Zenaida tended to… work himself. Dante would not say 'overwork'. Most times he did, Zenaida would pull age on him, or claim that "undying" meant "without rest", then quote Guilliman at him. Other times, however, he would acquiesce in the event that he was too tired to maintain the facade.
Last night had been one such time that, after an intense meditative vigil, Dante had managed to help him perform his ablutions and send him to bed. That had been an entire fifteen hours ago, and he'd not heard from him since.
It was nothing to be particularly concerned about (nothing really was, a la the title of "Undying" and everything it entailed), but Dante would see that Zenaida was, indeed, fine, and not afflicted by some malady of the mind.
He was a psyker coming out of a vigil after all, it was not at all an unwarranted concern.
Dante entered his quarters quietly and slowly. It was improbable that Zenaida would still be sleeping, but he wanted to be courteous either way.
It would turn out to be more of a courteous intention, though Zenaida was still wearing his loose, barely tied sleep robes, he was sat on the rug in front of the hearth. A chalice was held in his hand, filled with that fruity concoction of Zenaida's own fermentation technique, though he would occasionally set it down to pluck at the lyre resting in the junction of his elbow.
Dante found himself a light bit amused despite himself. He had been worried for nothing, clearly, was a facetious thought that he kept to himself. Relieved of his command duties for the time, and just as so relieved of his power armor and death mask, he approached with quiet grace.
As he took the time to admire his husband, Dante took in the dreamy, far away expression on Zenaida's face. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed over, a blissful smile on his features made radiant by the light of the flames.
Careful not to be accused of sneaking up on him, Dante gently placed his hand on Zenaida's shoulder.
"Zenaida… Are you there?" he murmured in a low, soothing tone.
As if exiting a dream state, Zenaida's eyelids fluttered in three slow blinks before that hazy bliss seemed to return.
"Oh, my Angel… I didn't hear you enter."
Dante couldn't help but smile at that. How was he supposed to help himself? Perhaps under the bias of romantic devotion, the simplest things were immensely endearing to Dante. It was like de-fragmentation for his weary mind, cleansing the stressors and intrusive thoughts that were as numerous as the synapses in his brain.
His husband.
His Zenaida.
"You were to check in when you woke, my love," Dante sighed, taking the chalice from Zenaida's free hand and setting it down on the floor.
He took this opportunity to sit back, feeling his age as he crossed his legs and allowed his husband to lean comfortably back into him. Zenaida did so eagerly, though he was careful with the lyre resting in his lap. The thing was probably older than Dante.
"My apologies, beloved," the sentence stuttered as he chuckled. "Just a bout of indulgence to practice restraint. Helps strengthen the resolve in the event of an encounter with the archenemy."
The way Zenaida slurred as though certain words bled into the next said otherwise. Like one would stumble after taking a blow to the head. Such a metaphor made Dante curious if Zenaida was capable of standing straight, either.
"You're drunk." Dante clarified, matter-of-factly, but not unkindly.
Zenaida giggled at that, an utterly heart-melting sound if Dante was being completely honest with himself. He usually was when it came to Zenaida, at least. That was a constant he took comfort in.
The psyker lifted a finger, swallowing back a hiccup.
"I am absolutely drunk, yes."
"I think you've had about enough, Zenaida," Dante chuckled softly, in a similar tone to that one would use to coax a child away from a toy.
Another giggle.
"Well, yes, I'm quite done, I think. But nothing's stopping you, my love."
Oh. That was a concept. Dante didn't often stop to indulge in such frivolous debauchery. He found it pointless, and in a galaxy of war and strife, it didn't feel… tasteful was a word. Seeing Zenaida lost in what he'd imbibed himself was almost healing, however. Soothing at the very least, and if nothing else. He tried to separate himself from the guilt and tension that followed him from his tireless work to his fitful sleep, even if just for a moment.
"Beloved… I'm not sure if that's a good ide-"
"I will telekinetically move your body like a puppet."
"You absolutely would not."
"Then I will ask you very nicely to humor the love of your life."
"…"
That was how a few goblets of some of that fruit drink (fermented and altered to a lethal level of alcohol content) turned into Dante lounging on his side on the floor as Zenaida sat back against him. The psyker plucked at his lyre, playing a gentle but upbeat tune.
"Careful," Dante chuckled, correcting the placement of Zenaida's fingers as he hit a sour note. Despite the toxic levels of alcohol, he was still considerably less drunk than Zenaida.
"Yes, yes, you're right," Zenaida giggled, pausing his playing to look down at the strings. He carefully and intentionally guided his fingers across them, smiling to himself as he picked up his previous rhythm. "I should teach you to play."
Dante couldn't help but chuckle at that, unable to keep himself from doing so with the pleasant, mild fogginess of the drink clouding his mind.
"My love, I'm afraid you'll find that it's a bit small of an instrument for my particular hands."
Zenaida nodded, even as a lazy grin spread across his face.
"Then we shall teach you how to play the harp like a lyre!"
Dante couldn't help the laugh that escaped him via stolen breath. The statement was so ridiculous that even he couldn't keep himself composed. Though losing composure usually consisted of just such short but unbridled reactions.
