shows/Media in general don't focus on the important stuff. I want to see teen!Shuggy with Buggy and Shanks traveling together right after the crew disbands (before Roger's death) and Buggy not having access to other types of blood. So Shanks offers him his blood and they have like-- This moment of realization of how intimate it is. And Buggy will forever remember what it felt like to feel Shanks' embrace while sucking his blood without any complaints. And!! Both Mihawk and Crocodile wanting to do the same but it's definitely just for the horny, they don't expect it to be so passionate and intimate, and romantic.

Also, I agree with Buggy, the vampire should be the bottom. Really necessary for this situation.

[goshdangronpa]

Komaru fits the role of Ayase pretty well. Especially since my girl already genuinely believe in ghosts lol. It all perfectly clicked into place when I realized I can give her psychokinetic abilities that replicates the megaphone from UDG. Komaru is all about being a normal girl but in actuality she matches Toko’s freak.

Toko would yell to think of a distraction against the lochness monster and the first thought is to use her psychic powers to make it dance.

I love Okarun’s alien obsession but I did not want to change Toko’s character too much as she would definitely not believe in aliens however the idea that she finds someone can believe in ghosts but not aliens is funny to me so she’d take the bet anyway.

After the encounter with a turbo granny and aliens she’d quickly accept they’re real like what happened in UDG. Mostly she has Okarun’s “awkward and shy demeanor at first glance but a total freak when encouraged energy”. Aside from that everything else fits her pretty well

The idea of Turbo Granny form being exclusive to Genocide Jack cause Toko fainted and Jack came out as she was cursed by the Turbo Granny can make for countless funny moments that would fit both DR and Dandadan. Jack will just quickly accept her new situation leaving Komaru surprised how well she’s taking it.

Hiroko taking the role of Seiko seemed the most fitting. We don’t know much of Hiroko’s past but here in this AU, I can imagine she did a few spiritual medium and exorcism (scams) in her past for quick money. Thanks to her son she has all sorts of supernatural and occult items she keeps around. Maybe Komaru and Toko go to Hiro first cause Toko blames him and in a panic mentions he thinks his mom does exorcisms on the side. Here she’d be mildly surprised to learn it’s all real go with the flow and wing it then through sheer luck it actually worked for real.

The only thing I have to add to this is that the expansion of Hiroko's backstory means that she and Yasuhiro are way ahead of the curve lmaooo

Toko and Komaru: Ghosts and aliens are real!!!!!!

The Hagakures: You didn't know?

[connectionterminated13]

A Dead man who just needs a pack of cigarettes

Short little fan fiction I worked on in a couple minutes on Tumblr because I was bored BTW this takes place in my AU Inferno! Also please don't expect stellar writing quality this is mostly just a joke and for fun and I'm not doing the best editing on this (Fuck you Tumblr (The app) I'm going to write something tonight If it fucking kills me)

"You're telling me you're out"

Michael stared down the store clerk with what he could only describe as pure hatred. He was focusing every bit of rage and anger and general unhappiness from a miserable life at this man.

"I told you sir we sold out an hour ago.."

The bleary-eyed teenage boy behind the cast register of a convenience store somewhere in Arizona was not acknowledging the pure hatred that Michael was staring at him with. This made Michael even more mad

"Well Mr. I ran out of them an hour ago, I just saw some guy leave with a whole Fucking bag full!!"

This was a lie but Michael assumed if he got more threatening with his tone and maybe yelled a bit and made up this total this stupid probably high teenage boy would tell him where the goddamn cigarettes were!

The boy just blinked at him tired and boringly like he wasn't looking at an affront to God Screaming his face about cigarettes.

"LOOK KID I DON'T THINK YOU GET IT I NEED FUCKING CIGARETTES I AM GOING TO BE ON THE ROAD FOR THE NEXT OH SAY 8 HOURS, 8 HOURS IN THE DESERT, 8 HOURS WITHOUT A TASTE OF NICOTINE. WHICH I THINK IS TAUTAMOUNT TO TORTURE."

Michael was going to break something if this stupid boy didn't at least give him a reason why there was no cigarettes. Because Michael knew barely anyone passed through here so it was safe to assume that this stupid dumb future Hippie boy or Trailer truck Owner had stolen these also precious rations away from Michael as some elaborate plot against him!!

"I told you sir we're out someone bought up the last pack an hour ago if you wait till tomorrow they'll be more..."

The boy didn't even have the gall to look at him staring down at his stupid phone.. Disgusting absolutely disgusting.

"Do not know what I am boy?? I am not human I do not need what you need all I need is cigarettes AND IF YOU CAN'T GIVE THAT TO ME WELL I'LL JUST HAVE TO DRAG YOU TO HELL WITH ME!?"

Michael with much anger picked up a display of gum and threw it against the ground. The boy did slightly raise his eyebrows and let out a small "Damn"

"Are you going to pick that up?"

The boy looked down at the mesh Michael headmaid clearly thinking about how annoying it would be to clean up later.

"Not until you tell me where the cigarettes are.."

Michael said with the smuggist face his lack of lips and cheeks and general facial features would allow.

"Look sir... I get you think you're some kind of crypted supernatural entity but please trust me when I say we're out of cigarettes..."

The boy rubbed between his eyes clearly beginning to lose patience and by extension beginning to care about what Michael had to say.

"Okay let's believe you you have no cigarettes.. But do you really think I'm just putting on an act? no no this is what I am. You see a long time ago, I was like you human stupid handsome..."

Michael paused for a moment remembering his beautiful hair and his handsome untainted face... As for some reason the teenage boy continued to look bored and mildly distraught about the idea of cleaning up the gum Michael had spilled on the floor.

"Anyway up until my sister and her other insane clown robot friends ripped out my insides and used me as a human skin suit!! This went on for 2 months... Do you know what it feels like to be a human skin suit for 2 months???"

The boy just existed there for a moment before realizing it was a question in shaking his head.

"And you know what I survived!! Sure I'm dead and bruised and maybe a bit more crazy than I was before but I survived!!"

Michael punctuated the word survived By knocking over another display. This time it was for some kind of chocolate egg. For good measure Michael even stamped on some of the packaging as the boy with a giant sigh responded to michael.

"What does that have to do with cigarettes or your continued violence to our products sir?"

"WELL EVERYTHING OF COURSE!! BECAUSE IF YOU THINK AFTER ALL THAT I'D GIVE UP WHEN YOU SAY THERE AREN'T CIGARETTES WHEN THEY'RE CLEARLY ARE AND YOU'RE JUST HIDING THEM FROM ME, YOUR JUST AS INSANE AS PEOPLE CLAIM I AM!!!"

The boy seemed genuinely pissed off at this point which made Michael feel proud.

"Look Mr. Unholy Damon guy if I give you my Own cigarette Package will you just leave me alone??"

The boy slapped a box of cigarettes on the Cash register sliding them towards Michael. Michael looked down at them immediately noticing they weren't his brand of cigarettes but they would do.

"Thank you"

Michael took the cigarettes with a smile before walking out of the convenience store ignoring the fact the boy was flipping him off behind his back. Michael was still smiling when he opened the RV door and was face-to-face with Charlie.

"What did you break this time?"

Charlie said with a tired but unannoyed voice

"Just a couple of standies nothing to worry about..."

Michael said with Sing song voice voice lighting up a cigarette

[solarfyn]

// mild dubcon!!! vampire blood is an aphrodisiac, but minsung are both very very into it. also obvious warning for blood

happy spooky month 🧡🧡 au where newly-turned vampire jisung has tiny dull fangs and can’t pierce anything, so he turns to a popular supernatural dating app to find a sugar (blood?) daddy to provide for him. he ends up meeting hundred-year-old, mildly bored minho 

(+ 1k words of brainrot below the cut)

minho only agrees because jisung is super pathetic and a baby and might die without him,,, but the only thing jisung hears is “you’re cute and i want to help you” so he ignores whatever stranger danger senses that are tingling in his mind because 1, he loves vampires and 2, minho is a Really hot one. (also, when they first meet, jisung wears a victorian top and styles his hair and minho’s like ??? what are you wearing??? and jisung pouts and says he’s always wanted to be an ancient vampire and that this is really awesome for him. minho is appalled because what kind of freak lives this life willingly?)

the first time minho meets jisung, he immediately checks his fangs and frowns at how dull and useless they are. it’s gotta be some medical anomaly, but he’s not particularly knowledgeable about things like this. but that’s not an issue, because he can provide for jisung. (meanwhile, jisung is mildly confused as to why there’s a hot vampire sticking his fingers in his mouth and feeling up his teeth and gums, but he’s not complaining at all)

since blood is basically their life force, i'm assuming it makes them feel stronger and dials their senses to eleven. it’s also an aphrodisiac, one that jisung isn’t used to, given that he’s a fledgling. minho doesn’t realize this, since he’s a thousand years old, so he’s completely thrown off guard when jisung starts mouthing at minho’s neck. he starts saying things like “i can hear the blood in your veins” “you smell so good” and he’s gripping minho’s shirt so tightly it’s about to rip, completely unaware of his newfound strength.

he tries to bite minho's neck (a HUGE no-no in vamp culture—it's considered extremely disrespectful because the neck is the most vulnerable point on a vampire’s body) and minho grabs his hair and yanks him back on reflex but jisung, the freak that he is, accidentally thinks it's really hot and gets turned on, whining at the pain

cue minho realizing he’s going to have to train the instincts out of this newborn. he’s not technically jisung’s sire, but eventually, their bond becomes so strong he might as well be. he goes on power trips, not because he wants to own jisung, but a bit further than that. it’s knowing that he’s the sole reason that jisung is still alive. that he’s jisung’s only provider. minho too caught up in the fantasy that he demands jisung tell him who made him and jisung gasps out an answer, saying something like "you—you’re my sire" and minho almost blacks out from the power trip

main takeaway—minho gets off on wanting to be the reason jisung exists because he’s a freak like that

anyway, months pass, and minho continues to check on jisung’s progress every day (sadly, with no improvements. his fangs are still human-like). usually, vampires feed about once a week, but minho likes to give jisung blood a few times a week,,, something about having bright red eyes signifying wealth because it means you’re fully fed,,, something about minho spoiling jisung to no end,,, something about minho secretly indulging whenever jisung is blood-drunk,,,

on week, jisung goes a little bit too long without feeding and his eyes start to fade from their bright red to a muted scarlet. minho grabs his cheeks, forces him to make eye contact, tuts at the color, unsatisfied. he can’t let his fledgling have anything other than the brightest of ruby eyes. so he sighs and offers his neck to jisung. says “just this once you can feed from me”. it’s a sign of the utmost respect because he’s giving up his sense of control. jisung panics and denies the offering, shaking his head viciously, his eyes wide. “no, no, i can’t do that. i can’t.” and minho glows inside because it means his training worked. jisung’s been taught so well and has such good manners that he insists on letting jisung feed. “i promise it’s okay”.

so jisung gingerly sinks his teeth into minho’s neck, whining because he can’t pierce the flesh deep enough. minho sighs and bites his wrist with his own fangs, holding it out to jisung, who grabs it with both hands and latches on and starts lapping at the wound. it turns out, blood from a vampire is more of an extreme aphrodisiac because their blood is more concentrated than a human’s. jisung goes blood-drunk almost immediately (bless his lightweight heart) and he’s suddenly a squirmy, whining mess perched on minho’s lap,,, craving praise,, he begs minho to bite him too, “it feels so good, please try,” and of course minho knows what being blood-drunk feels like, he’s a thousand years old, but he indulges. and jisung’s blood is so very sweet and addicting and suddenly he’s blood-drunk too,,, and they’re both panting and dripping each other’s blood into their mouths,,, pupils blown,,, 

so yeah,,,, those are my freaky vampire brainworms,,,,, thank you for listening,,,

+ bonus,,,,  sass mentioned that minho could absolutely tell when jisung’s blood goes south when he fed for the first time. of course, jisung doesn’t know this. he panics because he can't be attracted to his "sire" that's gotta be inappropriate right??? so he flushes and pretends it doesn't happen and then goes to take care of himself in private and the whole time minho is just a little bit confused because vampire blood is supposed to make people horny so why isn't jisung asking for help? (i'm making things up here. i'm saying vampire culture, especially sex, is a bit different than human culture and that sex is more casual/not a huge deal if that makes sense)

minho corners him and tells him he can tell when jisung's turned on and he's Mortified until minho very politely tells him that it's fine? and that he shouldn't worry? and that he can help? and jisung basically bluescreens because hello hot ancient vampire man wants to fuck him (he hasn’t quite gotten past the culture shock yet but he will. he discovers courting soon.)

