#sunshine-reads

[sun-shine-babie]

Hi my lovely moonwalkers!! Where are my loves who are writing horror and Halloween pics with Michael?? I've been needing more things to read for the season!!! Pleaseeeee!!!

[sun-shine-babie]

THIS WAS SO GOOD, OH THE SUSPENSE...AND THE LITTLE PIECES LEADING TO THE BIG PLOT TWIST...I'd love a part two to this...just too good...

What Will Come Sundown

Pairing - Michael (Thriller) x Fem!Reader

Summary - Something seems to be wrong with your boyfriend...

Word Count - 3.8k

Warnings - no use of y/n, fem pronouns, established relationship, senior year (mike and reader are 18), based off the thriller mv, mentions of blood, body horror (???), MDNI

A/N - This is a request. (happy october!)

Spring, Senior Year

The clock away ticked at your nerves, ever so slowly chipping at the composed exterior you managed to carry throughout the day. Time continued to slip from your fingers, and all you could do was glare at the damn clock hung above the lockers. You ran the edge of your nail along the spine of the textbook you were currently clutching towards your chest. Groups of students flooded past you, maneuvering their way through the crowded hall. 

“Another no show?” Patricia – from beside you – asked. She was currently facing a mirror on the inside of her locker door, delicately applying a fresh layer of lip gloss. 

“Looks like it,” you muttered, frowning down at your scuffed white Mary Janes. Your visible disappointment reflected off the polished floor. 

“That’s the third time this week,” Patricia noted, before slamming her locker door. She turned to face you, mirroring your look of dejection. 

You sighed. “I tried calling him last night, but he wouldn’t answer.”

“Maybe he’s sick?”

“No,” you stated, shaking your head, “I’ve seen him sick before, and he never acted like this.” 

Patricia hummed, crossing her arms as she watched the passing students. You pushed yourself off from the locker, rolling your shoulders back as you gave one last glance toward the front double doors. 

“Let’s go,” you urged, nudging her forward.

“I’m sure Michael’s fine.”

You smiled, the action coming across as strained. Patricia shrugged, and fell in step beside you as you two headed to class. 

Worry tugged at the back of your mind, daring you to peer over your shoulder every so often with some false hope that he might appear. 

Yet Michael’s presence remained vacant amongst the sea of students. 

You pressed your cheek into your palm, lazily scribbling notes down on a loose sheet of paper. The monotonous tone of the teacher lulled the entire class into a weary silence, as some students struggled to keep their eyes open. They droned on, and on, stretching out the 45 minute class period into an eternity. Patricia didn’t take History with you, so you were left to peer out the large scaled window to your right and think. 

Perhaps you were being dramatic, and Michael truly was sick, as your friend suggested. You couldn’t help recall a time though, when he had come down with the flu and yet insisted on attending every baseball practice as if he were fine. Yet, this past week – when you would walk past the field on your way home –  you noticed his absence among the other players. You wondered if the coach had the same questions buzzing around his head as you did. 

The suddenness of the lunch bell startled the class, as if pulling them out of a dream. With a heavy sigh, you gathered your belongings, pushing your boyfriend to the back of your mind. 

Students fled the classroom, spilling out into the hall as they headed for the cafeteria. You brushed past people, cringing whenever their sharp elbows jabbed into your side. Uphead, you spotted Patricia peering over the numerous heads of passing students, searching for you. 

You raised your hand, trying to signal for her attention when something caused you to stop in your tracks. Just a few feet from you, was Coach Lee standing by the front office door. His eyebrows were pinched forward in concern, as he peered down at Michael, who was frantically speaking to him. Michaels lanky body seemed to sway ever so slightly, as if struggling to keep balance. He appeared drowsy, his wide brown eyes slowly blinking up at the coach. Even from a distance, you could make out the thin sheen of sweat on Michael's dark skin. You began pushing through the crowd, shoving your way through the slow moving bodies. 

“Michael!” You called out, your voice drowning in the cacophony of other rising voices. His warm eyes found yours, but only for a brief second as he hurriedly glanced away. Coach Lee solemnly nodded at Michael, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then Michael was off, moving further and further away from you until he vanished into the crowd. 

