#nix writes

[nixeleth]

Enough to Make Me Feel Supernatural by nixeleth

Art by @renmackree

Rating: Explicit (see why in the additional tags below)

Warnings: None, apart from one scene's worth of canon-typical violence and a single instance of unwanted touching

Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Additional Characters: Sheriff Stilinski || Lydia Martin || Jackson Whittemore || Danny Māhealani || Peter Hale || Laura Hale || Melissa McCall || Kira Yukimura || Allison Argent || Scott McCall || Jennifer |Peter's Nurse || Chris Argent

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence || Childhood Friends || Meet-Ugly || Grindr (sort of) || (author potentially exercises artistic license regarding how Grindr works) || Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski are mates || Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor || Daddy Kink || Humiliation Kink || Scent Marking || Light BDSM || Pink Panties || Praise Kink || Light Bondage || Knotting || Romance Novelist Stiles Stilinski || Home Health Care Aide Stiles Stilinski || Mechanic Derek Hale || Kate Argent aftermath but she’s not featured in the actual fic || Peter never became an alpha so Scott was never bitten || True Alpha Derek Hale || Sterek Reverse Quickie 2026 (Teen Wolf)

Word Count: 95,423

Summary: The problem with finding someone on Grindr wasn’t that he was demisexual—the problem was that fourteen years ago, Stiles had basically imprinted on one surly teenager over a "stolen" sandwich cookie, and he’d never really gotten over that. Honestly, it was like something out of one of his own romance novels, except without werewolves.

My offering for the @sterekreversechallenges 2026 Sterek Reverse Quickie (make sure you check out everything else on offer from all of our artists and writers 🍒), after a few years of writing nothing. I suffered from a car accident back at the tail end of 2023 when I was finishing up writing Echo for the Sterek Reverse Bang (again, check those certified classics, too 🍒), and it's been until basically now that I've been unable to function long enough without pain to write anything, so right off the bat I want to thank @renmackree for giving me TWO art prompts in a row that dragged me out of "well, maybe I'll just moderate only this time" mode. I was able to finish this one on time, and I feel like I climbed Mount Rainier (because just thinking about climbing Mount Everest makes my back twinge in protest--come to think of it, Ren, Dance will be our Everest, and Wolfrim will be our Homer epic).

Read it here on AO3

While the art @renmackree made was embedded into my fic watermark-free, it's slapped with a whole bunch of them here on Tumblr so you know that it was made by a certified human bean. Remember: every time someone uses generative AI, Stiles sheds one lone anti-AI tear.

[nixcloud]

Byler Valentines WIP

Will Byers x Mike Wheeler | M | 900 words~

Tattoo artist/piercer Will x Author Mike thinking about my valentines post x so i started writing a scene from it... a little pathetic mike anyone?

It felt like an eternity since Mike had found himself seated nervously on the black vinyl client chair in Wills tattoo shop. This wasn't the first time in the 5 years since Will became a tattoo artist and piercer that Mike had agreed to let Will work on him. He was sporting several ear piercings, and had a few beautiful, but small, pieces of Will’s artwork inked on his body. All of those had been his own idea. 

But this one, this one was Will's idea. Mike’s leg started to bounce uncontrollably. If the private room wasn’t so damn small, he would’ve been up and pacing already. Was about to have a go at it anyways when the door opened. Will carefully rolling in a sanitary pierce tray. 

This job had done wonders for Will's style, and it was a wonder Mike could look directly at him without falling to his knees. Today was no different, his boyfriend confidently entering the room with black jeans that hugged his thighs, torn up to expose slivers of his tan legs. He wore a boxy black band tee tucked into a studded belt. A thin silver chain that was beyond worn out dangled from his neck in contrast to his beautiful high quality earrings that dripped from his perfect piercings. Showing off his hard work where his hair tucked behind his ears and had more recently been trimmed into a softer curtaining bang then his original bowl cut. 

Will carefully dropped a hand onto Mike's thigh, rubbing gently to sooth the restlessness. But it wasn't nearly enough. 

“You think this is a good idea?” Mike blurted out, making Will scrunch up his face in fond exasperation. 

“Of course, that's why I suggested it in the first place. “ Will responded amused. And far, far too casuall for Mike's taste. 