[azaiakart]

Ignore the cringe ass dialogue (working on it I swear!!!) but I saw Deadpool & Wolverine and the first piece is loosely based on that one scene… anyways have some mildly toxic yuri! Normally these two are in a very healthy and loving relationship but I was craving some angst so I put them in a supernatural (not the show just like, supernatural creatures: vampires, werewolves, demons, etc.) au!

there is nothing gayer than tenderly wrapping the wounds of your childhood friend turned lover / enemy / lover again after she betrays her superiors for you and almost dies bc of it. I could blab on abt these two bc I adore them so dearly

[starlitsunday]

holds my head. the scp oc au rot continues i am just noting it down bc i am mildly tipsy

krita —

half-fae

formerly known as leia katz. she got involved with one of 3125's fifthist hosts, got in too deep, and ended up escaping by giving herself a head injury

this kind of had the effect of knocking leia's name and gender off. "krita" as a nickname came from the drawing program. he's an artist who specializes in cognitohazards and calming agents

except sometimes part of 3125 would show up in his art and get people killed. he ended up with an scp number of his own. he can't remember it bc that's Not His Name

he's mostly immune to his own art. his brain broke in such a way that they just kinda... censor themselves into patterns of pretty colors

he's lowkey in love with the wheelers. he can't remember marion's name for a long time so he calls her "madam firefly"

joins the serpent's hand. starts embroidering his patterns onto flags and uses those as his RPG Weapon Of Choice

sunny — double agent for the serpent's hand

they're the second researcher assigned to krita after the first one gets eaten by spiders (whoops.)

definitely a wizard of some kind

they bust out with krita and bring him to their buds

they have at least one GAW contact

they host open mics at their cafe in the wanderer's library :)

lotte —

has been in with the foundation as long as he remembers. an agent krita just knows as mr. lang

crawled out of scp-2000 one day. we don't know why

(might be a kind of reincarnation of the poor motherfucker from "v is for violence". the universe owes him a second chance)

anyway clef kinda takes him under his wing when he becomes an agent and goes like Yeah this place isn't nice to people like us. Try and be chill and don't get noticed so you don't end up with a number of your own?

has a lowkey antimemetic effect of his own as a result. might be a reality warper

assigned to figure out what krita's history is as an agent. befriends him and sunny ends up letting them escape during a breach, but stays with the foundation himself. convinced he's stuck there

unfortunately things go straight to shit two months later. the rest of the foundation and also most of everything becomes Property Of Starfish. he springs whatever unaffected anomalies he can from containment, mostly kids and young adults, and goes on the run

he gets pretty fucked up by The Supernatural Fash at some point and sunny + krita have to get him out of the universe and into the library. might be where this iteration of the character loses her sight. either way having a near death experience gets her to go "fuck it i trans my gender" and she starts going by lotte

dead fianceé. might come back as an AI

anyway they all end up as either allies or agents of vanguard. and kritas going to kiss miss wild light and also adam's ghost tenderly

[causticcauses]

this gravity can’t forget

cross-posted on Ao3

Pairing: Druig x Eternal! Female Reader

Summary: You don’t know if you can get through this, but that look promises a time when you’re not broken, but whole.

And his touch, too, promises fullness, as if the emptiness inside you is just a dream to be forgotten on the morrow.

Genre: Angst, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, AU - Canon Divergence

Warnings: Depression, vaginal sex, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, lowkey body worship, a bit of cock warming 

A/N: All the events after Tenochtitlan don't happen; the group splits, but everyone is still alive and the betrayal/Emergence hasn't happened. Hundreds of years after splitting up they find that the Deviants are still kicking, and have to periodically regroup to eradicate them. Reader has to deal with the fact that there may not be an end to this fight. Druig tries to help her.

Your whole body is aching. Hell, at this point you feel like more like a bruise than a body. The hot water beats down on your head and shoulders, but it isn’t quite enough to relieve the tense pain scrawled in sloppy handwriting across your muscles. Eventually you acknowledge that your sorry state isn’t going to change any time soon and you drag yourself out of the shower.

Staring at yourself critically in the foggy mirror, even through the haze you can see the splotch of plum purple across your ribs, the torn skin of your left shoulder. A stupid mistake. The Deviant shouldn't have been able to touch you, let alone do this.

There was a reason you hadn’t asked Ajak to heal you. Such a dumb misstep didn’t really deserve a reward. Besides, if you’d asked her Druig would have noticed. They all would have. Standing amidst the scraggily trees, the Deviant corpses nearby, with the rain pouring down from a sky that seemed too grey and tired to manage it, you just hadn’t felt like dealing with the swell of emotion that would come if they knew you were hurt. You didn’t want to worry them, or feel their pity, or disapproval. You didn’t want to deal with any of it, actually.

The thought has your power kicking up, a thin current of electricity scouring across your skin like it could wipe away the anxiety. It’s a reassuring sensation, the energy skittering over your aching flesh, a feeling instead of the numbness that’s engulfed you. But it’s also childish. Immature to need to reach out for reassurance, and at your age. Several thousand years and you still haven’t really grown up.

You scowl, abruptly cutting off the electric current, and turn away from your battered reflection, snagging a towel off the rack as you do.

It's one of those crappy hotel towels that might be repelling the water instead of absorbing it, but you wrap it around yourself anyways in the vague hopes it'll do the job at a later date. Exiting the small bathroom leads you to an equally small room, with the usual – and by now familiar – assortment of mildly ugly brownish-gold duvets, a mismatched chair or two, chipped paint and several insistently bland paintings on the walls.  

The bed isn't comfortable, but you still collapse on it with a blissful sigh, too tempted to resist the chance to lie down. Just for a second. It isn’t like anyone is in the room, anyway.

You lie there, towel wrapped around your torso, staring up at the ceiling, and try not to exist. A futile experiment for an Eternal. There's a horrendous headache imploding behind your eyes, and you think it's kinda unfair Eternals have to deal with those at all, on top of everything else. At least lying down feels (mostly) good on your strained muscles.

Your wounds are still throbbing, but a rest and a day or two will see them healed well enough. The shower has gone some of the way and your supernatural powers will do the rest. Headache proof, no, but at least you recover quickly.

Another sigh, and you tilt your head back, eyes closing. This has been one hell of a road trip. Sprite said it'd be fun – and it has been, sometimes – but getting your ass handed to you this morning by a Deviant that sort of looked like a Yeti crossed with a T-Rex had soured that. You’re just so fucking tired. Tired of strangers, of fighting, of moving, of all of it. You've always been the type to get homesick, which is funny given that you've never had a home. Not a permanent one. The whole never-aging thing tended to get HOAs foaming at the mouth.

Druig's joke, said with a wry smile as you'd packed up the apartment you shared several months ago, ready to chase down the hint of Deviants that Makkari had found in the north. Druig had said it to make you feel better about leaving, and even now you smile wearily, picturing his invitingly ironic expression.

Not a home, that man, but a place to find comfort all the same. At least if you had to travel to the ass-end of nowhere, he could be by your side the whole way.  

You're in some place called Dawson City now. Druig snorted when you drove into the small town that was assuredly not a city, and you concurred. Seemed like the only people who lived here – or would live here, ever – were as far from city-slickers as a bear was from a Deviant.

Was that why the nest of Deviants you'd wiped out this morning had been so fierce? They needed to be that tough to even have a hope of snacking on the folks up here in the Yukon?

A laugh bubbles in your throat but doesn't escape the fatigue sinking thick and languorous through your body. Today has just been – a lot. So much. Just like so many of your days, these last couple of... how long has this been plaguing you? Just years? Decades, now?

In a couple of seconds, you're gonna have to get up, update the maps, figure out where to head next. You and the other Eternals are doing a sweep of the entire Yukon, seeing where you’d missed a monster or five. Druig and the rest will be back soon from their supply run. It'll be good to have a few suggestions ready when they return to the hotel. It’s just Druig and you in this room, but you’ll all gather in Ajak’s room and talk shop around slices of pizza, or maybe a fancy assortment of frozen microwave dinners.

Gil is a great cook, but even he hadn't felt like trying to make meal magic in the grubby hotel. It's fine. You're all used to quick food, anyways. Of course, Kingo is gonna moan and groan like it's poison, but that's fine. You're all used to that, too.

Having some possible places and routes marked out ahead of time will be helpful to get everyone on track. It's the least you can do, after skipping out on the supply run. Druig had looked at you closely when you'd dipped, claiming a headache, and you'd just focused on projecting your tired vibes. It wasn't that hard. You were almost exhausted enough to drown out the guilt, the dejection, without even trying.

Druig probably didn't pick up anything. Or at least not much. Otherwise, he would have stayed. He'd offered to, but you'd squashed that with a brusqueness that might have offended someone who hadn't known you for millennia. Actually, it had slid off him, and he’d pressed you more about it, but eventually you’d managed to convince him to go.   

His concern is just another thing to feel guilty about, but you're just so tired. Too tired to let it cling to you for long. This isn’t new, not by a long shot, but it’s gotten so much worse since leaving for this latest trip. Some days it’s all you can do to get up, let alone plan, or help, or fight. You need to do something about it, but you’re so goddamn exhausted. Besides, you’re an Eternal. None of the others need – anything, to keep going. Not rest, or meds, or to talk. You shouldn’t either.

You don’t want to think about this anymore. Besides, you need to look at the maps. Plan a route. Do something useful.

It’s the least you can do.

You'll do it soon, too. In a couple minutes. The bed is miraculously getting more comfortable, though, sucking you into sleep. A long day. A hard day. You’ll just rest for a bit and then get up. In a couple of minutes...

---

Some time later, there’s a soft whir at the door as it unlocks. When Druig pushes his way into the hotel room, hands loaded down with bags, he only takes a few shuffling steps inside and then pauses, brow furrowing. Almost unwilling, a smile curls the corner of his mouth, and he shakes his head.

You were pretty fucking cute for someone passed out cold in a raggedy towel and nothin’ else.

He takes a few minutes to put the supplies they’d grabbed into some semblance of order, ready to be crammed into the backpacks they’ve got stowed away in their two rental trucks. There’re a few advantages to not taking the Domo – like feeling less like alien interloper overlords, for one – but convenient space isn’t really one of them.

Or more comfortable beds. Druig is surprised you managed to knock out like that, given this hotel’s got mattresses like concrete blocks. You must be really tired. Given the day everyone’s had, he supposes he doesn’t blame you. Besides, maybe the headache really took it out of you.

Once everything is in a semblance of order, he moves closer to you, not quite aware of how much his face has softened. His eyes are settled on your quiet if somewhat dopey expression, good to see after the days (months, years, decades) of stress that've built up in drawn lines over your forehead, a tight smile across your lips.

He knows you want to quit. Throw in the towel – or maybe just sleep in it. Hell, he'd half expected you to refuse when Ajak contacted you both months ago, ordering everyone together again. Another mission. Another group of Deviants to destroy. Another apartment you had just made perfect, with a second-hand couch you were ridiculously proud of and some blinds that almost complemented the wall paint. Another job you loved.

Another goodbye.

It's good you're sleeping. Druig's not even sure if you slept last night, or the night before. Certainly you'd still been sitting up and reading when he'd fallen asleep both nights.

After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out with his power. Carefully – tenderly – he feels along your consciousness, not even fully certain what he's looking for. Not details – he can't get those from other Eternals, can't get through the walls. It's more like standing outside a room with light spilling through the cracks in the door.

It's a light he loves, all the same. Reveres, almost. Maybe it's because he can't see through the door. It's not something Druig thinks about much, anymore. What he does think about is the colour, the vibrancy, the warmth of that light.

Your presence, ever since getting that call from Ajak, has... dimmed. You drag yourself through the motions, and there are flashes of brilliance, amusement, affection – hell, annoyance, even anger. But mostly, you've just been so flat. That’s something you’ve dealt with before, but now it seems to be... He didn’t know. Overwhelming you. Worse than it’s ever been. He doesn’t know why, or how, but it’s there. Impossible to deny.

It pains him to see you like this, aches in a way he didn't expect. A heart-hurt lodged in his chest that he can't get rid of.  

It's not destined to leave tonight. There's not much for him to pick up from your aura. It's just – You're still so tired, he can tell that even from his outside vantage. Even asleep, you're so tired.

His eyes had fluttered closed while he focused, but they slide open now, an aggravated sigh slipping from his lips. How can he help you? Ajak said it isn't something she can heal when he grudgingly approached her about it. (At the risk of his life, given you would have killed him if you found out.) If the healer can't do anything, what can he do? His power isn't – it's not for healing.

With a grimace, Druig shakes his head. Maybe this really is the last of the Deviants. Maybe this time – unlike in Tenochtitlan, unlike in Nagano, unlike in Oymyakon – they'll really be done. The gods know that you and him could use a break. A permanent one, to give you time to recover, whatever that means.

He doesn't want to think about what that means. It's too complicated a question. Besides, they've all been through this too many times. He doesn't know if he'll ever actually believe the Deviants are truly gone. Given the look on your face when you'd heard what Makkari had found in her world travels, nearly seven decades after the last "eradication," Druig's pretty sure you won't ever believe it. Not fully. You're probably gonna live the rest of eternity waiting for another call to arms.

The thought disturbs him more deeply than he knows what to do with, a jagged lance of unease burrowing into his brain. Another shake of his head, more impatient this time, and Druig shoves the idea away. Almost defiant.

You'll get better. He'll make sure of it.

To that end... There are a couple of hangers and an extra blanket in the otherwise bare closet, and he takes the thick material out. Getting you under the covers without waking you up is impossible, so this'll have to do.

The blanket bundled in his arms, Druig hesitates again, though this time it's from affection and not worry. You really do look fucking adorable with your face pressed into the pillow, damp hair straggling across your face, the towel perilously close to falling off completely. In another mood, the sight would have set something burning in his stomach and lower, but as it is, it just tightens his throat. Protectiveness, regret... love.

Except... as he settles the blanket gently over your sleeping form, you shift, turn to your other side, and the cover slips slightly off. His eyes reluctantly move from the amusing picture of your face scrunched into the pillow, and Druig’s gaze catches something he didn’t notice at first. Something on your shoulder. He studies it for a moment, his mouth thinning.

