#with the hazy moon rising behind us

[mer-se]

Went for the sunset/moonrise and ended up getting caught in a surprise crazy lightning storm

[moonsaver]

hesperus

The evening star calls home. Ruin is your saving grace.

Tw/Cw; Suggestive/explicit scene, gender neutral reader, implications of religious themes (not great), dubious morals(?), reader is a COUGARRRR (implied), Sunday loves older authority figures (guilty), just guess at this point. Also reader is implied to be like a parental figure to Firefly. OOC because i love making canon characters my own ocs.

Pairings: Stellaron Hunter!Reader x Sunday (romantic), (hinted) Firefly x tb, (platonic) Firefly x reader.

A/n: 5.8k words, i hate this fic, enjoy whatever whatever.

——

“Will you be okay?”

The small girl looks up at you - trepidation and concern visible in her eyes.

“I should be asking you that, lovely.” You smile, gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was beautiful, in your opinion. You often verbalized how beautiful it looked, mentioning it as silver under a blue moon.

Firefly still had concern in her eyes, dampened by your words, her hand clasped over the middle of her collarbone.

“I'll make it.. I think.” Her determination made way through uncertainty. You hum, smiling at her.

“You will, as shall I. If you ever need, I will be there.”

You wink, making the young girl smile a bit. The small, almost sad smile, still breaks through her worry.

“I've heard they've been on the lookout for us. I'm..”

She didn't have to continue. You already knew. Your hand comes up and pats her head, gently.

“We'll be fine. Go on, my sweet.”

You smile, softly. It seems to melt away the rest of her trepidation.

She takes a moment. Then nods. Worry and uncertainty now embers as determination fires through her eyes.

You wave her off, as she makes her way.

You are being watched. But you are aware.

–———

You hum, swirling the champagne glass in your fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the top, and stick to the edges in clusters.

“Interrupting your break, am I?”

The man beside you laughs, softly. Almost forced. He doesn't respond further.

“I'm guessing your weekends are spent tending to your white coat.”

You tilt your head, looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips. He doesn't bother acknowledging you.

“I give it to the dry cleaners, actually.”

“Ah, busy man. I suppose I should leave you be.”

“..I have an inkling you won't.”

His wings bristle slightly. His halo shines beautifully – a sort of warning that hangs over his head. Sharp edges, blinding gold. Angels crafted to deter the evil.

But you aren't phased. Perhaps it is the alcohol.

“There was a story, I remember. If you're up for it, of course. It's quite old.”

“Ah, an anecdote from your life?”

“I'm not an ancient tablet.”

“I wasn't aware.”

You chuckle, setting your glass down, the glass base clinking as you do.

You take a brief moment; simply to compose and immerse into the present moment. You look over at the man, allowing yourself to shamelessly scan him despite the unreturned glancing or staring.

“Owls and Ravens were once friends. And both had snow-like feathers. As pristine as white clouds on the expanse of a sky.”

His hair is soft, blue and hazy under the warm light of the bar, shimmering the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, perhaps to get more comfortable.

“They decided, then, to paint each other, since nothing else was there to do. The Raven painted the Owl diligently, in patterns and dots. And the Owl sat patiently through the process.”

His eyes are piercing, golden, yet they rest, conserved and distant.

The alcohol hazed your vision, smoothing out the edges like a loving artist's strokes against the canvas of his visage.

Your fingers circle the rim of your glass, returning your gaze, watching the bubbles clear.

“But when the Raven's turn came, it never sat still. And as the Owl painted, it painted over the Raven entirely, marring it's feathers as black as obsidian.”

“What a shame.”

Your foot playfully taps the side of his, making his leg stop jittering up and down.

“Indeed.”

He hums, his gaze temporarily flitting from your foot to your hand, placed on your knee. He almost acknowledges you.

The background is a warm blur against your view of him, almost as though he's the sole performer on a podium – the light seemed to belong to him, and him only. 

“You have a daughter, am I correct to assume?”

His fingers tap, rhythmically, like patters of rain.

“No, just.. a friend. But I consider her as such.”

“She left in quite a hurry.”

“She did, didn't she?”