"Zenaida. Are they even played the same way?"
"No they are not!"
"Would the proportions not still be off? A harp would still be a bit too large, I think."
"That is absolutely correct!"
This time, loss of composure was a foregone conclusion. The two laughed like a couple of youths drunk on wine and love, and so many other wonderful things that Dante forgot existed in a galaxy like this. He did not indulge in extravagance or pretense.
But this he could accept.
It had taken a while. Zenaida sought the rewards of years of patience, and the end turned into a beginning of a trend; he could deny the psyker nothing. Zenaida would sometimes tease him about it. Saying that it's how he got Dante to agree to marry him at all. Dante didn't like that joke. The last time, he had responded by grabbing one of Zenaida's hands and holding it to his lips, before murmuring, "I married you because I love you. Every moment we share is intentional. Please remember that."
Zenaida had taken the hint.
"I love you so much," Zenaida said as their laughter died down into giggles.
"And I love you just as much," Dante said so naturally that it surprised even him.
Zenaida didn't seem surprised, though. Of course he didn't. He claimed it was because Dante never let him forget it (even if not in the most traditional way). Dante knew the truth, though.
It was trust. Pure, simple trust in a world where the true definition of the word had seemingly been lost to the annals of time, if it had ever even had a meaning at all.
Dante didn't need to remind Zenaida that he loved him. Zenaida hung on to every single word of assurance or loving gesture, trusting that Dante's love held strong.
And Dante… found himself feeling the same. For once in his life, having a constant wasn't so bad.
ship: a beast who's burdened by his bite (Jean Doe & Gangrel!Seth)
source: Vampire: The Masquerade (Bloodlines timeline)
words: 1471
So there's a period in my Gangrel insert's timeline where I go to Houston for a few months to build a relationship with the NPCs for a two-person campaign Owen and I are doing set in modern times. This fic takes place in like 2006.
I wanted to do some stuff with me and Jean just because.
tag list: @apisamorabundus @adoredbyalatus @hiswillowtree @donna-gesso @the-sleeping-city
"I can't believe you, kid. You're really doing this, huh?"
For Jean, who'd lived over a century in contrast to his childe's comparatively short few decades, the embrace might as well have happened yesterday. The very thought was almost enough to send him spiraling into another age-related psychological crisis, so he stopped entertaining it, focusing on watching Seth load up the '70s-style Volkswagen Camper Van.
"And I can't believe you're actually letting me take this thing with me," Seth replied as he checked all the secret compartments to ensure he had everything a young Gangrel would need on a cross-country trip. Regarding his statement, even Jean had to acknowledge the truth it presented; it was a big deal.
Jean had customized the shit out of that thing, or at least spent a lot of money getting other people to customize it for him. He knew a ghoul down on the East side who was privy to how to make a vehicle Gangrel-approved. Jean had taken better care of it than he did Seth, if he was being honest with himself. But Seth was an adult kindred, and the van was a van. HIS van.
His van, whose keys he was now fidgeting with in his pocket. Jean was Seth's sire. Not his dad, or brother, or anything that couldn't be summed up as an intensely personal friendship. He wondered if that only made these thoughts and emotions more tumultuous than they had to be.
"Well, I mean, if you're so damn dead set on leaving, then I can't throw you to the wolves-"
"For a second time?"
"For a seco- You know what, watch your mouth, you little punk."
It was nothing but affectionate. Jean didn't feel the least bit guilty about that little initiation ritual; it was practically tradition. And Seth had done so well. A real 7/10 first month. He lived, hadn't he? And without any real MAJOR masquerade violations.
"Jean. Come on," Seth commented, and Jean could make out a grin behind that curtain of obnoxiously crimson hair.
"… Tie your hair up when you drive," Jean scoffed, coming around to smooth back the shoulder-length locks and tie them up into a messy bun with the spare hair tie he had around his wrist.
Seth let himself sit and be handled. He knew Jean better than anyone, usually he'd crack a joke or have some hippie dippie bullshit to spout about independence and the open road. He could tell when Jean was letting himself feel something he'd rather not be. Jean had been around a long time, and he'd had plenty of time to work on his emotional management. And right now, he was channeling it all into keeping most of the hair out of Seth's face.
"I know, I know. I'm a dumbass, Jean, not an IDIOT," Seth retorted with a playful snort, batting his sire's hands away once he was certain he was now just fussing.
"Yeah, MY little dumbass childe, driving MY van that I have spent more money on than you ever made in your life, kid," Jean replied with a huff and a smirk that split his face with teeth his lips could barely contain.
It wasn't about the van, and both of them knew. They also knew the OTHER knew, and they weren't going to make it weird and overly sentimental if either of them had to say anything about it.
"So four states away, huh?" Jean finally broke the silence, taking a seat on a milk crate in the alley. It was far too low to the ground, but it was better than the ground.
"Uh, three states?" Seth replied as he went back to stocking the van and double-checking what he had already stocked for good measure.