Anger and hurt and fear laps at him, a low tide. Why wouldn't you tell him about this? By now the wound – it looks like a bite that mangled a nice chunk of flesh – is sealed over, but it's still an ugly, enflamed patch in your otherwise smooth shoulder, blood-curdling in how close it is to your neck. The armour helps, but it’s not perfect, and the Deviant must have got a real good grip. It looks painful, even now, and he doesn't like to imagine how much it had hurt when it happened. A stupid pain. A useless pain, when Ajak could have healed it so easily.

So why hadn't you told him?

Druig already knows the answer, even as he soundlessly mouths the question.  

You'd been slow today. Blunt, but true. He'd only half seen it, his attention bent on corralling the hunters the Deviants had been trying to eat to a safer area. One Deviant had approached you from the side as you directed your lightning into crackling spears that drove back another monster threatening Kingo. Druig thought you'd turned, seen the Deviant approaching, and yet when it leaped at you, you – didn't move. Not fast enough.

That’s been a theme, these past few months. A theme he finds so hard to swallow, when you’ve always been the most agile of the Eternals, with the obvious exception of their speedster.

Maybe that's why, when Makkari blew it off you with one of her sonic booms, and you'd sprung to your feet quick enough, Druig accepted you were fine. That you'd channeled enough electricity into its jaws to seize them up and stop it from snapping at you. Because your slip up couldn’t have lasted long enough to really let it get it’s teeth in you.  

Or maybe he's just trying to give himself an excuse, like a fucking coward. He should have asked, pressed, refused to lay off when he could feel how off you were. Are. Of course you wouldn't tell him, or anyone. When have you ever been able to admit a mistake without it all but killing you? And it's only gotten worse with the weight that’s been dragging you down.  

Something... something has to change. Truth be told, Druig isn’t used to dealing with one of his fellows sinking. That’s usually him, with all the shit with the humans and right and wrong hanging around like a sign that points in every direction but straight. But you’re – If Druig believed in gods, believed in them in a way that made them worth worshipping, he’d be praying for help now. For a way to hold you up, or show you how to stand on your own. Anything, anything. Because something has to change.

In your sleep you murmur and twist, pressing your face harder into the pillow as a shadow of something he can’t name crosses your expression. The tightness moves from his throat into his chest, a painful squeeze. His hand hovers for a moment, indecision a paralyzing poison locking his muscles in place. He’s scared to touch you. Scared of waking you up, yeah, but scared that – that he’s the reason for all of this. That he’s an infection, spreading his own cynical view of the world to you, and maybe that’s why you’re so low now. Thousands of years together would rub off on anyone, right?

He can’t reach into your mind to find out what’s hurting you, and maybe that’s the worst part of it all. There isn’t a simple answer in front of him – or any answer – and it’s killing him.

Something has to change.

---

Waking up is all fog and aching. You’re wrapped in blurriness and warmth, a muddle that has you longing to just drift away again. But there’s a nagging feeling stirring in the nest of lethargy, a pricking at the back of your brain that increases as your eyes slowly open. It’s not quite dark, in the... the hotel room. Where you and the rest of the Eternals are staying. Your mind gropes for each fact, finding them only tentatively.

With a low groan, you start to stretch, only to cut yourself short as your body remembers what it takes your memory several more seconds to recall. Right. The whole getting bitten and tossed around by a nightmare monster thing. Your breath catches, and you try again, testing out the pain level. Not so bad. Worse in your shoulder than your ribs.

“A little sore?”

The unexpected (though not unfamiliar) voice has you gasping, and you jolt up into a seated position, electricity automatically sparking along your skin before you snap it off. Your motion makes the blanket covering you fall off and you realize three things simultaneously as it does. One, you’re naked. More concerning, you must have fallen asleep and totally failed to do... hell, anything productive for your family. And maybe worst of all, Druig is on the bed next to you, almost at the very edge of the mattress, but with the low, orange and pink-tinted light slipping through the window, you can tell his eyes are on you. On your broken body.

Instinctively you grab at the blanket, heave it up to hide what he probably already saw. Definitely saw, as your brain keeps catching up with reality and you realize the blanket you’re clutching must have been put on after you fell asleep. “What time is it?” you ask to avoid his question, your voice a croak. Clogged with a sudden surge of emotion at the thought of the tender gesture.

“Around 5 in the morning,” he replies.

You suck in a breath in shock, feeling like the information punched the air out of your lungs. It was – the light was – You’d thought it was the sunset, not the sunrise! How could you have slept so long? The panicked guilt surges, and you move to get to your feet as if there’s anything useful you can do now, the rough towel that had fallen off you rubbing uncomfortably underneath your body

“Stall a sec,” Druig says, and there’s something strange about his voice. It’s too soft, without the sardonic bite you’re used to. As he continues, the note doesn't change. "You don't have to get ready or nothing like that. We're not headin’ out today."

Still you're poised to get up, sick with a shame mired in the sleep-addled fog that's wrapped like cotton around your head. "Not heading out?" you repeat stupidly, which would normally provoke some kind of teasing, but Druig just shakes his head in confirmation. "Why...?"

"Gil found out they've got somethin' called the Sourtoe cocktail at the saloon. Whiskey and a toe. You drink it and get to be part of some club or somethin'. Saloon doesn't open until the Friday, though, so he begged Ajak to stay for today."

You stare at him, trying to find a trace of joking on his face. He seems to be totally serious. Part of you wondering if this is still a dream, you say, "A toe? We're staying for a toe?"

"A toe drink," Druig corrects. "Besides, Makkari mentioned she'd like to visit that Jack London cabin or museum or whatever." His expression turns contemplative. "'Tween you and me, I think she wants to nab one of his journals. Like she's not got enough crap cluttering up her room on the Domo as is."

"And Ajak is okay with this? And Ikaris?" It's the only objection your brain can put forward, although it's a valid one. Those two aren't entirely the types to allow distractions.

"Sersi persuaded Ike. She wants to talk to some of the people here, maybe fix some of their houses when they aren't looking. You know how she is. And Ajak..." He looks away from you. "Ajak agreed we could all use some R&R. Not like those Deviants went down easy yesterday."

Your shoulder twinges when you shift uncomfortably, and he looks up at the motion. Druig hesitates, and then asks, "How are you, anyways?"

Pasting on a flaky smile is easier than speaking the lie, but you manage both. "I'm good. After sleeping for like 12 hours, I'd better be, hey?" You don't feel like you slept that long. Or maybe you do. Maybe that's the reason for the lassitude weighing down your limbs and everything else, too.

You don't like lying to Druig. To any of your family, but him especially. Not least because he sees through it so often. After several millennia together, he seems to know when you're talking bullshit, even if he can't read your mind.

His head tilts as he considers that. If he knows you, you know him, too, and you can tell by the way his mouth is pulling down at the corner that he doesn't believe you. That knowledge has your stomach tightening, more shame and frustration. You’ve talked to him about how you’re feeling before. Or more specifically, he’s pried admissions from you, from time to time. It’s just that neither of you know what to do with the information. It’s not like there’s an Eternals therapy hotline.  

Besides, you don't want to worry him, or disappoint him, and you're fine. You're fine. There's no reason for him to be worrying.

And even if you're not fine, there's nothing he can do about it, so what's the point of getting him involved?

"Really," you insist into the long pause, hoping he'll just leave it alone. "Guess my headache just took me out. If it's not Deviants it's something else, right?" Your laugh is a weak thing that trails off quickly.

That irritates him; his eyebrows draw down, lips thinning even further. His voice isn't harsh when he replies, though. Just strained. "I saw your shoulder last night. Your headache grow teeth when you weren't looking?"

Of course he saw. Of course he won't leave it alone. "It was nothing. Just a scrape."

"Yeah? Then it must be gone by now, huh?"

You glare and don't drop the blanket, a mixture of annoyance and guilt surging in your gut. And something deeper. Heavier. Something like despair, but with less of a name.

When you don't respond, the blanket clutched protectively around your shoulders, he exhales. "Love..." Druig starts softly, wavers. "I know y'won't let Ajak look at it. I guess there's no point in asking?"

Biting your lip makes pain bloom across your mouth, which is better to focus on than the pain laced through his voice. A quick shake of your head because you can't think of anything to say.

Druig leans towards you, reaches out. You stiffen, half expecting him to try to snag the blanket away, but he just puts his hand on your leg like he can't stand not having the contact. "What about begging?" he asks, low and fervent as his fingers stroke lightly along your leg, over the covers. "Would that do it?"

"I’m fi–" The words catch in your throat, and you have to force them out. “It's fine, Druig. I don't wanna bother Ajak for something so small."

"She wouldn't mind."

You know that's true, and yet... It's pathetic, but you can't face Ajak. What if she knows there's something wrong with you? What if it's something she can sense? How can you tell your leader, the woman you look up to in so many ways, that after thousands of years you want an end? That you're too weak to go on forever?

She'll understand. Of course she will; she's Ajak. But that understanding, that acceptance of your weakness, that's almost worse than contempt.

"No, Druig." Your voice comes as a brittle snap, almost cracking, and you force yourself to smile and lighten the tone. "It's ugly as hell but it'll heal quickly." Please leave it alone.

In the washed out lighting, it's hard for even your enhanced eyesight to be sure, but his eyes seem red when they meet yours. It occurs to you to wonder if he's been awake all this time, watching over you... agonizing over you, wearing himself thin for something he shouldn’t have to care about. Please, Druig, you find yourself thinking, so violently it's almost desperation, just leave it alone.

And you ignore the smaller, shakier voice whimpering something along the lines of help.

Maybe you think it hard enough, maybe it really does emanate from you – or maybe Druig just knows. Either way, after a moment, his hand tightens on your leg, and he nods once. Nods again, confirming it to himself. "Okay," he murmurs. "If you're sure."

A quick, jerky bob of your head, and his grip relaxes, once again back to soothing as he smooths over the cover. "Mmkay. You wanna try to go back to sleep for a couple hours? I can grab your sleeping stuff."

Getting changed means letting him see your shoulder – or asking him to look away, which, given how long you've been fucking, would just be weird – so you say quickly, "No, that's okay. I'm – this is comfortable." By this time you're not really tired, not in the way that calls for more sleep, but you don't want to say no yet again. Worst come to worst you'll just lie there until 7 or something.

For the first time, a hint of the familiar sardonic note enters his voice. "You wanna sleep in the towel? Comfy."

Responding to the provoking tone, you reply archly, "Who said I was gonna put on the towel?"

He laughs, a low sound that burns away some of the fog in your stomach. "Fair enough. Who'm I to argue with the likes of that?"

When Druig leans over, you close your eyes and let him kiss you. In this, at least, in the taste and touch of him, there's a little relief. A little life where everything else feels so dead. You're so drained you don't feel up to deepening the kiss, to threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, but you savour the comfort and connection that this brings. If only for a moment.

He makes to pull away, pauses, and then returns like he can't quite bear to break off. Hand moving up to find your waist under the blanket, Druig holds you as he murmurs against your lips, "I love you. Y'know that?"

"I know," you respond unevenly, fighting back the leaden tears prickling in your eyes. "I love you so goddamn much, too."

It's so true.

So why isn't it enough to fill the hollow emptiness?

Finally you draw back from him, and slowly, reluctantly, he lets you go. "Get some more sleep, love. You'll feel better."

"Mmhm."

Going a little against your word, you wrap the towel back around yourself as you lie down under the blanket, and Druig joins you. Under the same blanket, in his boxers, but keeping his hands to himself. It's not like sleeping in the nude is unheard of for either of you, but today – today you need a little shield. Even if it's damp and, now that you're not on the verge of passing out, pretty damn uncomfortable.

Maybe a sad, wet towel is exactly what you deserve.

There’s a part of you that knows how silly and pitiful your wallowing is, but it’s not a strong enough presence to knock you out of it. You just curl up, your back to Druig, eyes closed but sleep far from your mind. He’s so close, but he’s so far away from you. How can you build that bridge when everything is splintering inside you?

Your thoughts keep circling from one bleak thing to another. Your failure with the Deviant, falling asleep when you shouldn’t have, the fact that Deviants still exist, the fact that Deviants will always exist and there’s nothing you can do to get rid of them or stop this incessant cycle of fight and kill and rest and fight again. There’s nothing you can do. Everything is so fucking miserable and you don’t want to be here anymore...

You couldn’t have said how long you lay in the semi-dark, sleepless and hopeless. It went on unending, just like your life. On and on and–

His hand is a heavy weight on your hip that anchors your spiralling thoughts. “Can’t sleep?” Druig whispers, and of course he knew you were awake. The gratitude swells and meets the dull despair darkening your insides and it's impossible to say which one is stronger. Maybe your reply is the answer, as you desperately try to keep a tight hold on the gratitude amidst an impulse to brush him off. "I guess. Sorry if I'm keeping you up."

"It's fine. I couldn't fall asleep, anyways."

That sends a sharp pang through your chest, knowing well enough why he can't sleep, and your eyes open. "Sorry," you repeat softly.

He slips his hand over your hip and further, lightly shoving up the towel until his palm is spread wide against your stomach and the touch makes your breath spill out. "S'okay," he murmurs as he hugs you one-handed, and the warmth of his bare chest against your back is another spark filling up the emptiness.

Arm wrapped around you, he asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

You stiffen in his embrace automatically, accidentally. This has been a conversation between the two of you before, one you've fought and twisted and even snapped too hard to get out of. You can't explain it – you can hardly bear to acknowledge it – and having another Eternal, a man with far more reason than you to crumble, trying to be understanding and find a solution when there isn't one is something you can't accept. "No," you say, your voice hoarse with the weight of that answer.