You scoffed, coming to a full stop as you glance over at the spot he once was. Coach Lee had a perplexed look on his voice, seemingly lost in thought, before he shook his head and walked into the office.  

Patricia approached you, watching in confusion as your eyes remained glued to the office door. “What’s wrong?” she asked, coming to stand beside you. 

“I just saw Michael,” you stated, “but it was kind of weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you were right about him being sick,” you admitted, “he didn’t look well at all.” 

Patricia frowned. “Did you try to talk to him?”

“I called his name, and I swear he heard me but he just walked off.” 

“You’re right, that’s weird,” she mused to herself. 

You sighed, feeling some strange unexplainable weight rest on your shoulders. A dozen questions ran through your mind, all overlapping into one constant buzz of noise. 

You were only sure about one thing, that something was definitely wrong with your boyfriend. 

The rest of the school day went by in a blur of assignments and lesson plans. By the time you approached your front door, your hand was already reaching to throw off your bookbag. 

“I’m home,” you announced, stepping into the entryway. You kicked off your shoes, nudging them over as you waltzed into the living room. It was a cozy, cramped room with shelves stuffed to the brim with books and a dull green couch that had been there since you were a kid. You glanced over at the looming grandfather clock that sat in the corner, it was currently 3:30 p.m.

“Dad must be working overtime, again,” you said aloud, your quiet words going unanswered. 

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence to have the house to yourself most afternoons. Your father had a habit of working late – at his office job – and losing track of time. You remembered being upset over it when you were younger, but you expected it now.

The bookbag was lazily tossed to the floor, as you flopped onto the couch. Sunlight streamed in through the living room window, splashing over your body like a warm blanket. Your body grew heavier, sinking into the plush cushions on the couch. The consistent ticking of the grandfather clock echoed throughout the otherwise silent house, worming its way into the corners of your brain. 

Your eyelids shut, as you eventually drifted off to sleep. 

You awoke with a gasp, the images of some horrific nightmare still stuck to your eyelids as you rapidly blinked. The faint depictions of blood and gore soon washed away as you shook your head. The living room was now shrouded in darkness, moonlight now spilt over your once resting form. For a moment, you believed you were still dreaming. The odd stillness of the house felt suffocating, as the shadows of the room seemed to move and grow the longer you peered into them. 

You harshly rubbed your eyes, before looking around the room again. Only to find it was just that… a room. 

“It was just a silly dream,” you whispered, reassuring yourself. 

Beside you, the home phone rang, momentarily starling you. You gathered yourself, taking a few deep breaths before you answered. 

“Hello?” 

“What the hell took you so long?” Patricia’s irritated voice came through the speaker, offering a strange sense of relief. “I’ve been calling you for, like, two hours.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said, moving to properly sit up. “I fell asleep as soon as I got home.” 

“Well, you’re a damn heavy sleeper,” she muttered.

“Why are you calling, anyway?”

“My dad advised me to call, and warn you.” Patricia explained, you could faintly hear her smacking on a piece of gum. “Apparently a few hunters this spring have been experiencing wild animal attacks – remember when my dad and brother took us hunting that one summer as kids? – anyway, he just thought it would be important for you to know.” 

You stared down at the carpet. “Why would it be important for me to know, exactly?” 

Patricia snorted. “Because of the absolute jungle that lives behind your house.” 

At her words, you peered over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the woods just beyond the kitchen window. The longer you stared, you could begin to feel some form of dread stir inside your belly. 

“I think I might try and give Michael a call, to let him know,” you said, swiftly turning away from the view of the kitchen. 

“Good idea,” Patricia mused. “Call me back afterwards, okay? I forgot to take notes during Algebra class and I know you’re Miss goody-two shoes about that stuff.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, whatever.”

“Thanks, babe!” she shouted into the receiver, before hanging up. 

You quickly punched in Michael’s number, knowing the digits like the back of your hand. The sharp ring of the phone pierced your ear, as it rang… and rang. 

“Pick up,” you muttered, gripping onto the phone cord. 