"Nuh-uh. I'm counting Cali, we're on the West Coast. And Houston is on the East side of Texas. So that's worth a whole 'nother state to me."
"Not as far East as you think."
"Oh, don't split hairs with me, Houston as a city is bigger than half the Yank states. You know you don't wanna argue distance with me, man, I'm ten times as seasoned as you."
"That's how you cope without saying 'old'."
"That's it," Jean threatened, then took a moment to struggle with standing, earning an unflatteringly ugly snort of laughter from Seth.
"You sure you don't shapechange into a giraffe? That reminds me, I need to adjust the seats and mirrors."
Seth was soon hopping into the front seat, doing just as he said he would. It was a bit of work to get everything adjusted to his own proportions, especially since they were so vastly different from those of the person who had last driven the damn thing.
"Smart kid, glad you thought of that before you tried to hit the road," Jean replied, dusting off his jeans as he came over to lean against the driver's side door.
"Well yeah, I doubt I would have gotten half a block the way you set this shit up," Seth snorted, reaching for the radio.
Jean stiffened, giving Seth's newly tied hair a little yank.
"Hey dude, paws off the presets. I better not find out you changed any of 'em."
Seth turned to glare at him, and Jean couldn't help but admire how similar his childe's eyes were to his own, certainly not just in color. He remembered when he was a young kindred giving that same look.
He was gonna be just fine.
"Jean, I'm going cross-country. When I'm in Houston, I'm not gonna HAVE access to your goddamn presets. Unless you feel like shelling out for that fancy satellite radio crap." Seth sassed him without seeing the twinge of emotion in his sire's expression. Jean preferred it that way; he wasn't good at having conversations on subjects like that.
As tempting as it was right now to just straight up tell him how proud he was, or how far he'd come, Jean settled for ruffling his hair.
"At least write them down, you little brat," he scoffed, retracting his hand before Seth could slap at it. He took a second to just watch Seth huffily adjusting the rear view, and in that moment, he didn't see an ounce of himself or how he had been doing at this stage. He certainly hadn't had anything like a van with blackout shutters or refrigerated blood bags back in the day.
And certainly not a sire that would provide such luxuries. His own had taught him the traditions and survival techniques that kept him alive for over a hundred years, then was gone before even a fraction of a fraction of that time had passed. Even so, he didn't hold an ounce of resentment towards that person. Modern kindred society was strange, and getting stranger every day.
Or maybe it was just him.
"You know, I better not get a call from you blubbering over how much you miss me in a month," was all he could think to say, grinning that canine grin.
"A MONTH?" Seth looked over at him incredulously. "Jean, three months without you is gonna be no sweat. I'll be back before New Year's, even. I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about YOU."
Jean laughed, slapping the roof of the van.
"So you ARE worried about me? Worry about me, then. I hope every morning you go to sleep having intrusive thoughts about me forgetting to close the blinds before morning comes. Because y'know. I'm just so OLD and everything."
"JEAN!"
Jean dodged Seth stretching his arms out the driver's side window to land several smacks on his head and shoulders, giggling to himself as he stepped back and out of his proximity.
"Come on, worry about me! Your concern keeps me young."
"You're undead, being a kindred keeps you young anyway!"
"I'm glad you think so."
There was a long, oddly heavy moment of silence where Jean's teasing smile remained alongside Seth's scowl. There was still so much to say, even if it was only going to be three months. Jean grounded himself in that thought. Only three months. He wasn't going to say anything that wouldn't make it obvious that he'd be… Worried? Lonely? Proud?
Instead, he just tossed Seth the keys, one corner of his mouth quirking up higher than the other.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Oh man, where do I even begin to unpack that?" Seth chuckled.
"Don't even try. I've been around for 150 years, and I haven't even figured it out, remember?" Another pause. "You'll be fine, bud. Just don't go ruining my reputation over there."
Seth stuck the keys in the ignition and gave them a quick twist to start the engine.
"Don't even worry about it," he scoffed. "I've got my own reputation to ruin."
ship: between silver screams (adri ??? x drew spencer)
source: Scream-themed original universe (Drew is Ghostface)
words: 1049
cw: suggestive comment, casual use of a reclaimed slur (affectionately)
disclaimer: if the content makes you uncomfortable, you're under no obligation to rb!
Since Drew won the poll with flying colors, here this is. It's gonna be a multi-parter about going to Melanie's Halloween party. This is the part where we choose costumes.
dividers: @/kodaswrld
tag list: @apisamorabundus @adoredbyalatus @hiswillowtree @dorothys-wife @the-sleeping-city
Ronnie and Melanie had long since left, and still Adri (and Drew by extension) lingered about the vaunted halls of Spirit Halloween. Drew had been left to be the one to inform him, as Adri had hardly even registered their departure.
“We’ll see y’all on podcast day,” Melanie had told him as she and Ronnie prepared to leave.
“You sure you don’t want to pick anything up?” Drew replied with an arch of his brow. “It’s your party after all.”
“I’ve already picked up all the supplies, and you KNOW I need my costumes hand-crafted!” Mel countered.