There's a moment of silence as Druig struggles to find a response, a way forward. There's tension in the arms holding you. You cringe internally, fighting resentment that he feels the need to press, an anger that clashes with the piteous gratitude that he's still asking.

Eventually Druig's arms tighten, drawing you closer to him, and you can feel how deliberately he lightens his tone. "Okay." He kisses your ear, a gentle press. "If you can't sleep, how about we do somethin’ else?" is his quiet but oh-so-blatant suggestion.

You stir in his embrace, emotions clashing in the pit of your gut. A flare of affection and something hotter, but over it all the suffocating mantle of your fatigue. And guilt. Always, always the guilt.

You're not enough for yourself, so how can you possibly be enough for anyone else?

"Druig, I'm sorry but I'm not sure..." Before you can find words to express the bewildering, pathetic lack of energy, your companion eases away the stagnant pause.

"Not about me today, love. I'm not asking you for anythin'. Just wanna help."

Even as he speaks, Druig draws his hand up your stomach, under the towel, a tingling trail as his fingers barely skim your skin. The touch remains a graze of contact that he doesn't deepen, just traces delicate, aimless patterns over your ribs, your sternum, your breasts. Waiting for you.

Your eyes have screwed shut, and you're so torn. You feel stretched tight between two desires, so painfully thin that his fingers might pass through you at any moment. Your depression, heavy as a black hole, dragging you to the center of exhaustion. And then your longing – aching – for a reason, a moment, a second in eternity to feel good.

Druig ducks his head and kisses your neck where it meets your shoulder. "Come back to me, yeah?" he whispers, and the plea is so imploring and so, so lost. As lost as you feel.

Your voice is broken when you reply. "I don't know how."

You can feel his breath, gently expelled against your skin in a sigh. Then his fingers are moving, finding one of your nipples and caressing it, just hard enough to send a prickle of pleasure through your chest, through everything else.

"Focus on this," he instructs, a low command that swirls through your head, for all the world like telepathy. "Just this, love."

"I–"

"Shh. Just this." Druig kisses your neck again, higher, right below your ear this time, and he rolls the sensitive bud of your nipple between his adept fingers as you exhale shakily.

He knows you so well. Even when everything else is adrift and there's nothing you can find in the sea of black, his touch is an island in the midst of drowning. Something to cling to as the world washes away. You open your eyes against the darkness inside, letting in the bare morning light, trying to make yourself relax, to just – be. Just this.

Cupping your breast now, gently massaging, inspiring a soft bloom of enjoyment that makes you exhale again. "There's a good girl,” Druig hums. “Remember this?”

A line of kisses down your neck, across your shoulder, brushing over the tattoo on your shoulder blade. You do remember, vividly, like each sweet press is a breadcrumb in the forest, leading you through the dark trees to a place that’s almost home. Instinctively you tilt your head back, letting yourself rest against his strong chest, and Druig knows it for the encouragement it is. He pauses, takes his hand away from your breast to tug at the towel still wrapped around your torso. "Mind if I take this off?"

Rather than replying, you scrabble at the towel yourself, yanking it off and then writhing to get it out from under you. It's thrown into a heap on the floor, and Druig is quick to throw back the blanket, leaving it rumpled at the end of the mattress as he pulls you back against his chest.

Part of you doesn't know what you're doing. You're well enough aware that this isn't going to solve anything. It's pointless. The fact that Druig wants to help you – desperately, you can tell, from the pressure of his hands, the timbre of his voice – is an ache that's too complicated to put a name to, settled at the base of your throat and making it harder to breathe.

At the same time... it feels so good when he drags his fingers over your stomach and then lower, dipping down to caress the insides of your thighs with languid focus. It's not a blaze, some all-encompassing desire made of sweat and heat and urgency. You've had that with Druig, so many times, but this is softer, not as demanding. It's less of a chase and more of a stroll in the sun, no destination in mind. Warm and safe and comforting.

And somehow still not enough.

That's a wrenching thought that has frustration lancing through your muscles, tightening them into bundles of aggravation. Druig feels it; he must, because he's suddenly pulling away from your back.

Regret cascades down your cold spine, regret that you always have to make it more difficult than it should be. Why can't you just take what you’re given? Just accept it? Why does this have to be so hard?

Before those questions can turn into something with teeth, Druig is leaning over you, and you shift to lie flat on your back and look up at his shadowed face. Natural as breathing, he moves so that he’s on his knees at your side, all the while watching you. He takes his time, searching your expression with eyes that are almost too intense in their passion. Those same beautiful blues aren't slicked over with gold, so he's not trying to read you, at least not deeply. But all the same, you shift uncomfortably, suddenly afraid. Druig doesn't really need his telepathy to decipher people, sometimes, and he certainly doesn’t need it just to feel someone’s general mood.  

One side of you hopes he can pick something up, some way out that you can't find in yourself. An answer, you're praying for an answer, but what if all he sees is – nothing? What if you're really as empty as you feel?

Druig reaches out, cups your jaw with almost unbearable gentleness. As his thumb strokes along your cheek, his intent look doesn't ease. "You gotta let go of it," he says finally. When your jaw tenses, ready with a retort, he smiles, just a bare twist of his lips. "I know, I know. Easier said, huh? But love... Trust me on this. Just now, right now, let go."

The tears are back, stinging in your eyes. “Help me?” you ask, hating how weak you are but knowing all the same that if there’s anyone on the planet you can turn to without fear, it’s Druig.

And you’re right. Druig’s smile warms, his grip on your face becomes just a little firmer, and he urges your chin up, ducking to press a long, slow kiss into your neck. "I can feel you, love," he whispers, and you shiver at that prospect. With the sheer intimacy of it. “I know you’re tired. And that’s okay. You can be tired today, tomorrow. S’okay. We’ll get through it.”

You don’t know if you believe that, but there’s the whisper of his mouth ghosting along your jaw, just skimming your lips before he pulls up, and you can drown your disbelief in that feeling. If his touch wasn’t here to ground you right now, you’d – you’d be falling to fucking pieces. Or at least smaller pieces than you’ve already broken in to. But he is here, so soothing as he feels down your side, too gentle to provoke pain even in your bruised flesh. His fingers once again slip between your thighs, other hand still caressing your face, and the reverent look in his eyes...

You don’t know if you can get through this, but that look promises a time when you’re not broken, but whole.  

And his touch, too, promises fullness, as if the emptiness inside you is just a dream to be forgotten on the morrow. His fingers brush your folds, and your legs fall open wider, welcoming the sensation. “Beautiful,” Druig all but sings, and his fingers are a counterpart to his lilting accent as they ease inside your cunt and inspire a breathy gasp.

He dips down, mouths along your collarbone, to the crook of your neck. Slower now, tenderly pressing kisses to the outside of your wound, not enough to inspire pain, only fondness. Then he goes lower still, finding one nipple and swirling his tongue around it in a heady wash of warmth. And all the while his hand is a fervent disciple to your need, thumb circling your clit, fingers working with languid concentration to draw out more gasps. Over it all, a steady stream of murmurs breathed against your skin, the words oxygen to your suffocating heart. “You feel so good, my love. That’s a good girl. Just relax... Christ, fuck, you’re so lovely.”

The build of pleasure is slow, your depressed body and mind resistant to the call of buoyant oblivion, but Druig is patient. He has all the time in the world, after all. Steadily, then, he works you over, touching you in the ways you like best, heedless of anything so mortal as the clock ticking on. His patience is rewarded with the wetness between your legs, by your moans, by the way your hips begin to buck in slow, indolent rolls into his hand. Heat builds in your core, in that cold void, not hot enough to burn, but secure as a hearth fire all the same.  

Your power becomes restless, like a muscle aching to be stretched, and gingerly you let it loose, just a low trickle. Druig sucks in a breath when it arcs between him and you, but there’s no pain on his face, and you know from past experience that the sensation is a pleasant one as long as you keep it muted. That’s not a challenge anymore, and the buzz of electricity along your skin is an added sensation, putting more into a vessel that’s nearing capacity.

“Druig,” you whimper when he slips three fingers inside, the stretch an ache that sets your already humming pulse to a higher pace. “I want – I want–” The pleasure is a cloud you’re grateful to sink into, but it’s stealing your words, leaving you to meet his piercing blue gaze with pleading need.

His touch relaxes, but only for a moment. “I know,” Druig murmurs, and the pressure he’s applying to your clit increases, making your whole body tense with the edge you’re hovering over. He pumps into you a little deeper, a little faster, and the waves tingle over your body, your eyes heavy with the need to close. You keep them open, though, fixed on Druig. You know he loves watching you come undone under his hands, and today his expression is even more attentive than usual, adjusting his tempo and depth to every spasm across your face and every cry you make.

“Just a little more, love,” is his appeasing response to your increasingly urgent whines, and he isn’t wrong. Just a little more, of his fingers curling in the wet warmth of your cunt, of his thumb against your clit, of his other hand twisting the sensitive bud of your breast. Just a little more, floating over the verge in weightless bliss, and with Druig against you, the loneliness and heaviness retreating to somewhere far away. Just a little more...

Another crook of the fingers that know you so well, and you gasp, your core tightening, thighs clamping around his hand. Your orgasm dances over your skin, a series of tingling, light waves that are just as gentle as his touch. The center of you is filled to the brim, and it’s like the pleasure is overfilling, sending little ripples outwards. Druig slows but doesn’t stop, prolonging the swells of warm electricity, making you writhe and pant, and you’re not too far gone to deliberately bask in the realization of his promise, to revel in a moment when your lungs are full and the tiredness is translated into contentment.

He hasn’t stopped watching you, and as the orgasm fades and you sag, your legs falling open, eyelids fluttering, Druig sighs. “So fuckin’ beautiful.” It’s impossible to doubt those words when they’re said in such an awed voice, and the reverential, reluctant way he draws his fingers from your cunt just reinforces that.

Breathless with the airy pleasure in your chest, you say, “Tangled hair and all, huh?” Easy to make that joke; your appearance isn’t one of the things that Druig has let you have any insecurity about over the years.

With a snort, he cleans his hand off on the bedding before running it through the truly frightening snarl your unbrushed hair has become. “Gives you a certain je ne sais quoi, sure.” He butchers the French purposefully, making you laugh, and then his eyes become more serious as they scan over you. You can see the question on the tip of his tongue, and you don’t want to answer it.

Instead you reach up with both hands, catch him with arms around his shoulders, and bring him to you. Your tongue parts his lips, and he hums against your mouth, even that vibration sending a warm spark of pleasure through your nerves.

But though the invitation is there in your embrace, Druig doesn't collapse against you. He breaks the kiss after a moment, stays hovering above you, that same intense consideration in his eyes. Even with all the relaxed gratification spread through your muscles, you go rigid, waiting to brush away the concern, smile away the questions.

He surprises you, though you shouldn't be surprised that your lover can pivot around your prickles after so long together. "Still so tense," Druig comments, dragging a thumb down your hard jaw.

You flush, taken aback when you'd been expecting a question. When you start to look away, he clicks his tongue reprovingly. "Not on you, love. Just means I gotta do a better job, huh?"

Your mouth draws up, but the smile you're trying to put on misses the latch and falls away. "Might be too much for you." A joke, but a warning, too. No matter how good Druig can make you feel in a moment, you're starting to believe it doesn't matter. That you're always going to go back to that dark place. It's happening already.

"Ye of little faith," drawls the man leaned over you, and though he smirks as he says it, you can see a mix of sorrow and determination in the heavy furrow of his eyebrows.

You know Druig, and once the other Eternal decides to walk a road, he doesn’t alter his path easily. Not with the decision to leave Tenochtitlan and you for the humans. Not with rejoining the group, when that nest of Deviants was found more than two hundred years ago. And not now. You’ve learned of Druig’s relentlessness, but you’ve yet to find a way to change his mind once he’s made it.

With his usual lithe poise, still smirking, Druig moves to kneel between your legs, hands resting on the jut of your hips. "Ready to become a believer?" he asks. Challenges, chin high and gaze evaluating.

"Druig..."

When his fingers move to trace along your stomach and then drop lower with silky grace, you're still sensitive from before, and your head falls back, breath halting in your lungs. Fighting to get your oxygen back, you repeat more firmly, "Druig."

His hand stills, and Druig looks at you earnestly. "Say you've had enough today and I'll stop. You know that."  

That makes your breath explode out, and you couldn’t have said if it was from frustration or affection. "I know. And I – fuck, I don't want you to stop." The gods knew that to be true, but– "I just..." It's almost physically painful to confess, but his hands are on your skin, drawing you out. "I don't want to disappoint you."

"Ah, love," he says, and your heart almost breaks with the sheer adoration in the words. "You could never disappoint me."  

Then he's bending to press kisses against your hips, the inside of your thighs, just a touch of teeth in the contact, just enough to make your muscles tremble, your toes curling with anticipation for what's to come. He's decided to do this, no matter if it works or not – and you can't keep resisting.

Your fingers curl in his hair, more for the grounding than for control. But as Druig keeps his lips everywhere but the pulsing of your cunt, you tighten your grip, feeling the scrape of his scalp beneath your demanding fingers. His laugh slides out, just the right shade of taunting to have your heart slamming into your ribs, a new wave of desire pitching over the rim of your control. A moan rips out of you, and he laughs again, huskier this time.