After what felt like forever, someone finally picked up. 

“W-Who is it?” Michael asked, his voice sounding scratchy and dry. 

“Michael? It’s me, are you alright?” you immediately asked.

“Shit – I’m fine baby, just uh – not feeling well.” 

“I saw you at school today,” you admitted, “you didn’t look too good.” 

“Yeah I’m just uh-,” his sentence was interrupted by a harsh coughing fit. 

“Michael-

“I’m fine, just sick,” he said, voice hoarse. 

You bit at your bottom lip, contemplating what to do. There was something itching at you, scratching at the back of your mind. Yet you couldn’t put your finger on it, as to why something felt off.

“Is that all?”

“I’m okay,” he assured, “don’t worry your pretty head about me so much.” 

Despite the worry nagging at your skull, heat rose to your face at his words. 

“It’s just…” you trailed off, unsure as to what to say. 

“What?”

You sighed. “Nothing, Patricia just called me about a few animal attacks going on. I guess it left me a little spooked, considering where I live.”

“Did she say what was attacking the hunters?”

“N-no, she just said-

You went silent, thinking back to his exact words. “I didn’t mention hunters.”

Michael was silent, the only proof of his existence on the other line was the faint sound of his shallow breathing. 

“Did you already know?” you asked. 

“Yeah,” he drawled out, "Patricia called and told me earlier”

You furrowed your brows at his answer. “She doesn’t have your number.” 

“Uh-,’ he stammered. “Look, I have to go, it’s getting late.” 

“Is everything alright?” you asked again, feeling your stomach twist. 

“I already fucking told you,” he growled into the phone, his voice dropping an octave deeper, sending a chill down your spine. “I'm fine, did you forget already?” 

You scoffed. “Don’t talk to me like that, I’m just worried about you.”

“Stop-

“No!” you exclaimed, suddenly standing up. Frustrating bubbled up inside you, spilling over the edge until the phone shook in your tight grip. 

“I’ve been calling you all week, only for you not to answer until tonight, “ you ranted, burning a hole into the carpet as you began to pace. “You don’t show up to school at all this week, and suddenly you pop up only to ignore me – and I know you heard me calling your name.” 

“Baby-

“Don’t baby me,” you interrupted, clenching your fist. “Christ, I’m sorry for giving a shit about you and your health. But that doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole about it.” 

Michael sighed. “Are you done?”

“You know what,” you muttered, “forget you.” 

You slammed the phone down, hoping the sound echoed in his head for the rest of the night. 

In the morning, you drowsily wandered into the kitchen. Your eyes were dry and prickly, as your legs could barely muster up a slow drag. Exhaustion cocooned you, causing you to bump your hip into the counter's sharp edge. 

“Shit,” you hissed, rubbing the area. 

“Language,” a voice scolded, over by the kitchen table. Your father peered up at you, from behind a pair of wired spectacles. A carefully folded newspaper was tucked under his arm, as if he were about to get up. 

“What time did you get home?”

“Around eleven last night,” he said, grunting as he stood up. 

“Don’t hurt your back, old man,” you joked, giggling to yourself. 

He playfully rolled his eyes at you, as he folded his arms. 

“You look as if you haven’t slept,” he questioned. 

“Just had a nightmare,” you explained, the lie slipping past your teeth. Well… half-lie at least. After your conversation with Michael, you spent the rest of the night wide awake, pondering over his words. When you called Patricia back, you relayed them to her, hoping to get some kind of answer. She was left just as confused, stating she has never had Michael’s number. You were left with more questions than answers, and a nauseous feeling in your gut you couldn’t explain. 

Your father hummed. “Well, take it easy then today.” You nodded, faintly smiling at him. 

“I’ll obviously be at work by the time you get home,” he said, “but I’ll leave some money behind for dinner, in case I have another late shift.”

“You always work late, dad.” 

The morning dragged on, until it was time for your father to drive you to school – something Michael always did. 

You tried to ignore the sudden coldness of his absence, as you got in the car.