“Yeah, wonder where you find the labor for that,” Ronnie cut in before shutting up with an elbow to the ribs as Melanie mock-glared at him.
“Be quiet and get back to your sewing machine!”
“Damn, whatever you say, boss.” Ronnie offered a cheeky grin. “Tell Adri not to stress too much about the costume, that couples stuff is hard work.”
“How would you know?” Melanie couldn’t help but throw in another playful jab.
“Oh please, we’re in the depths of solitude together.”
Their conversation dopplered out through the sliding door, leaving only the chatter of the animatronics Ronnie set off in succession on the way out.
Drew sighed, shaking his head. He’d planned murders less complicated than this.
After scrubbing a hand down his face, he turned on his heel, his head swiveling about to look for Adri. It only took a moment, only so many androgynous goths in at least THIS part of California.
“Baby, you’ve revisited the plague doctor section like three times, why don’t you just go with that?” He sighed in exasperation as he came up and wrapped his arms around Adri’s middle, resting his chin on his shoulder. “We could be doing much more exciting things. Exciting things that include a VHS session at my place. I’ll even buy your shweed, now can we go?”
Adri turned his head to glare at him venomously.
“I thought you’d take this more seriously,” he grumbled.
“I DO take it seriously, but we’ve been here longer than is necessarily standard DESPITE the memes everyone makes about living here.” Drew punctuated by kissing Adri’s cheek, though it did nothing to prevent the thoughtful hum that Adri emitted.
“What are Mel and Ronnie doing?” he asked.
“Mel’s gonna be Annabelle, but she finally caved and she’s doing the movie version instead of the IRL version this time.” Drew stepped away to give Adri space to inspect a prop severed hand.
“Oh wow, she’s usually such a stickler for accuracy when it comes to her doll stuff,” Adri commented, finally glancing over his shoulder. “What about Ronnie?”
“They’re doing a duo thing, he’s gonna be the Nun or whatever,” Drew shrugged, stepping forward to pick up a Freddy Krueger glove that had been set there by someone who must have changed their mind about buying it.
Adri followed him as he approached the slasher section to put it back on the shelf it belonged.
“Right, you don’t like the Conjuring movies,” Adri snickered. “So much for Ed and Lorainne as a couples costume.”
“Ed and Lorainne Warren were whackjob pieces of shit that took advantage of people, of course I hate the Conjuring movies,” Drew snorted as he turned to face Adri with a look of distaste.
“They were, but the movies aren’t like, terrible. Anyway, you hate occult stuff in general.” Adri returned to browsing the shelves, possibly with renewed inspiration.
“I do not!” Drew protested, coming to his side. “I don’t hate it in Friday the 13th and Halloween. As long as it’s fun, y’know?”
Adri rolled his eyes at that.
“Whatever. Hey, speaking of Friday, you remember that Part III mask replica you got me when we started dating?”
Drew regarded him with his hands in his pockets, a little more stimulated now that they were talking shop so to speak.
“Of course I do, it got me to third base,” he recalled fondly.
“Yeah yeah,” Adri huffed, rolling his eyes again. “I mean, you could borrow it and be Jason for me.”
This prompted Drew to arch an eyebrow and smirk.
“Ohhh, FOR you, huh? You want me to chase you through the woods with a machete? A little freaky stuff for Halloween?” A sideways glance from Adri had him chuckling and raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, later, got it. But seriously, baby, what are you gonna do then? Freddy?”
It was Adri’s turn to grin as he stood before a particular display.
“Something pretty trashy.”
Curious about the vague nature of that statement, Drew approached, slinging his arm around Adri’s shoulder and looking up before an expression of judgment crossed his features.
“Are you being for real, babe?” he asked, an attempt at being deadpan foiled by the slight smirk that was forming at the corner of his lips.
In front of them was the Friday the 13th display, complete with many pieces of various Jason Voorhees costumes of varying quality and price. Some of them were more acceptable in Drew’s eyes than others; in fact, there were some he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t stab someone for wearing. But that wasn’t the focus, he knew exactly what Adri was looking at.
Red and white varsity shorts paired well with the shade of yellow on the t-shirt with a ‘Camp Crystal Lake’ decal across the front. Whoever had set up the display was kind enough to put some knee-high socks on the shelf next to the costume pieces to complete the look. All that was needed was a scrunchie and a pair of sneakers.
Drew could already picture it, and it almost pissed him off how ridiculously hot the mental image was.
“Baby, can I say something brisk but totally affectionate?” He managed to keep a straight face as he looked at Adri, who merely nodded. “You’re gonna look like a total faggot in that.”
A loud gasp preluded Adri wheezing back a laugh that got caught in his throat, causing him to choke and cough.
“Babe!”
“I’m just being honest, you’re gonna look so fucking fruity!”
The two stared at each other for a minute before Drew stepped forward.
“But… I do admit, I love you when you’re at your faggiest. I’m in, let’s do it.”
ship: angel by your side (adri (s/i) x john-117 | master chief)
source: halo
word count: 953
cw: descriptions of PTSD symptoms i guess?