Thankfully, he also takes your cue. Mouth finding your cunt, Druig tongues your dripping folds, his arms wrapping around your legs and holding them open when the sharp stimulation makes them tighten, threatening to close. "Christ," Druig rasps, the vibration of his voice another pleasure added to the mix. "You taste so good, love." The way he sucks on your clit makes you believe him, if the work his tongue is doing didn't already.  

"So good," he groans into your pussy, and your breath is somewhere outside your body, certainly not in your lungs. Druig pulls away for a moment to press a few more kisses into your thighs, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right there. Hair messy and sweat-darkened against his forehead, face flushed, and lips stained with your pre-cum, he looks so fucking good that you can't control another moan that rises out of you.

And you're glad you didn't control it, as Druig ruts into the bed at the sound, an eager bid for friction against his groin.

He curses roughly, returns to your cunt, tongue thick and greedy as it shoves into you. One of his hands abandons your leg, slips inside his boxers, and it's your turn to laugh, a breathless exhale.

The laugh turns into a grunt, because Druig's thumb is rubbing your clit while his mouth works elsewhere. He's still touching himself with his other hand, groaning at the taste and sound of you, and the sight combined with his expert tongue turns your nerves into livewires.

It's a broad, sizzling pleasure, deeper in your core than the first time, so deep it feels it might actually be reaching somewhere that matters.

"Druig," you gasp, falter, fighting for the words. "I want you now, now – inside me, please. Please!"

That wasn't the plan, not his plan, anyways, but you don't care, your cunt throbbing to be filled with him. And he's flexible in more ways than one, as he shoves down his boxers at your pleading, kisses your cunt one last time with a tenderness that only sets the aching to a heavier level. Then he's moved himself over you, eyes on your face, drinking in your glazed expression before crushing your mouths together.

A moment later, Druig is entering you, not quite so gentle now, his cock thick and exactly right in how it stretches your cunt out. You arch up into him, relishing the contact, the way his sweat and scent and presence washes over you. He kisses your strangled moans out of your mouth, his tongue swiping across your teeth and stealing the sounds.

In his slow, deep thrusts, in the way he slides so easily into your center, in the way your bodies fit together, there’s another promise fulfilled. Because – with Druig inside you, with his head dropped and lips pressed against your collarbone, with the horrible hollowness filled – you find yourself believing. Only for this moment, this fraction of eternity, but you believe. That this is enough. That with Druig, you can find an answer to the emptiness. That gravity can’t lay a claim to you forever.

Only for this moment, and this moment is enough.

"More," you huff, hands on the small of his back, urging him on. "More, Druig, I want you, I want you!" All of him, filling up the space inside of you, and he does exactly as you ask, strokes going to the hilt of his cock, stretching you out until it feels like the filaments of your body are about to shatter.

You come before him, a combustion in your core that's denser, hotter than your first orgasm. It spills across your muscles like fire over oil, greedily consuming every piece of you. Nails digging into his back, hard enough to leave marks, you cry out, hips rolling to keep the sparks jolting through your body. Sparks literal and figurative, as your power flickers across your skin in volatile lines of light and heat that fuel rather than dispel your pleasure.

The electricity leaps into Druig and amps him up, too, his panting becoming harsher, pupils blown, hands grinding into the bed sheets and all but ripping them off the mattress as he balances himself.

His thrusts become erratic, jarring your hips as you rise up to meet him, welcoming the impact. "Christ, Christ, you're just–"

With a choked groan, Druig comes, spilling himself into you in a gush of warmth and liquid. He bucks several more times, amplifying the thrill in your belly, and you're both so wet there's almost no friction, just the slick slide of his cock against your walls.

When at last his arms spasm and he collapses on top of you, you're both quivering, breath and bodies spent. The current you're generating fizzes and dies, the sudden absence of the lightning more than made up for by the feel of his flushed skin against your own. As is his tendency, he buries his face into the crook of your neck, panting, one hand resting on your chest, feeling your heartbeat under his palm. In turn you run your hand through his hair, stroking the messy strands away from his forehead as you try to catch your breath.

Eventually, as the trembling subsides, he makes to pull out, and you grab his shoulders to keep him still. His questioning eyes find yours, and there's been too much emotion today, early as it is, for you to be embarrassed. "Stay inside me?" you ask quietly. "Just for a bit?"

The cool blue of his gaze softens, and he nods. "I could manage that."

You both twist so that you're lying a little more easily, legs intertwined, heat sultry between you where your bodies are touching - which is almost everywhere. It's not all that comfortable, except it is, because even with Druig soft, barely inside you, there's a sense of presence in the void of your chest, a shade of peace in the silence. With him so close, his limbs draped over you, it's like something besides gravity is weighing you down. Something more solid than your overwhelming sadness.

Holding his hand, you trace the familiar terrain of his knuckles, your thumb brushing over their rough peaks and valleys. After a moment, Druig changes the grip, brings up your clasped hands and kisses your fingers, one at a time.

The morning light spills like honey across his face, and Druig doesn't say anything. He knows you too well. You've known each other for so long, now.

"Druig?" Your lover hums a reply, eyes fixed on you. "I can't talk about it now. But maybe..." Maybe when this trip is finished. Maybe when all the Deviants are dead. Maybe when this is all over and the years have passed and you can find your courage.

Druig fills in your blanks, like he's done for a millennia. "Whenever you're ready," he says, softly, fervently. Another promise. "I'll be here."

And you don't really know what you believe at this point, but you do believe that Druig's promise will last at least as long as gravity does.      

[butterfrogmantis]

Got a little Harmkey Demon and Angel au hehe

Posted under the cut because of doodle 4 being mildly suggestive 

OK demon and angel au context time. I had a lot of fun with it jfdjkf

1 & 2: Introducing our main dudes! You know em, you love em and now they’re supernatural. Heavenly Smurfs making Jokey an angel was incorrect and we all know it /lh

3. They start to fight over Vanity’s soul (I was originally gonna do a gotcha plot w/ Somebody but wasn’t sure how to go with that so. Vanity limelight hours). Anyway Vanity’s neither interested in selling nor saving his soul rn, He thinks the two should probably kiss already.

4-  Vanity was (of course) right and Harmony and Jokey start a secret relationship. Tut tut. Lyrics are based on this cover

5- Regular Smooth is kind of a jerk but supernatural Smooth somehow manages to be even more of one. He discovers his cousin’s forbidden boyfriend and is gonna tell but here’s the thing. Smooth is also pretty bored of leading the angelic life, there’s no excitement in it. Sure he’s a great sax player on the choir but well … he sees an opportunity here. That opportunity being blackmail. Essentially he won’t tell on Harmony but in return he wants Jokey to date him instead. Jokey knows if Smooth rats them out Harmony will become a fallen angel which means being indebted to the higherup demons - and obviously at this point Jokey genuinely cares about him and doesn’t want that to happen but also … eck, no thanks, Smooth.

6- Smooth seems to be misunderstanding a fundamental concept about demons tbh. * Brainy voice * Smooth, Smooth, Smooth, you can’t burn demons that’s kind of their whole thing. You know. FIRE. But it was cool to draw so idc.

7- Harmony and Jokey stage a little plan. Jokey pretends to meet with Smooth to agree to the terms of their deal and get Smooth to confess to betraying his peers. Not cool Smooth, you’ve been locked out of heaven. Because he managed to get a fallen angel, Jokey keeps his position since now Smooth can do pitchfork duty. This means Harmony gets to claim he saved Vanity’s soul after all. Harmony you get a golden trumpet for your efforts :)

8- Yeah ok Harmony and Jokey technically broke the rules by dating in the first place but luckily the higherup angels care more about traitors in their own ranks doing illegal blackmailing and betraying than one random lower angel having a demon bf. And he saved Vanity’s soul. So. For now they pretend they do not see.

Jokey, Harmony, Vanity and Smooth (c) The Smurfs

[ghcstao3]

If I were to portray someone unbelievably pathetic and without any hope, would you give me another part of your #anyway mildly supernatural au?

I'll get down on my knees and pray to any god you want.

Just please give me more please.

do not even Fret i would have written more for absolutely nothing in return anyway because i just love writing AUs so much (if you could not already tell)

fun fact this is version 2.0 of what i wanted to write because tumblr didn’t save a draft and i lost everything 🫶 not edited

-

So much and so little time feel like they’ve passed simultaneously as John waits out the rain with Simon—and oddly enough, not once has he seen the bottom of his styrofoam cup of coffee in spite of the plentiful sips he’s certain he’s taken.

In any case.

He and Simon chat aimlessly to fill the minutes, hours, whatever it’s been—something just beyond small talk, though not by much. Not until Simon decides to face John with a rather puzzling question.

“So, then, what brings you here?”

John furrows his brow. “My car broke down,” he says slowly. He can’t help the confusion and tinge of curiosity that melt into his voice, nor can he help wondering why Simon would ask for an answer he already knows.

Yet Simon shakes his head. “No—what brings you here?”

A frown tugs at John’s lips, his eyebrows drawing ever closer. “Dinnae ken.” He shrugs helplessly, tries a different reply, “A road trip?”

Simon hums only as acknowledgment. It’s clear in the way he narrows his eyes and scrutinizes John’s face that it’s still not the answer he’s looking for.

“You’re lost,” Simon concludes.

John scoffs. “Am no’!” He exclaims, frustration laced in his tone as he folds his arms almost defensively across his chest. “I was followin’ a GPS!”

“You are,” Simon insists. “Just not in the way you think.”

With a huff, John drops his arms, instead reaching to curl his fingers back around the still-warm cup of coffee. His frown deepens. “How do you mean?”

Simon tilts his head, gaze ever-analytic. “You’re lucky,” he replies cryptically. “Or unlucky, depending on how you choose to look at it. Not many humans manage to get here.”

Now John is beyond confused. Of course, Simon had been all sorts of vague and avoidant throughout their interactions, but this? John is beginning to think this man might not be all… there.

“Human…?” John swallows. He shifts his weight between weary feet. “Why would I be anything but?”

Simon takes a step away from the counter, rounds past John only to stop at the large window looking out into a small, crumbling lot and the forest beyond the road, all blurred by heavy rain. John realizes with a start that he hadn’t really seen Simon move before that—hadn’t seen deliberate steps, the way he almost glides across the space; graceful, soundless.

It’s almost—dare John say—supernatural.

“Well, you see, Johnny,” Simon says with a mild air of amusement, and John has barely any time to process that Simon knows his name despite it never having been given as he continues, “there’s often a lot more than meets the eye in this world we live in. It just appears you’ve looked in the right place for once.”

“I don’t understand.”

Simon turns back to him, then, the glint in his eyes that same hint of unnatural as his movements. They flash, a glare almost like that of a cat’s in the dark of night.

“I don’t expect you to.”

Simon looks away from John again, a broad figure against the pale grey light that filters inside. John’s heart stutters even as he willingly brings himself closer to Simon.

“The rain will stop soon,” Simon states disinterestedly. It hardly appears like the storm would let up any time soon—the sky is still stained with dark and angry clouds—but Simon says it with such unimpressed, unwavering confidence that John thinks he may as well believe him.

“Will it?” John challenges anyway.

Simon shrugs. “Not unless you don’t want it to.”

John huffs out a quiet laugh. As strange as Simon and everything he’s said is, and as much as John has questioned everything else, he decides he’ll humour the man.

“Maybe just a bit longer, then.”

After all, John hasn’t hated lingering in the store. No harm in indulging in such silly thoughts as controlling the weather.

Simon nods. The corners of his eyes pull upward as if he’s smiling beneath the mask he’s still refused to remove. Briefly, John wonders what other things Simon may be hiding beneath it.

Simon concurs, “Then so it is.”

[green-socks]

Sensory Overload

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!reader (soulmate AU)

Summary: Finding your true love can get exceptionally tricky, not to mention messy, when you have a vampire for a soulmate.

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: Vampire stuff, blood, obvs. Alcohol and food and consuming those. Mentions of vomiting. One short mention of pregnancy. Mildly angsty?

Notes: So I mostly wrote this like two months ago, and then the ending fought me and then I got sick and then I had some more beef with this story, but we made it and now we're here! Big thanks to @ezrasbirdie who helped me figure out most of the plot and some other stuff (do you even remember this anymore, it's been two months, wtf) <3 And so many thanks to @writeforfandoms who holds my hand basically through everything in life but was especially patient with this one <3 ily

MASTERLIST

You knew the universe would give you your soulmate when it deemed you were ready. That’s how it worked. How the universe decided the when and where of it, exactly, you didn’t know. Was it a certain level of maturity? Surely not, because some people found theirs at a very young age or were otherwise immature idiots, in your humble opinion. It didn’t seem to be about reaching a certain age either, because your grandmother hadn’t met hers until she was 65 years old. But she - like many people - hadn’t wanted to wait to start her life and a family. She had gotten married to a boy from her town just to get out of her parents’ house, both of them fully aware they weren’t soulmates. The boy she had married, your biological grandfather, died before he ever met his own soulmate. You just hoped your life wouldn’t end before you got to meet yours, whoever that person turned out to be.

The connector between soulmates had always something to do with senses. People were connected through their sense of smell, taste, touch, etc. and they shared glimpses of their experiences through these. Your grandmother and her soulmate had connected through their hearing, and more importantly through music; melodies playing in both of their heads, hearing the other sing as if they were right next to each other. They said the music had gotten louder and stronger the nearer their first meeting had been.