Before you could comprehend it, Friday soon approached. School days felt as if they bled into each other, a giant warp of memory consisting of assignments one after the other. Throughout that time, Michael was never present. You could hear murmurs of his name sometimes, walking down the hall. You imagined the athletes were wondering to themselves about where their star player was. 

All that time too, and not a single phone call or note from him. Not even as much as a voice message, giving a half-assed apology. Your concern only grew, overshadowing the initial anger you had that night. 

“His ass better be dying, or worse, for him to ignore you this long,” Patricia said, over by the couch. It was late Friday afternoon, and Patricia had offered to come over, as your dad was – once again – working late. The sun was beginning to go down, a drowsy ending to a long day. 

You shrugged, flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine. It was an older issue, one you had read more times than you could count. 

“Have you tried to go see him yet?”

“Yeah, earlier today but no one was home.”

“Of course,” Patricia snorted, looking down at her nails. 

“I just…” you pondered, lowering the magazine into your lap.

Patricia glanced up at you, awaiting your answer. 

“Something’s wrong, I can feel it,” you said, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. You stood up, beginning to pace back and forth, in front of Patricia. 

“I keep replaying that weird conversation we had in my head. Why would he lie, and tell me you called him about the animal attacks?” 

Patricia tilted her head, curiously watching as you ranted, widely gesturing with your hands. 

“I don’t know, girl, but according to my brother they haven’t stopped.” 

“Have they been getting worse?”

“Apparently some hunter showed up to the ER last night, “ she explained, “with deep, red scratches across his chest.” 

You frowned, coming to a slow halt at her words. “How do you know?”

“Because a friend of my mom brought him in, heard them gossiping about it on the phone earlier this morning before I left for school.” 

“Jesus,” you whispered, sitting back beside her. 

Patricia pursed her lips, looking as if she had more to say. A look of unease came across her face, as she uncomfortably shifted in her spot. 

“What is it?” you urged her. 

“They don’t know what animal caused it yet,” she said, her voice falling to a quiet hush as if the walls could hear her. “The marks don’t look like anything they’ve seen before. When they asked the hunter what happened, apparently he broke down in tears, and began screaming about some beast out in the woods.” 

You found yourself ever so slightly leaning towards her, drawn in by the horrific nature of her story. 

“It could have been a bear,” you suggested, feeling your hands begin to tremble. 

Patricia shook her head. “No, according to what I heard, the guy was inconsolable. I don’t think it was just some bear.” 

“Well, what the fuck was it then?” 

“I don't know."

You two sat in silence, allowing the story to sink and settle in your mind. “I-I should get home, before it gets any later,” Patricia stammered, bolting up off the couch. 

“What, you’re just going to leave after telling me that story?” You trailed after her, as she hurriedly gathered her belongings.

“My parents don’t want me out after dark, not until the attacks stop.” Patricia opened the front door, allowing the last bit of golden light to leak into your house. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, “ she called over her shoulder, before slamming the door. 

The sun soon fell behind the hill beyond the houses, taking with it your last source of solace. 

The dark street outside the living room window seemed impenetrable now, as if trying to swallow the town. Even the glow of the neighbor’s porch lights seemed to dim. The night felt as if it were trying to reach through the window, and into the living room.

 In the dark, can anyone hear you scream? 

You fiddled with your pen, blankly staring down at a jumble of equations. A record spun on your turntable, giving you a false sense of comfort. Patricia's story had frightened you – as much as you hated to admit it. Images of your nightmare from before had returned, visions of grotesque gouges of flesh and blood as you thought about the hunter in the ER. How deep were the claws embedded in him? Did he pray, and if so, to who? 

Who would you pray to, if you were in his situation? Face to face with a wild beast, who cares little for your broken pleas and cries. Would you pray to your father, to your best friend… to God? 

The longer you continued to think about it, the more your throat began to constrict, as if it was trying to throw up the awful memory of that nightmare. 

“I need some water,” you muttered, hopping out of bed. You maneuvered your way through the dark hallway, and toward the kitchen. 

A tall, lanky silhouette stopped you in your tracks. It silently stood by the backdoor – that was open. You stepped back, feeling terror constrict around your lungs. The figure stepped forward, approaching your trembling form.