[it's crawling back when we run away]
UHHHH idk, the beginning of the Chief ship is rough and slow-going, and also he has his spirals from time to time. Listen, I love light-hearted Chief, but if I don't explore him in an angsty fashion then I'll explode and die.
tag list: @apisamorabundus @hiswillowtree @adoredbyalatus @dorothys-wife @the-sleeping-city
John is what he’s called now. It’s a generic name, terribly fitting for such a generic existence in direct comparison to who he was before.
Who he’s always been.
Now he’s John. John, who has to sleep in the guest room because he’s tired of waking Adri up with his nightmares, John, who inadequately expresses affection because he never got to learn how, John, who is no longer a symbol of hope in armor, but a man whose facial scars and towering height now intimidate instead of reassure.
He doesn’t even know who “John” is. Some forgettable ex-UNSC marine back from deployment. Deployment from what? Coming back to who?
He wakes from another dream, sweating but not screaming this time. At least, he believes that’s the case until he hears the door swing open with a sort of gentle urgency, like Adri doesn’t want to startle him if he’s awake or wake him if he’s asleep.
“John?” he says quietly, and it prompts John to prop himself up.
“I’m awake,” he replies hoarsely. He feels grogginess start to settle in when the panic begins to leave him. He shivers slightly and realizes he’s sweating more than he thought. His sheets cling to him, damp and reeking of adrenaline sweat.
“Do you want to wake up for a few minutes?” Adri asks, hand on the doorknob.
John knows it’s in case he asks Adri to just leave him to his thoughts again. The fleeting realization that he always waits until a hand of support is offered to start distancing himself and pushing Adri away briefly crashes over him, but he compartmentalizes that thought for future self-loathing.
He also realizes that Adri is far more familiar with this routine than one would be just from living with a PTSD case like him. John knows the purpose of at least one of the prescriptions on the bedside table, because now there’s a bottle in here too.
“I’m alright,” he finally replies after a few beats that were too long, too thoughtful. Adri doesn’t look convinced.
“I could hear you from,” Adri takes a beat to continue this time, “the other bedroom.” Nice save, he’s trying to spare John’s feelings. The other bedroom is a good vague, generic way to avoid saying ‘our bedroom that you haven’t slept in for two weeks,’ just like ‘John’ is a good vague, generic name to avoid calling him ‘Master Chief Petty Officer John-117’ ever again.
John doesn’t say anything, and the silence is almost as stifling as the smell of adrenaline sweat, the scent of fear.
Finally, Adri breaks the oppressive silence, opening the door a little more.
“Go shower, John. I’ll swap out your sheets.”
John doesn’t have the fortitude to defy him; if he doesn’t rinse off that sweat, it’ll just summon more nightmares. And he has no doubt Adri’s going to change the sheets while he’s in there, whether he wants him to or not. Which he doesn’t, but he learned from someone long ago that stubbornness always wins out at the end of the day.
Those two would get along pretty well.
Adri enters, and John is barely standing before he’s stripping the sheets off. He doesn’t look at him, doesn’t touch him. This behavior often confused John, until the first time ‘stop fucking looking at me’ had been sobbed at him, and he knew then that the feeling of ugliness from those spirals wasn’t exclusive to him.
He can’t even feel comforted by that knowledge in a guilty way.
So he just places a hand on Adri’s shoulder and nods, an old habit born from having to show some sort of expression while wearing a helmet. But he’s not wearing one now, so it’s an empty-looking gesture paired with the way he’s still pale from the nightmare, how his expression is visible to give away what he’s carrying.
The shower is a blur, he doesn’t even remember if he washed his hair. All that matters is getting in and out, and he returns to the bedroom in time to see Adri sitting on it, his head in his hands.
“You’re tired,” John says, the redundancy of pointing out that fact making him want to just…
“‘S just a little hard to sleep lately,” Adri answers, scrubbing a hand down his face as he stands.
It goes unspoken.
‘Hard to sleep without YOU,’ he means.
John only offers a silent grunt of acknowledgment, pretending he doesn’t grasp the subtext because he knows damn well Adri’s not trying to hurt his feelings.
“Anyway… sheets are changed, remind me to wash the old ones tomorrow, okay?” Adri continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll see you in the morning… Goodnight…"
Another tentative stretch of silence, undercut by ruminating thoughts.
“Love you.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing out and down the hallway before John can so much as get a word in.
He’s giving John space. And John…
Well, he doesn’t know what to think. Ambivalent gratitude is his best guess, but still. He’s not used to processing feelings at all.
Adri nudged him in the direction John was presumably most comfortable with. It was courteous, but overly so. Like asking someone an opinion, only for their answer to make you realize you like the OTHER option better after all.
Which is why, around 2:38 AM, the door to the other bedroom, THEIR bedroom, slowly creaks open.