“has the dream not been to her liking? In the case something has gone awry, The Family hopes–”

“Oh, you know, kids these days. They see someone they like and skitter like a fool.”

He doesn't seem to take your words in stride. But you smile.

“I see.”

You stretch, spinning in the small loveseat, planting your feet down as you rise,

“See someone you like?”

“Already got a view.”

Sunday finally acknowledges you - his eyes trailing your form as you walk away.

——–

“I love you!”

The voice crackles from the plush toy's broken voice box, as Sunday peers down at it. He doesn't move – idly looking at it, and yet not bothering to pick it up.

He stares, for a few more moments, noting the grime and the tears at the seams. The small stains of probably candy or something sweet sticking to its “paws”. The bear had worn down inexplicably from love. The very love it spoke at every press. And from abandonment. He found himself wondering at the fleeting childhood passing by like a reeling ribbon from a child's hands, as if the bear had been dropped unwillingly, and had not been allowed to reunite with it's owner again. A strange dilemma – not alive, yet full of the most humanly feeling. So full, infact, the cotton burst at the seams, and it's button nose was dull. 

With careful movements, Sunday picks it up, by its collar behind its “neck” [if you could even say it had one]. His hand holds it at a bit of a distance.

“A fan of soft toys, Mr. Dreammaster?’

Your voice teases him. You watch his arm slightly falter, imagining a plethora of emotions on his face you'd love to pull at like strings of a tapestry falling apart.

“..I am the Head, of The Family. The Dreammaster would be–”

“It's alright. I was joking.”

“I wasn't.”

His voice is still, flat. There is no semblance of emotion.

“Feisty, today. Was your toy missing for a long time? Sour about how it looks, hm?”

Sunday breathes out; an amicable replacement for a drawn out sigh. He turns to you, still holding the bear at a distance, staying quiet.

“Now, that is no way to hold a gentleman.” 

You walk forward, and gently grasp the bear in both of your hands. Sunday's eyes flicker to your gloved hands, as though in his own curiosity of your lack of concern in terms of hygiene.

“There. Better. You ought to be respectful to your elders.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. I should have bowed when you spoke to me.”

He bows slightly in jest, his hand on his heart,

“Hm, that's right.”

Sunday smiles, looking up at you from his bowed state. You seem to pay more mind to the bear in your hands, an array of similar thoughts in your head as you process it's appearance.

“Do you want to take it with you? Who knows, you might come to like it.”

“Please, that's no way to ask someone to get rid of it.”

You eye his non-faltering, feigned innocent smile. He simply closes his eyes and continues smiling.

“Well, turns out it has a nametag. It won't hurt to stitch it up a bit and return it back.”

He hums, watching you fix the bear's little dishevelled bowtie.

And then he clears his throat, catching your attention.

You tilt your head, curiously looking at him.

“Yes?”

Sunday points to his own tie, slightly miffed. You chuckle,

“Well, now. Whoever shall fix that?”

“Perhaps an elder. They know better than I.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bear down gently onto the side, removing your gloves and fixing his tie.

———

“Cozy, cozy.”

Kafka purrs into the phone, the rasp of her voice not blurred by the digital medium, as you stare in the distance at the blue-haired halovian.

“Kafka, I'm gonna have to call you back soon.”

“Just when things were about to get interesting..”

You roll your eyes – she can't see it, but she chuckles, knowing what your silence meant.

“Alright, goodluck. Looks like you'll need it.”

You hang up before she has anything else to say, pulling out a compact mirror, and adjusting your appearance. Just as you snap it shut, a small creak of the loveseat beside you indicates his occasional arrival.

“You're late. And I hoped a man of your stature was more punctual than that.”

You tease, watching his eyes never meet yours. Only this time – you catch it. He swallows, rather thickly, watching his adam's apple bob as he does. 

“I don't recall having scheduled any meetings with you.”

“Oh?”

His reply is curt, almost condescending if you weren't the type to brush it off.

“Seems my last story hasn't melted the ice yet.”

“Not an inch.”

“D'aw, alright. Wanna hear more, lovely?”

His wings – not his ears – twitch slightly at the pet name. You notice the faint rush of blood to the tip of his ears.

He doesn't answer, choosing to be chaste in silence. You huff out a chuckle,

“Alright, drink's on me then. I'll tell you something interesting.”