“Hi, baby,” they said, reaching a hand out toward you. 

That voice…

“Michael?” you inquired, feeling the breath leave your body. “What are you doing here?” 

“Something’s wrong with me…” 

You nodded, clenching your jaw as he stood in front of you. His wide eyes shined with tears, as they carelessly slid down his warm cheeks. 

“Oh, honey,” you whispered, cautiously stepping forward.  

He was trembling, as his bottom lip quivered. The sight of him broke your heart, resembling a lost child. 

“I came here to apologize,” he started, “I’ve been a real jerk to you lately.”

You sighed, gathering him in your arms. His bright red varsity jacket smelled of pine, and mint. 

“Michael, I need you to tell me what’s going on,” you demanded, caressing his face. 

He opened his mouth, the truth barley dangling off the tip of his tongue. Michael just sighed, muttering something incomprehensible to himself. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Damnit, why not?”

“Because…” he trailed off, searching your face for an answer. You nudged him, silently pleading for him to go on, and offer you some peace of mind. 

“It would break me if you saw me differently,” he confessed, suddenly gripping onto your forearm. “I can’t lose you, god not like that.” 

“You’re not making any sense,” you argued, pulling away from him. “All I’m asking for is the truth, Michael. Whatever it is, that’s all I want.” 

His dark eyes bore into yours, an unresolved panic buried within his pupils. 

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he explained.

“By pushing me away in the process?” you shouted, hearing your voice crack. 

“Please –

He suddenly doubled over, letting out a hiss of pain. You gasped, going to reach for him when he forcefully pushed you back. You stumbled into a chair, nearly falling over. 

“Shit, Michael –

A cry, buried deep within his stomach, left Michael’s lips. It pierced your ears, as his wails of agony echoed inside the house. He was curled over, clutching onto his head, digging his nails into the flesh of his scalp. 

“No, no, no, “ he pleaded to himself, “not yet, not like this.”

Then, you watched in between a mix of fascination and utter horror, as his bones emitted a sickening pop. His arms, and hands seemed to extend, as if someone was stretching them. Gross, sickly yellow talons grew over his natural nails. His tortured scream filled your head, as his body continued to shift before your eyes. Michael shakely stood to his feet, raising his hand before him as he stared at it in terror. 

A breathless scream left your lips, at the sight of his face. His black curls dangled over a pair of bright, piercing yellow eyes. A set of teeth, as sharp as blades, crowded his mouth. Tufts of hair began protruding from neck, crawling up his cheeks and sideburns. 

“Oh my god,” you uttered, feeling tears prick at your eyes. 

It was a grotesque sight, as the transformation bled into forever. His howls of torment were inhuman, and as ear-splitting as a banshee. 

A werewolf, the thing attacking the hunters was a fucking werewolf. 

It glanced up at you, momentarily meeting your crystal-like eyes. It snarled at you, before escaping into the night, through your backdoor. You stared, wide eyed, as the inky blackness of the woods swallowed up his figure. 

And before you could grasp onto a single though, you found yourself trailing after him, your socks sinking into the damp grass. 

Up ahead, a howl pierced the night sky, as the moon lit a path before you. 

The woods consumed you, as the low hanging branches struggled to fight against your driving force. 

The answer felt so close now, tantalizingly dancing in front of you. 

All you had to do was get through the night. 

[meyhew]

[kazbiter]

the beautiful thing abt reading neil interacting w literally any character who is pissing you off is that he'll get a good jab in for you and then ur like yeah neil whack him again!!!! and then HE WILL!!!

[taviacoolcat]

list of my favorite things about jeremy knox:

he's an english major

he's a middle child

he says words like "heck" and "hecka" and "hecked"

his best friends are lesbians

barkbark von barkenstein

having different animal noises as ringtones for the trojans based on what position they play

uses a light racquet for more control over winning stick checks

bleached his entire head because he couldn't go through with frosted tips

"you are going to be my success story: jean moreau the person, not jean moreau of the perfect court."

gay

[cherries-and-knives]

Everyone in six of crows: oh no omgggg my horrible dark awful secret I sure hope kaz doesn’t judge me when he finds outttt���🥺🫣😭

Kaz who has never given a single shit about anything ever in his life except maybe money and inej:

[infinite-mirrors]

my brain demands more tsc nonsense

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

More Star Bench Discord doodles

What did Moon do? Wrong answers only

[erlie]

Jean Moreau and Jeremy Knox, aka Scary Dog and the Golden Retriever.