For a while, John still isn’t able to divine from his own actions whether or not he’s going to stand there in the doorway…
Or finally give himself, or rather both of them, what they both constantly deny themselves…
And let another prescription bottle join that growing monument of neurotic solidarity.
ship: electric love (eddie x luz (insert) x volt)
source: date everything
word count: 801
I've been doing a lot of RP in WoW lately, and I'm TERRIFIED of my writing style permanently sounding like it, so I'm trying to practice writing again. This really is a nothingburger fic because I was just improving it (which only makes it sound MORE like RP writing), but it also goes over Luz's recovery from his insomnia. No proofreading, be gentle.
tag list: @apisamorabundus @adoredbyalatus @hiswillowtree @dorothys-wife @the-sleeping-city
Bustling nightlife was not often a concept one considered for a house full of… objects. And concepts. Assuredly, the owner of the house and subsequent holder of the Dateviators must have been taking it some sort of way, but life went on for the objects that resided within the house.
The Breaker Box was practically arcing with energy, and not because of a faulty wire this time. The air was, for lack of a less on-the-nose word, electric. Perhaps it was just a week’s worth of pent up energy being released by a veritable crowd of personified objects, as nightclubs were made to do.
Naturally.
If Eddie and Volt were overwhelmed by the busy crowd, they sure didn’t show it. Volt retained all the grace and charm of the unparalleled host he was, while Eddie worked hard making drinks. Eddie was simple like that. Volt like that.
And so did Luz if the way he proberbially and literally lit up at the sight of him straining a cocktail had anything to say about it.
“Good form,” Luz chuckled as he squeezed himself into a miraculously empty spot in front of the bar. Not a stool could be found to spare, but Luz didn’t mind.
“Hell of a day to stop by,” Eddie responded, taking the effort to spare a casual glance in greeting.
Luz shrugged, stroking one of the fiber optic cables woven into his glowing tresses. It was a wonder, between Luz and Volt, that Eddie hadn’t started wearing sunglasses. Inside, though? Eugh…
“I thought you guys might be weeded, so I wanted to offer some emotional support.”
Eddie actually stopped for a minute, giving him a deadpan stare. Oh, those deadpan stares, with the rough demeanor filled with an underlying sweetness. Like a jelly-filled rock.
“You definitely should have stayed home to catch up on your sleep.”
“I’m alright, I told you,” Luz nodded at him, his lips forming a pout that Eddie refused to look at lest he fall victim to its sorcery.
Thankfully, he was saved by the sudden appearance of his vivacious counterpart, Volt encompassing Luz in his arms with a gentle greeting deployed directly against the other’s ear, too quiet for Eddie to hear, but he knew what was being said anyway.
“I hope that’s not a lover’s quarrel I hear over here, it’s far too lovely of an evening for discordanace, don’t you think Eddie?” Volt rested his chin on Luz’s shoulder.
Eddie’s glance moved to Luz, who was practically a puddle in Volt’s arms.
“No, just tell him to go home and rest,” Eddie sighed, his concern and affection radiating through that rough demeanor.
Volt and Luz gasped in unison that was downright comical.
“Eddie, don’t be absurd. Our Livewire is looking as radiant as ever. Look at him.”
Volt made a motion of gently gripping Luz by the chin and turning his head in Eddie’s direction.
Luz was looking… Like Luz. Sleepy, but not from a lack of sleep. Just Luz-sleepy.
And maybe he had a special glow about him tonight that Eddie hadn’t taken the time to recognize, but now that he could see it…
“Alright, alright. Sue me for being overly concerned,” Eddie tutted, and though he rolled his eyes, it was accompanied by a small smile.
“So what has our Luz been up to now that he’s getting his proper rest?” Volt’s hands moved to Luz’s hips from where they had been wrapped around his waist. Casual touches like this were a surefire way to keep Luz comfortable and content. Eddie got on making him his usual Tequila Sunrise.
“The human’s been getting close to Nightmare lately,” Luz recounted, leaning into Volt. “Like, really close. I’ve been talking to it, and she’s spiling some crazy stuff.”
“They’re always spilling crazy stuff, she’s a nightmare personified,” Eddie snorted, an endeared expression on his face as he passed the drink to Luz, who took the straw between his fingers in that cute little way they both loved so much.
“I know. I’ve got… very little comfort to provide these days thanks to that budding new relationship,” Luz chuckled, taking a sip and giving Eddie a thumbs up to indicate another job well done.
“Which hopefully gives you more time to come fool around in our little establishment a lot more,” Volt all but cooed into Luz’s neck. He did, however, keep the snuggling to as much of a minimum as he could. He didn’t want Eddie to feel left out since he was stuck behind the bar.
“And, you know, SLEEP,” Eddie said pointedly but with an undercurrent of affection.
“But not before a couple drinks and company from my favorite boys,” Luz corrected.
Eddie sighed, but couldn’t keep his budding smile from blossoming into a full one.
As Dennis's alarm went off, he found himself not quite dreading the way he rose out of bed and got dressed. He didn't bother with breakfast, knowing Salem, he'd have something ready from somewhere.
Even the commute was short and sweet, and Dennis didn't feel absolutely dead inside all the while.
Eventually, he arrived at the location of his employment: the newly named Rafkin & Delores Psychic Consultants.
He couldn't help but snort to himself. Corny but... satisfying.