You didn’t really know what to expect, because every pair of soulmates had their individual stories and ways of connecting. It was a bit nerve wracking, not knowing if and when it would hit you. The waiting could be very lonely and frustrating at times - who wouldn’t want to get their happily ever after as soon as possible? Assuming the universe in all its infinite glory was a good matchmaker, it would be pretty cool to meet the person you were tied with for the rest of your life, right?

--------

Max didn’t actively think about soulmates much. To be honest, he was unsure of whether vampires even had soulmates, or if they worked the same way as for humans. At least he hadn’t heard of any vampires connecting with a soulmate. There were some vamps he knew that had had soulmates before turning, and turning hadn’t changed the bond at all, so vampires with soulmates were possible in that way. But did the universe take undead creatures into account in the matchmaking process? He had no idea how these things worked but thought it unlikely. Why would the universe spare any love for the undead bastards? Besides, finding a soulmate through senses when said senses were already heightened thanks to his supernatural status seemed a bit difficult to him. How was he supposed to tell if the perfume he smelled was his soulmate’s or just a whiff of some person across the street.

Still, he held out some hope he would recognize the signs - or that there would even be signs. He wouldn’t admit it out loud to anyone, but after years and years of adventures as a vampire, he really was starting to feel lonely. He missed a companion he could always talk to and share fun things with. It wasn’t easy to find friends or people to date as a vampire anyway - most people tend to be afraid of vampires - and he had sort of given up on that front for a while now. Max secretly wished for a soulmate from the universe to make things easier, and he liked to imagine that whoever his soulmate was, they would be an awesome person.

-

After a long day at the office looking after his idiot employees, Max sets out to the night to find someone to drink from. Maybe finding some company for the night would cheer him up as well, and he might even kill two birds with one stone. The unfortunate reality of his condition was that he needed to feed, and even though finding willing feeders was sometimes difficult, those were usually more fun. Tonight, he finds himself suddenly more thirsty than usual, his throat practically parched, and quickly abandons any thoughts of hunting in favor of heading for his favorite vamp club that serves quality blood. He needs a quick fix for now.

-------

You wake up from your nap after the sun has gone down, groaning at yourself for forgetting to set an alarm. Goodbye to a good night’s sleep after that. Cursing your friend for suggesting that bottle of wine after work, you get up to find some water, your throat dry and itchy. Locating your water bottle, you drink eager gulps until it’s empty.

You think you’ll hit the shower next in hopes of freshening up a little when you taste blood in your mouth. Next thing you know, you’re running to the bathroom for a completely different reason as a wave of nausea hits you out of nowhere. You make it to the bathroom just in time, gagging at the taste in your mouth and unceremoniously throwing up your dinner.

Well, clearly not a teenager anymore, you think ruefully as the nausea finally passes and you get up again. Still, you hadn’t thought a half a bottle of wine would cause that big of a reaction. Suddenly ready to sleep again, you brush your teeth and crawl back to bed, hoping the nasty feeling was only a one-time thing.

-

It wasn’t.

Over the next few weeks, you were hit with that same taste of blood and wave of nausea repeatedly, so much so that you wondered if you could be pregnant. You knew it was super unlikely, but you still went to the doctor anyway. But nope, no pregnancy. They did say they could refer you to a nutrition specialist if it kept happening - maybe you were just allergic to something and that was causing such a strong reaction.

The ‘ick attacks’, as you had started to call them, were irregular and didn’t add up with your mealtimes at all though. And they didn’t happen every day, only every three days or so. They never lasted very long, though, which was about the only good thing that could be said of them.

On top of all that, your sense of smell seemed stronger these days. Or maybe you just became more sensitive due to the ick attacks. Sometimes your ears were ringing oddly, and you got easily overwhelmed in large crowds, most often in the evenings, which wasn’t great. You supposed all the ick attacks were just eating away your energy, and that’s why you got overwhelmed. It was a very uncomfortable feeling that usually caused you headaches, and sometimes more nausea. And then there were times when your appetite was gone, or food didn’t taste like much at all.

-

It’s the first day of a weekend long work conference, and you had gotten to the hotel early to enjoy a nice breakfast before attending your first meetings.

Recently you’ve gotten very into blood sausages. Maybe you need them to keep your iron levels up or something, or because the ick attacks have in some twisted way made you actually like the taste of blood - you don’t really question it, just munch on happily as you read the morning paper.

The hotel is already swarming with people for the conference even this early in the day, and you only hope you’ll manage it through the weekend without feeling ill again.

-------

Max strolls into the hotel lobby, looking around for the front desk. These conference weekends are always a bit difficult for him because he has to be around so many humans in such close quarters all weekend long. Then again, he often gets a couple of good snacks or fucks or both out of these, so it’s not all horrible. But it does mean that his nose picks up so many scents at the same time all the time that it feels kind of like a minor headache, just annoying enough to constantly notice it. During his first months as a vampire, it had been a lot harder adjusting to large crowds, what with the nearly uncontrollable bloodlust on top of the constant overwhelming onslaught on his senses. These days he manages just fine, but it can be taxing at times.

-

Throughout the day Max is finding it hard to concentrate. He feels a little blurry, as if he was tired, but as a vampire he doesn’t really get tired like that, so he chalks it up to being hungry. Best find someone to eat once this meeting is over, he thinks, or at least run up to his room to grab an emergency blood bag he has stored in the minifridge.

But as soon as the thought leaves his head, he smells it. Blood.

Right outside the hotel, someone is bleeding.

Before he can even think about it, Max is standing up and rushing out of the conference room to follow the scent. The most alluring, intoxicating scent he has ever smelled, and it pulls him to it, out the side door to the alley behind the hotel.

He finds a woman leaning against the wall cursing to herself, blood dripping down her arm.

“Oh, hi,” you say, looking up at him. “I didn’t think anyone would be out here. Could you maybe help me back inside in case I like faint or something?” you ask, gesturing to your hurt arm.

Max just keeps walking toward you as if in a trance. He hardly even registers that you’re talking, the siren call of your blood the only thing ringing in his ears.

“I had to get out of that conference room. I think I saw you there too, actually. Wasn’t it weirdly loud and so smelly there? I just couldn’t stand it anymore. Or maybe I’m having another one of my weird episodes… Did you feel any of that there?” You blab on. “And then I came out here to get some fresh air and scraped my arm on this stupid dumpster thing. Don’t ask me how, though, it’s embarrassing.”

If Max was able to listen, or to focus even for a second on something other than the steady trickle of blood down your arm, he could recognize that a pull of this nature isn’t normal and might even realize that the things you are saying right now concern him, apply to him, too.

But his brain is too fuzzy for him to comprehend anything other than the need clawing in his chest, eating his insides.

Max kneels in front of you, taking your arm and inhaling your scent.

“Wh-- what is happening?” you stutter nervously, and still Max can’t pull himself out of the haze.

He lowers his head to your wrist, bites in and starts drinking, pulling you down to the ground with him.

Your scream of shock is the first sound to actually penetrate his consciousness since smelling your blood a few minutes ago. But still he keeps drinking from you, because now that he’s tasted it, he’s not sure he ever wants to stop. Stake him now, he’s found heaven.

You’re gasping and shaking, trying to tug his head away with your other hand. He can feel you pulling his hair, which only makes him groan and suck harder. He likes having his hair pulled. The only bizarre thing that even his clouded mind can grasp is that this is undoubtedly the most sensual thing he’s ever experienced, and that is somewhat concerning.

“Y- you-- you’re why I’ve been tasting blood lately, aren’t you? I can taste it right now, too. My blood. And it’s good,” you say, voice feeble due to shock and the life quickly draining out of you.

Wait, what did you say?

Max opens his eyes to realize the signs that have been there for him to see, that have been there for weeks and weeks now.

“How?“ Max gasps as he rips his mouth off you. You’ve already gone completely limp, barely holding your eyes open.

“Well, I did always say I wanted to meet my soulmate before I died,” you slur weakly.

Panic, unlike he’s ever experienced, not even when he was a little boy and that one plane ride was bumpy as hell, grips his whole body now. This can’t be happening. He has a soulmate after all, he actually gets a soulmate, and he’s too stupid to realize! He’s ruined it before it could even begin and that just really proves he’s a soulless monster who didn’t deserve a soulmate in the first place.

“No, no no, you won’t die, you won’t, I can get help, just wait, I can--” he rambles, searching for his phone.

But you’re fading too fast.

-

Max did the only thing he could do. He turned you.

As he waits for you to wake up, he paces around his bedroom. He had brought you here, knowing it would be much better for you to wake up in private, getting to know the new way your body worked.

He knows you will likely hate him for the rest of eternity, and not want anything to do with him ever again. Not that he blames you. Unfortunately for you, a soulmate bond can’t be broken, but he’d try his best to make your undead life as bearable as possible. He knows you didn’t ask to be turned, and he knows not everyone wants that. He didn’t give you a choice, and he hates himself for that, almost as much as he hates himself for draining you in the first place. And he really hates himself for that.

Max scoffs. Trust him to fuck up what should have been the happiest moment of his life.

-------

You wake up groggy and disoriented in a strange bed. Last thing you remember you were at the conference, but this isn’t your hotel bed, because this is in fact a much nicer one. Your head feels oddly fuzzy, and the extremely parched feeling in your throat has you ready to swear up and down to never drink again. Blinking your eyes open, you take note of the heavy blackout curtains, but even with them making the room pitch black you can clearly see a man sitting on a chair in front of the bed.

Suddenly, it’s all coming back to you. Feeling sick again at the conference room, stepping outside, that man coming up to you and instead of helping he had started to drink your blood. And then you had realized that vampire man was the one causing you all the weird episodes in the first place - your soulmate. Your last thought before passing out had been along the lines of why in the fuck couldn’t my soulmate at least be a goddamn human.

The man who had followed you to the alley had been dressed in a sharp suit, and frankly, handsome as hell. The man looking at you now looked nothing like that, dressed in dirty sweats and his hair all over the place, but you knew he was the same one. Soulmates and shit.

“How are you feeling?” the man asked quietly.

“What did you do to me?” you croak.

He grimaces. “I am so sorry sweetheart, I had to turn you. I got too carried away and it was too late to get help by the time I realized--”

“Wait wait wait hold on, back up.” You get up from the bed, suddenly not feeling tired in the slightest. “What you’re saying is you killed me?!”

“Well, sort of.” He grimaces again.

That’s when you notice that even while your stomach is curling with anxiety, it’s completely still and quiet in your chest where your heart should be hammering like crazy right now.

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths- oh, right. Fuck.

“I need to get out of here,” you say mostly to yourself as you move towards the door.

“I can’t let you do that. Not until you feed and get used to the new you,” the man says regretfully.

“What?” You turn to him, eyes blazing.

“You would be a danger to yourself and others out there.”

“Oh and I’m clearly safe here with you,” you sneer.

You almost regret your words when you see the pain cross his face at your remark, but you don’t. You can’t.

“I’m sorry. I never wanted--” he whispers, not looking at you.

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

-

After that disastrous first conversation, you finally relented to listening to Max introduce himself and give you the whole Vampire 101 lecture - through his bedroom door. Since he thought it was best if you didn’t go out in public for a while, you locked yourself in his bedroom and told him not to show his face. So he resorted to sliding blood bags to you from under the door, and talking to you through it.

He had gotten your stuff from your hotel and called into your work, coming up with a fake health issue to explain your absence, but you were able to continue working from “home”, which you begrudgingly were somewhat grateful to him for.

You had a lot to think about, and ample time to do it too, now that you didn’t need to sleep or do much else either. You thought about the ways in which your life had changed so much in such a short time, and how you were going to come to terms with it. It wasn’t like you to hold a grudge or not want to move past every obstacle - you were going to, you knew it, but you weren’t quite ready to immediately bounce back to your usual self all the same. Trying to figure out your feelings on vampirism, your soulmate who essentially had killed you, and what could have been if that had not happened, was no easy task.

Max kept talking to you through the door all the while. Mostly you tuned him out, or tried to, but sometimes you did listen. He could talk a lot. And his voice was very nice to listen to, as much as you hated to admit it. You were pretty sure he told you some rather personal things about himself during those one-sided conversations. Maybe talking to a door gave him the same sense of anonymity as writing to a random internet forum did, or maybe he was just lonely. No matter the reason, you noticed that the more you listened to him the more you couldn’t help but soften towards him just a little.

-

The sucky thing about soulmate bonds is that they cannot be broken.

You returned home after Max agreed with you that you could handle yourself from now on. It was weird leaving his place after doing a whole vamp quarantine there, but you were ready to go back home. Max was at work when you left, and you liked it that way, not knowing what you would have said to him if you had come face to face with him. Or how you would have reacted.

But because of that damned bond, you knew you would never be rid of him. The most difficult part of it was that you weren’t even sure if you wanted to be. It would be odd to spend the rest of eternity estranged from your one soulmate, but you two hadn’t gotten the best start, and you knew you needed at least some more time to think about if you wanted to try and truly connect with him. You did realize that some people would kill to have what you have - a literal eternity with your soulmate. That made you feel even weirder. Should you embrace the possibility? Or is it more okay to take your time with things since you apparently had centuries of time anyway?

Because of the bond you also started noticing that Max wasn’t feeding as much as he used to, and when he did, it tasted horrible in your mouth. The connection between you made it clear he wasn’t doing all that good in general, and you hated knowing that it was likely because of you, even if he did seem to understand why you needed space. You hoped him tasting what you tasted when you were feeding would make him want to feed more often too, but when a few weeks passed like that, you were forced to give in. You had to go check on him. You didn’t want to care about him, but he wasyour soulmate. So maybe you did want to care a little. In any case, him feeling unwell had its effects on you too, and you couldn’t have that.