[besavvy]

You know how in most fanfiction Peter Parker has like a ridiculously strong sense of smell? He usually is portrayed as having a nose pretty comparable to the average dog.

Medical alert service dogs are trained to look for certain scents to make their handlers aware that they are about to have a medical episode-usually well before it actually happens.

Peter could be a human service dog.

Just imagine spiderman being midfight with this gang or whatever and all of the sudden he's like trying to get this one dude to sit down or something because he's about to have a seizure.

Or he's helping some lost kid and gets him a snack because his blood sugar is tanking.

Or maybe while they're working in the lab one day he suddenly stops and tells Tony to take his migraine meds and Tony of course is like… why?? I feel fine??? And Peter is like no seriously. You about to be Miserable. Take your meds.

And he's right! And Tony is just like wtf?????

I thought of this while I when I was reading a fanfic and my service dog wouldn't leave me the heck alone because she knew twenty minutes before it happened that I was about to have a severe blood sugar crash.

[tiny-planet-13]

to be honest I know Neil would act the same regardless of an audience because he's a feral and pedantic piece of shit but the way he acts around the fbi in tsc is so irrefutably funny from making them wait until he's had his little drink to commenting or their illegal parking to eating his fucking takeout in front of agent browning but it almost makes me hope he was acting out for jeans sake, whether to keep attention away from jean to protect him or just to give him something to hold on to as he processes his grief over Elodie and the situation at hand and like I'm just reminded how much I love him but also just how unhinged he really is

[thatexygurl]

there's so many things in tsc that just come at you all at once, so it's hard to focus on just one thing to break down, but the most glaring thing that stood out to me is how hard it is to really put someone back together. especially someone so shattered that it's nigh impossible to glue them back and pray they don't crumble under your ministrations.

if jean is neil's foil, then jeremy is andrew's direct antithesis. whereas andrew is a steady bedrock because he's been broken too many times to know how to weather the storm, jeremy is too soft hands and an even softer soul. he cares and cares and cares. so empathetic and so gentle it almost breaks your heart. you pray for the impossibility that jeremy can survive knowing the truth because if he doesn't, then what hope does jean have? so you pray he can be steady too. that he can weather the storm as well. that he will not break when knowing that just under the surface lies shark-infested waters.

but then you remember the beginning. "even knowing everything could go completely sideways, you'd make that choice every time"

in every other universe, jean has not survived. but in every other universe, he did not have the trojans.

[baltharino]

Revolutionary Girl Utena (1997) R.O.D - Read or Die (2001) Soul Eater NOT! (2014) Izetta: the Last Witch (2016) Love Live! Sunshine!! (2016) My Next Life as a Villainess (2020) She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2020) Honkai Impact - Lament of the Fallen (2021) Otherside Picnic (2021) Love Live! Nijigasaki (2022) Love Live! Superstar (2022) Tokyo Mew Mew New (2022) Yuri is my Job! (2023) I'm in Love With the Villainess (2023)

[leroiestmortvivelareine]

Jean is not a delicate little butterfly that’s been trampled into the mud. He’s a chained dragon that’s been trampled into the mud, and the chains are off now. No one else could survive what he went through for as long as he did, certainly not with any trace of spirit or heart still intact. No wonder Jean feels so unseen. Not because people can’t see his pain… but because that’s ALL they’re seeing. How frustrating to prove yourself unbreakable only to be always seen as something broken. He’s faced the darkest fires of hell and survived, but everyone’s focussed on his still-smoking wounds instead of his still-beating heart. This man is a warrior. It’s his enemies they should feel sorry for.

[kiwiaok]

screaming crying and throwing up. nora I fear I won’t survive this

[mavilez]

here are the two of them together ☀

jean / jeremy