The shorter man began to fuss with the tray instead of continuing their talk, acting as if Mike wasn't about to completely spiral out. Which felt deeply unfair considering Will was not the one about to have a needle shoved through him. 

Will was carefully sorting out his tools, giving Mike's growing panic nowhere to go. Sure, Will had done this dozens of times. Panicked clients were probably normal. But Mike wasn’t just any client he was Will’s—

A sudden metallic clank interrupted his thoughts and Mike shot out of chair. Will's soft hazel eyes widened in shock.

“Sorry!” Will held up a horrifying silver torture device. “Sorry, I dropped this against the tray.”

“What the hell is that?” Mike demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at the metal death trap.

Will’s eyes shifted between the dark haired man and the tool in his grasp, clearly trying to decide how to sugarcoat it. “They’re just clamps.” he said finally, tone careful and still far, far, too calm, “They help keep the piercing straight.”

Mike blanched, “But you didn’t use those any of the other times!”

“Well, those were ear piercings, Mike. This is… obviously different.”

All the blood was draining from his head, and he wished he could just say this was a terrible idea, but Will had been the one to come up with it. He had never led him wrong before but…This was a nightmare. A well lit nightmare, with excellent music, and his extremely hot boyfriend narrating it.

He was allowed to panic about this. He was going to panic about this. He was starting to feel a bit…. fuck i might faint. 

“It's ok! I won't use them!” The shorter man surged, wrapping both hands around Mike's arms. Holding him up and rubbing little circles with his thumbs. It felt nice, and even more nice was that awful metal thing was now nowhere to be seen. “You ok?” 

The unspoken you don’t have to do this hung in the air between them. But Mike did want to, he was just…

“…you said it's going to hurt right?” 

Will smiled at him softly. “Mmm, I’ll be very careful, but so far you have thought all of your piercings hurt. And this one—” 

“Hurts.” Mike finished, wincing just voicing it. 

The brunet gave him a little reassuring squeeze, before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Mike’s bitten lips. It was nice, his mouth was a warm familiar pressure, and Mike couldn't help but melt into it. Let some of the adrenaline leave his body so he could be guided back into the high client chair. He scooted back on it sideways. Legs over the edge to his feet could be grounded. 

He wanted to panic more, but then, there between his spread legs was his boyfriend wrapped up in those ripped black jeans. A warm hand caressed Mike's sharp jawline as Will leaned in for another taste of Mike's lips. This time it was no simple brush together. Will pressed into him, tongue tracing the seam of Mike's lips, before slipping inside. Will kissed him like he had all the time in the world, every movement slowly going deeper. 

Mike sighed into it helplessly, long pale fingers curling into Will's shirt. Tugging him forward so they were flush together. Will hummed pleased, and nipped at his lips in appreciation, before his hands began to roam. Caressing Mike’s sides until his fingers hooked lightly into the hem of Mike’s shirt, tugging expectantly. 

Will pulled back so he could speak every word into the flushed and bitten skin of Mike’s lips. 

“Ready? You're a good boy Mike, you can take it.” 

Mike’s face bloomed with a red hot flush.

---xxx---

Authors note:

ANYWAYS obvi this is gone be rated E. Yes i have other longer fics to finish, but here we are anyways... i just cant stop thinking about this idea LOL even though valentines day is long gone. i just have had no free time. And this was a little treat because i had to replace my computer yesterday rip. but yeaaa might take me a min to finish this but hopefully i will. pathetic bottom mike?? sassy top will? say less!

anywayssss bluesky always sees my ideas first if anyone else is on there lets be moots 🥹💛💙 bluesky @ nixcloud

thanks for reading - Nix

[nix-nihili]

still thinking about George saying that the Agency reflected the attic in St Hilarion's at first but the boys reclaimed the space, made it their own with trinkets and books and board games and so many warm lamps like the lantern and basically built the bare space from the ground up. they took the manifestation of the attic, a place where one of them died, and changed it into a place that could be called home because it was also the beginning of the rest of their afterlives together.