-

You arrive at his apartment hoping he’ll let you in. It was difficult sometimes, remembering these new rules of having to ask for permission to enter a building and whatnot. But he lets you in, clearly surprised to see you.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice rough from disuse.

“I came to make sure you feed, and the good stuff too, so I don’t have to taste that horrible shit in my mouth again,” you answer, pushing past him to start pulling out blood bags from your backpack.

Max is visibly confused but follows you to the kitchen.

“Max, you do realize that if we’re going to have centuries of this life, you can’t stop feeding properly any time we’re apart.”

“Since I tasted you, everything else tastes like shit anyway,” he grumbles quietly, but dutifully takes the blood bag you offer him.

You ignore him, grabbing a blood bag to yourself too, and start sucking from it the same time he does. He tries to hide his reaction from you to continue with this pouty charade, but you can already tell he likes it better now. He’s like a child taking medicine - it’s never as bad as they think it will be, but the theatrics must be there. But you were right, it tasted better for the both of you when you shared the experience.

“Wait- You said we’re gonna have centuries together? You mean that?” he asks, mouth full of blood.

“Well since we’re both vampires now, I think we have to, yeah,” you shrug.

Max’s face falls again. “Right.”

You sigh. You really were starting to get soft on him. You blamed some weird soulmate magic. And that damn adorable pouty face he makes.

“I mean, I think we could also maybe try to get to know each other? Spend some time together, since we are going to be bonded together for centuries and all that,” you suggest, trying to sound casual, but the way his face lights up at your words makes your lips twitch too.

“Are you sure?” He looks hopeful.

You smile. “I’m sure.”

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

tagsies: @starlightmornings @niki-xie @salome-c @ickleronniekinsemotionalrange @littlemisspascal

[izzielizzie]

Rough on the Surface but You Cut Through Like a Knife

summary: When Bronwyn Rojas ends up next to the ever obnoxious Nate Macauley in Spanish class, she doesn’t really mean to hit him with a book. Well, she does, but she doesn’t expect to end up in the principal’s office with him. And she definitely doesn’t expect to find him amusing.

alternatively: Bronwyn hits Nate with a book and a long overdue conversation ensues (AU)

title from Willow by Taylor Swift

I’m about to drop into my regular seat in AP Spanish, my last class of the day, when Señora Trias calls “Don’t sit yet niños, we have some seat switching to do!”

I groan along with the rest of the class and catch Kate’s eye. We’ve sat together the entire year. I don’t even think I know anyone else in my class. She shrugs in a resigned sort of way. Señora Trias is a force to reckoned with, and we both know she’ll never let us stay in the same seats. We follow the teacher’s instructions, and I’m too busy trying to figure out the complicated dance we’re doing - row one to the left, row two to the right, front to back and back to front - that I don’t even notice that I’ve ended up next to a boy in a ratty leather jacket. 

Ugh. Nathaniel Macauley. The school’s notorious drug dealer/womanizer/delinquent/major headache. 

And this headache is smirking at me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Nope, I’m all good… partner.”

I hate the way he says that word, it’s suggestive and disgusting and I suppress a shudder, turning instead to the front of the room, where we’re reviewing pluscuamperfecto. As a native Spanish speaker, I can confidently say I have no idea what the heck that is. 

“This is pointless,” Nate grumbles.

“Shhh,” I whisper back, taking a glance at his sharp jaw and deep blue eyes. I’ve known Nate from a distance my whole life, we’ve gone to the same schools since kindergarten, but this is the first time we’ve been so close - or exchanged words - in years.

I look back to the teacher, who’s now going over conjugations. I scribble them down in my notebook as Nate tips his chair back on two legs, rocking back and forth. 

“You’re going to kill yourself,” I inform him.

“Wow Rojas, I didn’t know you cared.”

I scoff and Señora Trias sends us a sharp look. “Señorita Rojas. Señor Macauley, no talking.”

I give Nate a sharp look. “Now look what you’ve done,” I hiss, feeling the reprimand as if it had been thrown at me. Nate just smirks. 

“You’ve never been in trouble have you?” he asks. I ignore him and he barks out a laugh, my silence serving as an answer. “Wow Rojas, I knew you were straight laced but I didn’t know you were that straight laced.”

And we all know you’re not I think, remembering the drug bust rumor Kate was whispering about last week. 

Nate clearly can tell I’m not interested in listening to him, so in the time it takes me to pull out the short novel we’re reading in class from my bag and read about a chapter, Nate doesn’t say a word. When I’m copying down the questions our teacher wrote on the board onto my notebook, he starts talking.

“What’s the answer to one?”

“Solo español por favor!” Señora Trias calls from the front of the class. I give Nate a triumphant look, expecting him to be unable to follow the teacher’s instruction of only talking in Spanish. Unfortunately this is Spanish class. And Nate’s not an idiot. He repeats the question in the correct language, and I decide that I’d be better off ignoring him. 

After a few moments, I can feel Nate leaning over my shoulder. I look over to see his eyes on my paper.  

“Stop that,” I whisper. 

“Spanish only,” he whispers back.

“That wasn’t even in Spanish!”

“Neither was that,” Nate points out. 

I huff and go back to my paper, flipping through my book to find the answer to my next question. 

“Help meeeee,” Nate whispers. 

“Shut up,” I say.

“Bronwynnnnnn.”

“Shhh.”

“Rrrrrrojas.”

My sister once told me about out of body experiences when we were children, and at the time I had scoffed because the supernatural does not exist. But when I close my book - marking my page with my finger because I’m not a philistine - and swing it straight into Nate’s face, I swear I’m not controlling myself at all.

“Would you shut up?” I snap as an unnatural silence overtakes the room. I look around for the first time, meeting stricken faces. Kate’s looking at me like she’s never met me before. 

“Bronwyn Rojas,” Señora Trias says dangerously. I risk a glance at Nate and feel a flash of sympathy when I see a red mark on his cheek. But he’s smirking at me so maybe he deserved it. 

I’m frozen, not quite sure what to say. Señora Trias points to the door. “Principal. Both of you.”

“Both!” Nate and I say at the same time.

“Yes, look at that you’re in sync, no use that rhythm to get to the office.” 

Not the best witty comment around, all things considered, but since Señora Trias looks like she’s ready to commit murder so I let it slide.

“So let me get this straight,” Principal Gupta says, staring at Nate and I, sitting side by side in the uncomfortable chairs in Gupta’s office. “You two were partnered in Spanish class, Bronwyn you were annoyed with Nathaniel, so you hit him with a book?”

Nate tips his chair back and I kick at his ankle. He kicks back. 

“Bronwyn.”

“Yes, sorry. This is correct,” I say. Principal Gupta stares at me. I’ve been getting a lot of stares lately. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the secretary appears at the door.

“There’s a problem in the cafeteria,” she informs Gupta, who sighs. She looks sharply at us. 

“I am going to be gone for ten minutes tops. Please refrain from murdering each other.”

I nod vehemently while Nate tips his chair back farther, his smirk growing. I count backwards from fifty in my head just to make sure Gupta is really gone before wheeling back towards him. I push down on the arm of his chair with all my might. Nate crashes to the ground, a look of shock on his face.

“Jesus Bronwyn.”

“Stop tilting your gosh darn chair” I hiss, my face only a few inches away from his. I can see myself reflected back in his dark blue eyes. I look mildly deranged. He smirks again and I raise my hand. He flinches away. Ha. Take that. 

He holds up his hands in surrender, leaning away from me. “Would it make you feel better if I sat on the floor Rojas?”

“Yes, yes it would.” 

Nate slides to the ground, and before I can realize what’s happening, he’s pulling me down by the waist. “What the heck?” I ask.

Nate shrugs. “If I have to sit on the floor, then you do too.” He pauses for a beat. “And your legs look good in that skirt.

I slap his shoulder. “Jackass!”

Nate laughs. “She swears!” he announces to an audience of… no one. 

“Why is that notable?” I ask, self-consciously tucking my legs underneath myself, ignoring my tingling waist where Nate’s fingers ended up under my shirt. 

“Because a minute ago you said ‘gosh darn’ and not even grandmothers would say that Rojas.”

I can feel my face flush, but I cross my arms anyway. My little sister always teases me about how I don’t swear. Not that she swears either. “Is it really a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

I flush more, irritated at myself that Nate’s opinion matters this much to me. He senses that I’m done talking because he looks straight ahead at Gupta’s desk, where we can just make out a picture of her and her daughter.

“How’s your sister doing? Maeve, right?” Nate asks, and I turn to stare at him in shock. My sister Maeve left elementary school with cancer a long time ago. Nate was just starting to know her - they were on the same soccer team - and I don’t expect him to remember her, let alone her name.

“Yeah, it’s Maeve,” I say, my tone considerably softer. Nothing makes me happier than my sister. “She’s okay.”

“She’s in remission right?” 

I turn my body so I’m looking straight ahead at him, a concession maybe. My anger is ebbing, and I’m sort of guilty about that bruise on his face. “She is. Thank you for asking.” Not many people do. 

“You’re welcome.” What he says next surprises me so much I almost miss what he says: “Want to talk about it?”

I look at him for a moment, at his dark eyes and smattering of freckles and his closed off expression, and I can’t help the feeling that he’s being serious. And I don’t know why that’s so off putting.

I shrug, trying to figure out what to say. “It just sucks, you know?” I finally land on.

Nate nods. “I know.” I think back to his mother’s funeral, the dark, rainy morning where he stood in an old suit, his father too drunk to even show up. I kept thinking about Maeve, about how some day I might have to stand in the same place, shouldering the burden of a million worlds. 

I imagine that’s how it feels to lose someone.

I feel the need suddenly, to make those eyes light up so I shift slightly closer to him and pluck at the sleeve of his leather jacket. 

“Hey, remember when we were locked in that music room at St. Pi?” I ask.

Nate glances over at me through hooded eyes, his eyelashes unnaturally long. He nods, a half smile on his lips. “I remember. Sixth grade right?”

“Yeah.” I remember that day like it was yesterday. We had been arguing - much like today - in the middle of a music class, and our teacher sent us to the storeroom to sort flutes until we calmed down or something. But we - and the teacher - had forgotten that the door to the store room door locked from the outside. Nate and I were locked in for nearly an hour, which to twelve year olds, felt like forever.

“It was a pretty good day you know?”

“Really? I thought I threw a clarinet case at you.”

“Well you did,” Nate says. “But you know… it was nice. You’re nice.”

“Aww.”

“But you are violent.”

“Touché,” I admit.

He smiles at me, his eyes soft, and I smile back. I’m about to reach up to touch the bruise on his face when Gupta comes back, breezing through the door like she’s floating. She groans when she sees us. 

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Heat rises,” Nate says with a shrug.

“It’s November."

Nate and I just look at each other and smile. We climb back into our seats, and when he tips his chair back, I don’t say anything. And when I say “gosh” instead of “god” when I’m assuring Gupta that “I swear to gosh I didn’t mean to hit him I’m so sorry” Nate doesn’t even bat an eye.

Truce, I guess. 

Gupta spends ten minutes talking about pressure and how sometimes we cave but if Nate forgives me it’s okay before she lets us leave. Nate and I mockingly shake hands before we get up and it’s… nice. 

The bell has already rung, so we turn in opposite directions, me to physics and him to gosh knows where when he turns to me.

“Hey, want to go to the mall on Saturday? You can buy me a pretzel for my troubles.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll throw something at you?”

Nate grins his Macauley grin. “I think I’ll risk it, Rojas.”

My smile is his answer.

[veliseraptor]

got tagged for two fic writer memes yesterday! the one from @ameliarating first:

How many works do you have on AO3?

509.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

3,432,24. dang! that’s a lot of words

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

I have written for...counting the MCU as one fandom, on AO3 I have written for 32 fandoms, including at least one work in:

MCU, The Sillmarillion, Caliban Leandros, both DC and Marvel Comics, the book Barebacked by Kit Whitfield, Doctrine of Labyrinths, Doctor Who, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star Wars, Black Jewels, Dragon Age, Lucifer, Dexter, Temeraire, Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Supernatural, A Song of Ice and Fire, Greek Mythology, Lymond Chronicles, Merlin BBC, Code Geass, Good Omens,  Death Note, and White Collar.

this is not a comprehensive list of every fandom I’ve ever written for, because it is not including ones that live only on FFN or Livejournal.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Life In Reverse tops the list (11066), aka my 200k Loki-centric post-Thor AU fic that I wrote between 2012 and 2018 and with which I have a decidedly complex relationship at this point. I love it but also I no longer think it’s my best work but also I credit it with teaching me a fuck of a lot about writing and writing longer projects in general.

With Absolute Splendor is rapidly catching up, to my astonishment (6559), despite having been posted for less than half as long. Aka the wedding planning fic that’s really just me mucking about in my Jiang Cheng and my Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian feelings, at length.

some good mistakes (4618) was my first foray into the Untamed version of “characters who hate each other going on resentful roadtrips together, feat. Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng.” I have gone on to write others and will continue to write more.

Unraveling (3069) is a little bit of a surprise but also not - it was originally just sort of WWP stuff for my ‘what if people remembered that blunt force trauma is a really bad thing actually’ problem that pops up sometimes, re: Loki at the end of The Avengers, and then it kind of turned into a whole thing. I personally think it’s the weakest of the installments of the series it belongs to, but it is the first one and also the one that gets least into the broader family dysfunction and depression stuff that probably is less everyone’s thing (but is what came out this fic that mattered more to me, personally).