——

In your travels as a stellaron hunter, you've assorted many into repulsions and desires that draw you in.

To fast thrills, versus the indignancy of a dragging present. You find yourself drawn to the bright lights of a night bar, versus the blinding array of a scorching sun. To shallow connections in lieu of heavy and complex relationships. Attachment would be your downfall. Ruin is your saving grace.

However, you find yourself looking for your repulsions.

The grey haired girl stands in front of you once again, shuffling from foot to foot, her eyes low and shy as her hands fiddle with a stray lock of her own hair. You eye her for a moment, before humming, and gently coax  her to face you by placing an index finger under her chin and raising it up.

“Little bug, what's on your mind?”

“Um..”

“Script not to your liking?”

You watch her mumble under her breath, her face slightly tilting down as she resists the urge to tuck it away again. As she does, you gaze from over the top of her head; a familiar blue haired man walking into the distance, followed by panicked coworkers. It seems he will be amiss once again, for today.

“I couldn't.. tell them.”

“The trailblazer?”

She hums, nodding.

You huff out a chuckle, patting her head.

“You have your chances, do you not? Rest easy, your time will come.”

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slightly dropping, and her hands leaving the lock of hair to return to her sides. Her eyes are still low, as though scanning the pavement under your feet, as she contemplates. You watch her bite the inside of her cheek before she raises her face again and nod.

There is a fire in her eyes.

It is almost like the Sun.

You are almost afraid of it.

“I'll do it. As many times as I need to.”

You smile, leaning back onto the cold wall behind you.

“We should go shopping after your next attempt.”

You find your jaw clenching after the words slip from your mouth. Your repulsions are your weakness. Yet you still seem to subconsciously seek them out. It's a testament to your human nature.

She nods, smiling at you. She stays in her place for a moment, before she speaks again,

“I could.. ask Kafka to go with you if I don't make it.”

You turn and glance back at your usual spot at the open bar‐empty without you and the man you've been missing lately. Your smile only widens at her perception. Clever girl.

“No need. I'd like some silence anyways.”

She seems a bit unconvinced, as she continues to gaze at you for a brief moment more, scanning you for any deception. Out of worry than any ulterior motives, unlike the woman she mentioned a while ago.

Truthfully, you were lonely. This is what your ruin does to you, regardless of how it saves you. A few conversations lure you into a false sense of companionship, regardless of however brief it must have been, even encouraging you to divulge more than necessary if desperate enough. You find your eyes flitting at anything the colour of pale blue. At anything that glows gold under a light.

You chuckle and wave,

“I'll be fine, honeybee. Go, be on your way, now.”

She nods, smiling at the pet name. 

You find your repulsions carry you elsewhere, the bar fading into the background as you walk the opposite direction, once all spying eyes have cleared. You find your eyes flitting to find him. However, no matter how blessed your vision may be, the absence left behind can only be described, not pointed to. Ultimately, it is your mind that hinges on the assessment of what you have lost, or gained. 

But it seems this time your heart has taken the hit – a burrowing feeling between the slats and the depths of your ribs as though an animal had sprung from it, and left it behind as a husk of what it once was. 

–——

Sunday tuts, his fingers taking a bold graze of your hair, sliding and gently tugging out a lock.

“You ought to take better care of your hair.”

You stay silent for a brief moment, and it's apparent to him aswell that you hadn't expected him to do something so.. casual, considering his formalities. He takes his time to address it in your period of silence.

“I simply noticed and commented on it, no need to look like a deer caught in headlights.”

His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, and avert immediately. You watch his hand fall to his side, his fingers slightly shaking. You can't tease him on it – it would be hypocritical. A slight, excited sort of feeling sparks in your stomach.

You lick your lips, and take a sip of your beverage, feeling your senses dry up a bit. The liquid instead burns at the dryness of your throat.

“You're into haircare, hm?”

You reply, ignoring the brief silence and the tension it carried.

“Often. It comes with taking care of my wings.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence once again. Unlike the pleasant one you two usually shared, this felt different; it felt electric. Thick, a bit suffocating. 

“I like your piercings.”

His hand, previously resting on the counter, subconsciously raises up to fiddle with his earring,

“Thank you.”