[thaliaisalesbian]

and I don't want the world to see me

(this is way too long to post--tumblr did not like how many text blocks there were--so trying this format instead!)

read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/87702276

by pineapple_vel

In September, Neil takes a phone call that leaves him reeling. And all he can think about how is hard he tried to be a good son. He's breaking all of those rules now. A few weeks later, Todd gets a similar call. He's not supposed to tell anyone, but Neil makes that hard. They have the same secret. Todd's comes with an expiration date. Neil's doesn't. or: i had the thought "what would happen if neil's parents died early in the school year and he became an orphan? as long as no one knows, he can be in the play. he can do what he wants, but at the cost of having any sort of support through his grief." and ran with it.

Words: 25,191, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Dead Poets Society (1989)

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society), Todd Anderson, Charlie Dalton, Richard Cameron, Gerard Pitts, John Keating, Steven Meeks, Knox Overstreet, Ginny Danburry

Relationships: Todd Anderson & Neil Perry, Todd Anderson/Neil Perry, Charlie Dalton & Neil Perry, Todd Anderson & John Keating, John Keating & Neil Perry, Todd Anderson & Richard Cameron & Charlie Dalton & Steven Meeks & Knox Overstreet & Neil Perry & Gerard Pitts, Jeffrey Anderson & Todd Anderson, Jeffrey Anderson & Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society), Todd Anderson & The Poets (Dead Poets Society), Neil Perry & The Poets (Dead Poets Society), Ginny Danburry & Neil Perry

Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Neil Perry Needs a Hug, POV Alternating, POV Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society), POV Todd Anderson, Todd Anderson Needs A Hug, Discussions of Death, Wakes & Funerals, Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society) Lives, Nightmares, Falling In Love, Insomnia, Suicidal Thoughts, for like. two seconds

Neil stares at the phone. It’s the same as it was before he picked it up.

He’s spent his life trying to be a good son. Trying to live up to his father’s expectations and his mother’s dreams.

A good son wouldn’t stay at school after getting this news. Neil’s parents value education, though, so maybe Neil can be a good son by attending his classes.

A good son wouldn’t go and audition for a play on the same day he received the news of his parents’ untimely deaths.

What does that make him, then?

‘Now I can be an actor,’ loops in his head. ‘Now I can be an actor.’

It was his first thought when one of his father’s coworkers told him that his parents passed away yesterday in a tragic accident.

Neil didn’t ask what kind of accident. Was it a car? Did scaffolding fall on them? He doesn’t know, and he’s not going to call back.

What kind of son does that make him?

Neil doesn’t know if he misses them. He can’t tell if he’s sad or just numb.

His parents are dead, and he can be an actor. Without their input, without worrying about anything.

“Let’s go sit in my office, Neil.” Miss Bethany, their school nurse, guides him away from the phone–she takes messages for students and staff during the day, and is the only reason he’d even had a number to call.

Neil realizes that he doesn’t know if his father made a will or not. If it weren’t for Miss Bethany, maybe a lawyer or someone would have shown up at Welton, and that’s how he would have found out his parents died.

That might still happen. It’s like his father to be prepared for all situations.

Or it was. Because he’s dead.

And so is Mom.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I should really be getting to my classes.”

“I can excuse you for the day.” She reminds him. “I don’t know what your caller had to say, but it doesn’t seem like it was anything good.”

“I’ll be alright.”

Nolan doesn’t know. No one else knows.

It’s not like his father’s workplace is going to call Nolan and tell him.

Neil’s on a scholarship; he doesn’t need his parents to pay for tuition, and he doesn’t get into enough trouble for them to be called to the school (because that would mean possibly losing his scholarship and getting in more trouble at home). 

Neil shouldn’t hide this. He should listen to Miss Bethany and not attend his classes today. 

He’s not eighteen yet. He won’t be eighteen for over a year. It will become a big deal, though it doesn’t need to be one. He lives at school most of the year.

The neighbors might notice if his parents aren’t around, but that’s a summer problem. 

He’s made up his mind by the time he settles into his seat, swallowing down nausea.

Neil’s parents are dead, but he’s going to continue living as though they aren’t.

[firephoenix2305]

Angel Falls (5,237 words)

I'm so so happy that the finale is coming out in a week, so to celebrate I wrote a really happy lil one-shot! It's pure fluff, I swear, the title doesn't mean what you think it does 🤭

Summary

Aziraphale's eye is caught by a little article in the bottom corner of the newspaper. Crowley's is too. Fancy a quick trip to Venezuela for some sightseeing? (or perhaps some decompressing?)