I am a little surprised to see Steve Rogers’ Halfway House for Notorious Supervillains (3068) here too! I was expecting one of the more...idk, mainstream concepts from the MCU to win out? But I also wasn’t expecting two Untamed fics to make it here, either. But I am stupid proud of this fic even if it is very extraordinarily unfinished. This is one of those unfinished fics that will nag at me unless and until I finish it, at least a little, because the concept - if I do say so myself - is so goddamn good and I think I was executing it pretty well, too.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Pretty much never. I was never very good at it and now I’d feel like I had to go back and reply to all of them and I just. I can’t do that. and when I do try to just start at the beginning I get overwhelmed very fast and start avoiding it.

Basically I decided that if it’s a decision between wrestling with myself to reply to comments versus actually doing more writing I’m going to end up landing on the latter as feeling both more doable and more productive.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

probably it’s The Worlds Forgotten, the Words Forbidden for sheer level of “so then what was the point” of it all. but like. I’ve definitely written a few extraordinarily miserable fics, and by “a few” I kind of mean “a lot.” Other nominees I’d put down might be nor autumn falter (for currently personally making me suffer most), once there was a way to get back home (for I think having the ouchiest summary), and Waiting for the Summer Rain (which remains one of my personal favorite Supernatural fics I wrote).

but like. there are 43 fics I have marked with Major Character Death warnings and every single one of those, pretty much, has a downer ending.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I have written several though not in a long time! My craziest probably remains the Morgoth/Cthulhu short I wrote that actually got sporked because someone took it seriously (???) enough to do that. But the craziest that actually has any merit, (I’d argue) is probably the Maeglin/Viserys one.

not linking to either, if you want to go find them I don’t think it’ll be that hard.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yeah, a few times on a few different things. More if you count “people who seem to like the fic but love telling you how much they hate the female characters you’re writing about in it” as ‘hate’ which I would but isn’t, you know, quite as straightforward. If I had a nickel for every time someone bitched about Jane in Life in Reverse, though...lots of nickels.

Do you write smut? if so what kind?

Sure do! But what does ‘what kind’ mean, I don’t know how to answer that question. I feel tempted to just put in my “Mike’s Hard Kinks” image edit in this space.

I guess usually I tend to write smut that at least involves a little bit of a kink? I don’t think I’d feel comfortable writing entirely kinkless smut. I think I’d feel weird about it, the same way I do when I write really nice fic, generally.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I think I did back when but I don’t remember anything about it. I feel like it was one of those mass data scraping things where my fic happened to be among those caught up in it.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! several actually, mostly into Russian and Chinese. every time it happens I’m immensely flattered that someone wants to put in that kind of work on something I wrote.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I think I’d be very, very bad at it.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Depends on when you ask me! I could probably give you a top five but then I’d remember six that I forgot to mention five minutes later. I guess if I were to think about ships that feel like they hold very special particular places in my heart... Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen, Steve Rogers/Loki, and Min/Rand come to mind.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

oh god do you want the whole list cause honestly I could just like. screencap the entirety of my “in progress” folder with a crying emoji watermarked over it. and that’s not getting into the fics that are like...half formed babies in my consciousness but not anywhere on paper.

and also I just hate to admit that I might not finish something.

you know what? the Lucifer/Good Omens crossover I started would’ve been a lot of fun. I’m probably never going to finish it, but it would’ve been great if I had. I know other people did it too but my contribution could’ve been amazing.

I can say this very boldly with the near certainty that I’m not going to finish the fic so no one will be able to disagree.

(...also the Last Herald-Mage fix it. that was going to be a good fic too, and also will probably languish unfinished forever.)

What are your writing strengths?

I’m pretty sure dialogue is my strongest point. Dialogue and emotions, which is why I always end up just wanting to write about characters talking and having feelings at each other.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing action sequences throws me into conniptions every time I have to do it and I will take drastic actions sometimes to avoid doing it at all, which probably weakens the work as a whole.

Also, I don’t plan ahead and this means I write myself into corners kind of a lot. If I wasn’t writing long, dense fic it wouldn’t be a problem but here we are.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I tend to avoid it unless it’s in the context of, as in CQL/MDZS fic, leaving certain terminology untranslated. I’m pretty sure I almost never write full exchanges of dialogue in a different language than I’m using for the narration within a fic, and generally speaking my reaction to other people doing it is at least mildly negative.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter was technically the first fandom I wrote for, but it was a crack fic I wrote to make my friends laugh more than anything; I tend to count Wheel of Time as my first actual fandom for which I wrote my first actual fic.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

some days the answer is “all of them” and some day the answer is “I don’t like anything I’ve written in my entire life” and I never like giving this a definitive answer. yesterday I reread efforts in a common cause (the bound copy!! thanks @spockandawe) and you know what, that was a good fic and I’m proud of it, so I’m going with that one, for this meme, today.

tagging: @mostfacinorous, @jaggedcliffs, @silvysartfulness, @mikkeneko, @kasasagi-eye, @curiosity-killed, how many people am I supposed to tag for this one anyway

[444piscesprincess]

childhood friends to lovers/growing up together sterek fic reclist

uhh this kinda got a lil angsty but i recommend you pick a growing up together fic and listen to this song i promise you will not regret it 

https://open.spotify.com/track/5Dz8nrwQlPLE68WaTEIqY5?si=aogjMc1aToSALmAlfQOR7A 

anyways as usual check tags please!!

(click on the title for the fic)

you know you're on my mind

bibliosexual

Summary:

If there’s one thing Derek’s learned in life, it’s that crushing on someone who lives on an entire other fucking continent is probably a bad idea.

(hs!au + texting!au + childhood friends to lovers the ULTIMATE fluff fic)

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)   (series)

yodasyoyo

Summary:

Stiles is six years old when he first hears Derek's voice in his head.

Or what happens if you have a soulmate bond, in a universe where soulmate bonds don't exist?

Up Down Lock Unlock

isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Summary:

“Why are you going into grandma Ito’s apartment?” he asked.

Derek turned to him, key sliding into the lock. “What do you mean?” He tried to turn it, but the key wasn’t budging. Maybe the lock was sticking again, it’d been doing that the past few days.

Stiles was staring at him like Derek was stupid.

Derek did not appreciate sass from a ten year old.

“That’s grandma Ito’s place.”

“No,” Derek said calmly, pulling the key out and then shoving it back in, wiggling it a little when it continued to refuse to unlock the door. “This is my place.”

“I think you’re on the wrong floor then, because that apartment belongs to grandma Ito.”

(time travel counts as childhood friends right?)

the difference between going back and going home

thepsychicclam

Summary:

Stiles and Derek were inseparable growing up, but then college, jobs, and life happened. When Stiles comes back to Beacon Hills a decade later, he doesn't expect to reconnect with Derek, and he sure doesn't expect to fall in love with him.

It's Such a Gas When You Bring Up the Past

orphan_account

Summary:

Stiles finds a box of old photo albums that dredge up the sweet, the funny, the adorable, and the mildly heartwrenching parts of his and Derek's past.

(mainly a friends fic but its too cute to not include)

It's Always Been You

charlesdk

Summary:

Stiles' love life was practically non-existing, always had been. He was always terrible at picking up clues when people hit on him (it had happened, Erica had been witness to it and had been the one to let him know it was happening in the first place) because he never expected anyone to do so.

He wasn't the most desirable guy around, he knew that. He was loud, extremely nerdy, never knew when to stop talking, not exactly much of a looker if you asked him, the list was endless.

Point was, he never did know when someone was flirting with him. Which was probably how he ended up in the fight that would change his life for the better.

Lead You Home Again

GotTheSilver

Summary:

The first time Derek meets Stiles, the kid’s brown eyes are wide, and he’s staring up at him with a mischievous grin as he tugs at the arm of Derek’s first ever Batman figure like he’s trying to separate it from Batman’s body.

An alternate take on Teen Wolf, wherein Stiles and Derek are childhood friends, and things unfold from there.

Kingdom By The Sea

kilaem

Summary:

Lydia grabs his arm and pulls him down in the seat next to her. “When the hell did you find time to bag a guy like Hale?”

“We’re friends,” Stiles feels his face heat up, and then the team are running out and Derek sees him and smiles. His blush gets worse.

“Oh really?”

“Our moms were friends, okay? We’ve been in diapers together.”

“I thought you two hated each other.”

Those That Bump In The Night

bleep0bleep

Summary:

A boy’s head appears upside down, hanging off the bed. “Is anyone there?” he calls out curiously, looking right at Derek’s eyes. Caught, then. The protocol for being deliberately seen by a child is just to look as strange and fearsome as possible. No one would believe them, anyways. But Derek is tired, and he’s been running and scared, and now he just kind of flickers, curling out a tendril of dark smoke, hoping that he’s a little bit scary. No such luck. The boy’s eyes widen. “Oooh, are you the bogeyman?” “Bogeyperson,” Derek says, before he can help himself.

~

When Stiles was a boy, he had an imaginary friend named Derek. Ten years later, Derek comes back, and is very, very real.

Five Times Derek and Stiles Kissed For Practice (And One Time They Didn't)

mikkimouse

Summary:

In which Derek and Stiles grow up together and practice kissing, roughly in that order.

216 + 1: Words To Say Instead of I Love You

briggs

Summary:

Derek and Stiles have been best friends for fourteen years. They have their differences, sure, but it's never been a question for them. Their friendship has been the most solid thing in their lives -- until suddenly it isn't anymore.

Funny how just a few choice words can throw fourteen years of friendship off-balance.

OR

a collection of "Bro, That's Gay" one-shots that actually ended up turning into a concrete storyline.

hope is the thing with feathers (part of a series)

ShanaStoryteller

Summary:

Stiles is ten when he saves the Hales from their burning home and Derek from a wolfsbane bullet, and this establishes a pattern that seem to continue indefinitely.

"Then he's facing a burning home, and he wraps the hood of his sweatshirt around his mouth before he pushes the door open and steps inside. There's Mr. Hale asleep - he hopes asleep - on the couch, next to - Stiles thinks that's his brother but there are so many Hales, who can keep track. He rushes over and starts shaking him, can see the rise and fall of the man's chest so he knows he's alive, but he's not waking up. He shoves away his hood so he can shout, "Mr. Hale! You have to get up, there's a fire! Mr. Hale, get up!" Nothing, he's not even twitching, both of them taking in deep even breaths like they're having the most peaceful of rests, and Stiles is going to cry. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" There's a moment, where all Stiles can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and not the roar of the flames or the creak of wood, then with a violent, silent pop it's all back and both of the men are gasping awake, eyes open and jumping to their feet. "

(one of my favourite fics like EVER)

it came from the trees

whatshouldntbe

Summary:

“Don’t worry, Scott caught me up on everything,” Kira assures with a bubbly smile via video-chat. “You and Derek, huh? I probably should have seen that coming. I always thought it might be Cora, but Derek was the one that looked at you how I used to look at you.”

Stiles goes a little pink. “It’s still kinda new but, yeah. I really like him. He’s...” Beautiful. Patient. Smart. Painfully honest. Sweet.“...a total dork.”

Kira laughs and laughs. When she gets herself together, she replies, “Yeah, those little hearts and stars in your eyes definitely say different."

or

Stiles moves from the shiny, fast-paced lifestyle of Los Angeles to the foggy, sleepy town of Beacon Hills so his dad can become the new sheriff. Newly fifteen, he does his best to finish out his freshman year of high school (by staying under the radar) when he suddenly becomes the Beyoncé of the Supernatural community. And, without much prompting on his part, he ends up catching the eye of one of the most prominent Werewolf families in all of North America. It literally all starts with a stuffed animal(s).

(oh god this fic is the literal best even though its abandoned it ends at okay-ish place. this is one of the best hale family characterisations ive ever read. if you squint it can be a childhood friends to lovers fic but im including it anyway bc its amazing)

Promises aren't Meant to be Broken

paradis

Summary:

“Thanks for saving me,” Stiles blurts out, staring up at Laura, wide eyed.

Laura grins. “I like you,” she says, “we’ll be friends.”

(more laura and stiles besties centric but totally worth a read)

The Things We See

MelodramaticSalad

Summary:

Stiles grew up in the life of knowing that there was always more to life than what others saw with a first glance. Even as a child he saw things that no one else seemed to and always had a fascination with the unusual.

Some considered him an unusual child, but Claudia welcomed every single quirk her son displayed. His mother had a few special talents of her own and thrilled her to see it in her son as well. She'd raised Stiles to always keep his mind open and as grew and started to display his powers, she began to teach him how to use them. She even taught Stiles about werewolves at a young age, his infatuation with them growing once he had learned the truth about her closest friend.

Stiles spent nearly every possible moment that he could roaming the Hale house, following after the middle child most of the time. Derek was three years older than Stiles, but the bond they developed with each other was something their mothers considered out of a story book. Like Derek, Stiles was sensitive to his emotions, but unlike Derek, Stiles didn't need a scent to figure it out. He could feel it.

take me back

matildajones

Summary:

“I dare you to kiss me,” Stiles taunts, and he’s not expecting the way Derek says a naughty word under his breath and then leans forward.

Stiles yelps. He just dodges Derek’s mouth before he’s laughing wildly and running through the trees, calling out a series of ew ew ew as Derek chases him back home.