He punched in the floor for the offic, taking the elevator to the very top floor. As the elevator doors opened a few moments later, he stepped into the studio apartment. It was spacious enough to serve as both a consultation office and Salem’s home at the same time (he had been here first after all). A bit eclectic of a space, but no self-respecting psychic-consulting-person had complained so far.
It was as Dennis suspected, Salem was taking a call, but a whole breakfast spread awaited him, probably definitely from some fast food joint, but Dennis didn’t care. He grabbed a hashbrown and flopped down onto the consultation couch.
“Who the hell is calling us this early?” He was slightly muffled by the bite of crunchy potato in his mouth.
He had a point, people didn’t usually call until noon… If they called at all. It’s not that they were devoid of clients, but they were a niche commodity. That went without saying in the psychic business.
Salem placed his hand over the microphone, taking the receiver away from his ear for a moment.
“Ghost job,” he said plainly before returning his ear to the phone.
“And they couldn’t wait until regular business hours because…?” Dennis inquired, his tone facetious as he swallowed his bite of hashbrown before taking another.
Salem was on the phone for another couple of minutes before joining Dennis on the couch, plucking a carton of hotcakes from the coffee table.
“Suburban upper middle class nuclear family. They swear to God their teenage girl is being haunted," he rolled his eyes, pouring syrup over his hotcakes.
Dennis scoffed at that.
“Another suburban ghost story. Great. They got all the details, money's up front, right? Don't want to drive all the way out just to have them complain and back out.”
Salem just grinned.
“You know me,” he said slyly. “I am MORE than willing to have a fake talk with a teenage girl and get paid for it.” He went about drizzling syrup on the pancakes, looking completely unbothered, perhaps even a little smug. “My guess is she's got a secret boyfriend and is a really bad liar. Sneaking into her room at night, stuff like that.”
“Easy paycheck,” Dennis agreed, grabbing a fork and stabbing at the eggs opposite the carton from Salem’s pancakes. “When are they expecting us?”
“Noon o’clock,” Salem replied matter-of-factly. “Just give the girl a little tap when we get there and see if you can see anything she's been up to," he suggested. "Then we'll give her a talk and voila, 'ghost' exorcised."
Dennis nodded in confirmation.
“Can do. Maybe we’ll take a look around too.” A pause. “I have to say though, it's kind of a shame. You'd think since we're psychics, we'd be dealing with more..." He paused a moment, gesturing to nothing in particular. "...real psychic stuff. This ghost hunting gig is just kind of like pest control, isn't it?"
"Augh, I know," Salem snorted, covering his mouth as he chewed. After swallowing, he gave Dennis a smirk. "Although, here I thought you'd never want to see another ghost for the rest of your life."
Dennis’s resulting snort of nearly amused contempt was almost violent.
“Yeah, no, I’m not saying I’m super enthused about it, but even I have to admit, it was WAY more interesting than the mundane cases we’re taking now.”
Salem sighed, nodding in acquiescence as he speared the last bite of hotcakes on his fork.
“You’re right.” A pause, right before the fork reached his lips. “What if we get a real, substantial ghost hunting gig this time?”
“You worried?” Dennis jabbed, elbowing him in the ribs.
Salem rolled his eyes and shoved his elbow away.
“Not worried, no. Maybe I'd appreciate a change of pace.”
At that, Dennis couldn't help but scoff.
"Oh, right. That's what I wanna hear. 'I'm BORED, Dennis. I want a ghost to haunt a family so I have something INTERESTING to do'."
Salem stood, leaving Dennis to hold onto the carton of now-eaten food.
“Let’s just pack up our shit, Dennis.”
Dennis just tossed the carton onto the coffee table and stood up as well.
“You’re really hoping this is an actual hardcore haunting, arent’ you?” he accused, light-hearted but a bit disbelieving.
Salem paused, grinning over his shoulder.
“And if I said I was?”
Dennis scoffed again, making his way over to assist in the packing of the equipment.
"Well, I'd just say you need a more exciting life, that's all."
“Then please, feel free to excite me, Dennis,” Salem replied sarcastically, beginning to fold and pack some of the tripods.
Dennis looked down at him, catching a different innuendo in his tone.
"I can always do that, you know. Excite you, isn't that my job?" He smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
“One of them, yes,” Salem said, closing an equipment case before his grin returned and he looked up at Dennis. “Is this service on demand, or…?”
Sky Singer didn’t speak much, and when he did, it usually pertained only to professional matters. He spoke of strategy and what he’d seen on his outrider duties, and only of that.
He was undoubtedly beautiful, carrying the grace and poise of an adeptus. That beauty only seemed to other him further, however. Somehow, it made that dignified posture and neutral expression all the more intimidating.
The Millelith Brigade, in general, regarded him with awe and respect, though he didn’t ever seem to respond differently no matter what manner they addressed him with. Even still, disrespecting an adeptus was ill-advised, and people often avoided potentially offending him.
Everyone was gathered around the fire after another relatively stressful day. In an attempt to unwind and shrug the tension off their shoulders, the soldiers in the encampment began to trade stories from home.