And a little excerpt:

“Regardless,” he whispered, stepping back very slightly, his intention being for Crowley not to notice, “One can’t argue the name is…quite interesting.” “Named after the bloke who found it, apparently.” Crowley talked lower now that they were closer “Or, well, crashed into it. Same difference. Nothing special though.” “Still” He took another step back, this time a little less subtly “I thought…well, I might as well… honor it.”

Hope you like it!

Happy one week to Go3 everyone!! 😈😇♥️

(Shout out to Killerqueentle2006 for beta reading this for me!! Their Ao3 acc is linked in the author's note 🫶)

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Charles Rowland and Edwin Payne (Ballet Dancer AU)

Then he hears the music.

It’s soft at first, hardly there, enough to be mistaken as the humming of an old building settling. Then it rises to a crescendo so quickly, so shockingly, that before Charles pries his eyes open, he thinks a choir of a thousand angels has descended upon him, ready to rip him away from this hell of a life.

But there are no angels. There is no salvation.

There is someone though, taking centre stage, highlighted by the light shining resolutely on him, following him around with each spin and jump and-

There is a ballet dancer on stage.

Perhaps Charles was wrong earlier; he certainly looks like an angel.

-Nix_Nihili, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die

Alright, one of my favorite fics in this fandom, right from the very beginning! @nix-nihili's grasp of atmosphere is incredibly wonderful and this fic is so tenderly written! You can find it here!

[mazegays]

tossing pennies in the pool

@mystical-tmr

Prompt: Wishing Well read on ao3 here!

Many wishing-wells have decades of history, of toddlers and schoolchildren, young adults and adults alike making all sorts of wishes into their waters. Over these decades, stories became twisted–the first wishing-well was not created because a young girl fell into a perfectly normal well and her parents and sister spent the rest of their days sobbing into it, wishing for her to return, though that will be the tale one hears. The first wishing-well was created because a young girl did not fall into it, her skirts caught by her older sister before the tragedy could become truth. The girls’ embrace after, the wishes they held in their hearts and minds as they clung as if they intended to never release the other, held enough magick to create the wishing-well. Once one was made, the little creatures whom are the caretakers of magicks took up the duty of spreading them as far as they could reach. Some say that the young girl in the first wishing-well story saw something in the well before it became a wishing-well. Perhaps she did. What many do not remember is that the magicks of a wishing-well are fragile and tricky. Wishing-wells may show what one desires more than anything, or they may show a passing fancy. Wishes keep the magick from fading–without them, the wishing-well would return to being a regular well. The young girl who nearly fell into the well, if asked, would have told her parents and her sister that she saw the future while she was drawing up their water for the day. She would have insisted that she saw her unhappy marriage and her sister’s early passing in childbirth, leaving behind a widower and three young children. She told her daughter of this, in whispers, but her daughter had only seen good in that very same wishing-well, so the truth was discarded and spun into the sensational. What one must not forget, reader, is that wishing-wells can show the truth alongside one’s desires.

Even on stormy days, Harriet would insist on going to the wishing-well. Before her days clutching at her mother’s skirts ended, it became her greatest source of comfort, and her parents’ greatest source of worry, for she would not come away from it for anything. Harriet knew only the children’s tales of the wishing-well; she, nor her parents, knew what a wishing-well could truly do. As a toddler, she babbled endlessly about what the wishing-well showed to her–pretty dresses and amusements; her parents, dancing; her playmates never having to leave her side. As a child, she selected fewer of her peers into her confidence, though perhaps not wisely. For Harriet, there were no less pretty dresses than before, though she saw more dancing, and the dancers were not always her parents. As a schoolgirl, she kept her own counsel about the day-trip amusements the wishing-well showed to her, for they never properly matched the ones she attended. Her wishes shifted alongside her understanding of the world, as she made her way through her arithmetic and grammar. As a young girl, she caught flashes of a face she’d never seen in town; of hair and eyes that were not her own in her reflection. Her friends spoke of the wishes they made; little things, like taking the top of the class or getting a new dress for their birth-day. Harriet did not make those wishes, because she did not see those things. But she pretended, desperately, that she did. As a young woman, she saw her own reflection–her hair braided in rows and the length of it gathered to the top of her head. The flashes of the girl–for it could be none other than a girl her age–grew longer with each visit to the wishing-well. Sometimes, she would see herself dancing at a party, or wish for the rain to cease for a week-end. Usually, though, she found herself wishing to meet the girl whose visage she could not escape.

“You’re going to waste away over the wishing-well if you don’t stop staring,” Minho put his back to it, as was his way–he swore off staring into it for the rest of the year. Harriet has caught him at it, though he refuses to admit to it. “You’re going to ruin my reputation,” Harriet says dryly, “Behaving as you do.” “I could never. The whole town knows that your parents would never allow a scoundrel such as myself to ruin you.” “If you’re not looking into the wishing-well, then leave me to it.” Her temper is usually more in line with Minho’s little games, but today she finds herself wanting peace. Minho glances over his shoulder at the well–she catches him, but leaves him to it as long as it means he’ll leave her be–before he strides away from her. Her days at the wishing-well will only grow shorter as her responsibilities become more numerous. Her parents no longer speak into the wishing-well; Harriet cannot recall ever seeing them do so. Not even when she was still below their knees and had to be lifted to see into the water. She is determined to never stop visiting. She does not make wishes often, despite all the things the wishing-well shows her–she knows her desires, at this age. There’s a girl in the wishing-well, one whom she is sometimes allowed to glimpse. Harriet wants to know about her. She dares not wish for it, but the wishing-well serves its purpose all the same. It shows her the girl just often enough to keep her coming back, and never more. When Minho passes by her again and she has not spotted the girl in the wishing-well, she knows it’s time to go home.

Harriet does not see the girl in the well that often–not often enough to justify going every day for as long as possible–but it is what she has done since she was young, girl or no girl. So she continues the habit when she can–there are dinner parties to attend, and visits to be made, she is not permitted to ignore the company of her peers whenever she chooses. She brings a book to the wishing-well, sometimes, and reads while she listens to young children make their first wishes. There is no shortage of questions about what she sees in the wishing-well, but Harriet doesn’t answer any of them. Not even her parents, who are determined to discover what has her so distracted from her chores and schooling.

After some time, the girl’s visage vanishes entirely, and Harriet’s daily visits lessen to every other day. Then she sees the girl. Not in the wishing-well, but standing in front of it. The girl looks at her, and recognition lights up her face. She’s a handsome girl, proper posture and a pleasant face. Harriet almost speaks into the wishing-well, but she’s not certain if she wants to be this girl or love her dearly. “Did you come here to find me?” Harriet cannot stop herself from asking. “I am accompanying my brother; he has business on behalf of our father here. I see you in every wishing-well I look in.” “And I you,” Harriet says, though she only ever looks in one. “Wishing-wells are tricky.” “Yes.” “But I imagine you must be as clever as you are beautiful, so any wishing-well would have to work hard to trick you.” “Is it really a trick if we’re standing before each other?” The girl smiles, prettier when it’s not distorted by the water. “Sonya Collins, from Netherfield.” “Harriet Woodhouse.” “I don’t expect my brother to return for several hours. Would a long walk suit you today?” “I think it would, Miss Collins.” “Sonya, please, Miss Woodhouse.” “Harriet, then.” There is no one around, so they don’t need to stand on so much formality. As they walk, they find they have no shortage of topics to discuss, something Harriet does not get to enjoy with many.

Sonya cannot stay long, though, and within the week she is traveling again. They write when they can, though sometimes their letters are not reliable. The wishing-wells are. Whenever they can, they catch glimpses of each other in the waters, though they cannot speak through them. On their return journey, her brother extends an offer to Harriet’s parents–he is taking Sonya to town for the season, and wouldn’t it be nice if Harriet could join them? Sonya and Harriet are not seen outside of each other’s company throughout their stay in town, and though they become acquainted with a number of potential suitors, none quite catch their eyes. The year Sonya’s aunt passes and leaves her with a small house and a piece of land, she and Harriet move in to ensure its upkeep. The first thing they do is dig a wishing-well.

[nix-far-scourge]

everybody remember, there is plural joy out there. you don't have to suffer and be miserable to be a system. sure, might suck sometimes, and some will have their struggles, but you will make it through the dark. Remember the good that comes from being a system, things that happen in headspace, the internal support, everything that you didn't have before that you needed desperately. you will live, we all will. we're all systems regardless of origins and what terms we may use, we need to support each other. and hate isn't fucking punk!