Sky Singer stood not too far off, enough to appreciate the warmth of the fire, though his unreadable expression did not betray his innermost thoughts, whatever they may be.
“It’s Sky Singer, right?” one of the Millelith soldiers turned to him, unable to keep his curiosity in check any longer.
“Yes,” was all the qilin replied, his eyes fixed ahead.
The obviously fresh-faced soldier regarded him with near reverence for a second.
“I’ve never met a qilin before.” His manner of speaking was awkward, but Sky Singer didn’t seem to pay it any mind. “Do you have any family back home?”
“I do,” Sky Singer replied, the rare instance of him betraying the details of his personal life catching the attention of nearly everyone within immediate earshot.
A hush fell over the group as everyone took a moment to process this before another brave or foolish soldier pressed further, “Wife? Kids?”
“A son,” Sky Singer kept up with the short answers, a sort of reluctance in his tone. Some wondered if he was becoming irritated, but the expression on his face made it difficult to tell, and he WAS answering freely…
“A son?” The second soldier asked, as if taking a moment to digest that bit of information before continuing. “How old?”
“Five years.”
Another short response, but the soldiers were starting to become curious now that they had managed to pry SOMETHING out of him.
“Five?” another soldier repeated. “And the boy’s mother?”
The air fell still, and though Sky Singer’s expression didn’t change by even a margin, it was clear the question had struck him a certain way.
No one said a word until Sky Singer broke the silence.
“She’s no longer with us,” he answered plainly.
The silence returned twofold, the third soldier undoubtedly cursing his conversational blunder.
And then, before the atmosphere could become increasingly stifling, the initial fresh-faced recruit spoke next.
“What’s your son like?”
It was like a fresh breeze had blown through the camp, the mood lightening ever-increasingly as Sky Singer’s sharp gaze softened considerably.
“He’s… wonderful. My pride and joy,” he said wistfully, his gaze casting towards the same shared sky as the child he spoke of. “He’s shy but kind. Also brave and gentle… Curious. Wants to be just like his father.”
An almost imperceivable smile lifted the corners of his lips, to the awe of the mortal soldiers around him. It was difficult to see an adeptus at that moment. This was the visage of a simple father who loved and missed his son.
“You must be a pretty good father to have raised him to be like that all by yourself,” a fourth soldier felt comfortable enough to comment.
“A good father?” Sky Singer shook his head and huffed with a bittersweet smile. “I leave him for weeks at a time. I’ve missed milestones I’ll never get back. It’s a wonder he even recognizes me when I return home.”
“But he loves you, yes?” the first soldier replied in another show of surprising insight.
Sky Singer looked at him, his magenta gaze finally seeming to look AT someone rather than through them. He was quiet for a moment before he surprised all present with an amused hum.
There is always something in the way
I want to have you to myself for once
Follow me between the jaws of fate
So I can have you to myself for once
ship: ??? x suguru geto
source: jujutsu kaisen
word count: 330
cw: uhhh dead body ig
[song] (tw: flashing)
i decided to go through with this au idea lmfao. it's still just an au but man. i'm going to elaborate on it more in the future because it's SO fun. and by fun i mean painful.
also ^^^ that song is THE theme song for this AU
tag list: @apisamorabundus @kylars-muse @adoredbyalatus @dorothys-wife @the-sleeping-city
The shock is a bitter mercy, setting in and numbing him down to his very synapses almost immediately.
The sight of Adri’s broken, lifeless body doesn't process at first.
What's happening? What's happening?
Black spots begin to appear in his vision. People often throw around phrases like 'blood running cold' but it's so much more than an expression to Suguru right now.
How did this... happen?
This isn't happening. It isn't, it couldn't. Adri hadn't come back to the school. He had a tough time on his mission, that's all. He didn't want to come back until he'd finished. He’s always like that, never leaving anything unfinished.
We never got to tell each other...!
He was just having a tough time. That's why Suguru came. He came to help him, tease him about being a hopeless workaholic.
"And you have to come help me, as always," he would have said. He would have smiled. He would have laughed.
But the shattered doll of his corpse doesn't laugh. It doesn't smile. It doesn't speak.
"No...! NO!"
Reality crashes over Suguru like a wave from the White Sea itself. For some reason, he stumbles and falls several times before he reaches him. He can't tell if his scraped palms are bleeding, because, in an instant, Adri’s cold, bloody husk is in his arms.
"Adri! ADRI!!!"
A taste more acrid than any curse he's ever swallowed fills his mouth. Someone can fix this. HE can fix this.
"Adri wake up! Wake up, come back to me!"
His ears are ringing. If Adri says something he doesn't hear it. But of course, Adri doesn't.
He’s dead. He’s dead in Suguru’s arms, he’s long gone. Too far away, in a place Suguru can't reach.
He can fix this.
He can fix this.
"Come back to me, Adri, PLEASE! COME BACK!"
He can fix this.
"COME BACK! YOU CAN'T DIE! I WON'T LET YOU DIE, I WON'T LET YOU!"