You stay silent again, almost inviting in the tension that causes him to graze his teeth against the inside of his cheek, a step away from chewing on the sides of it.

You break the ice first.

“Do you prefer gold or silver?”

“Silver.”

He stays silent for a moment. He's often found his mind wandering when it comes to you – wondering how various adornments would suit you.

“Really? Didn't take you as a silver type.’

“Ah, about me?”

“Who else?”

He felt silver suited you; more than your complexion, he simply felt.. drawn to it. Like the faint glimmering of a moon's reflection on a lake. You were someone who's depths were mysterious, almost alluring to him.

You stay silent, too. The question hangs in the air for a brief moment.

You watch his shaky fingers rub slightly at his nose. You've noticed a lot of things about him. The tips of his nose and ears that turns red a bit too easily. The faint fluttering of his ghostly blue lashes. The twinkle of gold – not just of his halo, but the various imprints of it on him; jewellery, and the woven golden threads of his pristine suit.

His eyes follow to your hand, on the bar's countertop, swallowing thickly again.

It seems despite everything, he's still a fool in the grasp of his shame.

He looks away,

“I prefer gold.”

——

Sentience is a curse, he thinks.

His fingers tap and circle the perimeter of the frail glass, a clink accompanying each one. Waves form on the surface of the shimmery liquid from the small force.

Morality is a cruel beast. Because it is unrecognisable. And it knows you.

It follows you, through your ages. A small, ghastly and putrid thing, akin to a shameful, big animal. Hunched over, following you like a chore. Like a lost, stubborn child. It grows with you. It becomes bolder. It becomes aware. It has your voice. Soon, the mind caves and buckles into the grasp of the dastardly beast, that grows like uncontrolled weed on a substrate. It grows and envelops. And it tells you – can you truly allow yourself to do this? And the answer is never yes. Morality is a curse. A big ugly thing, unafraid to show it's face. It fills the room when silence staves arguments in the form of chastened tension.

Yet he finds himself, almost seeking it out. Searching the cruel shackle of his morality, almost wanting it to shame him into hiding. 

Your place is empty. He notes. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, fluttering lashes coming to a halt. He envisions the faint waft of your perfume, the dainty clicking of your fingers over the rim of the glass, the cheeky tap against his agitated foot. Sunday would find himself already ashamed, if he'd outright admitted he'd actually been staring at you, from his periphery. You overshadow the ugly beast, drawing out a sort of soft, beautiful serenity with a hollow voice, and an elusive persona. 

Angels are, by design, made to stave evil. Somehow, however, it seems he has attracted one. A devil in the form of you. And yet, like a man yet to feel the cold relief of forgiveness on his lips, he wanders aimlessly in his mind, as though in search of you. Sin is unbeknownst, ignorance is plaguing, and yet he revels in it. Even for a moment.

He huffs out a laugh. A novel turn of events. Its his turn to wait for you, isn't it?

Yet it seems easy to do, simply imagining your form beside him once again, telling him another strange tale, either for your own amusement or to reel him in. He disregards the source. His weary face finds an ache, a pleasant one, as it pulls into a faint smile. 

As sentience drives a being to deviate from instinct, his awareness has driven him to exhaustion. Yet you are a double edged sword – a balm for his exhaustion yet endlessly pushing him to caution.

——

“You've been gone too long, haven't you?”

You croon, a cheeky smile on your face, Sunday bashfully keeping his eyes locked to his drink. Despite everything, he cannot meet your eyes.

“I have.”

For the first time, the pastor is of the guilty. The devil has come to exorcise him. But exorcism does not mean erasure of sins, neither does it mean cleanly cutting off the strings that attach one to them. You may as well weave more of these strings, and craftily ground him to you.

“How will you make it up to me?’

You drawl, leaning on the palm of your hand, speech slightly slurred from the alcohol.

“..How would you like me to?”

His gaze is trained on his hand – gripping the fragile neck of the glass with a bit too much force. 

You hum, twirling your own glass, watching the liquid rush and bubble at the edges.

“Tell me a secret.”

He swallows. 

A secret?

“Is that.. truly what you desire?”

“Mhm.”

You take a sip of your beverage. Sunday is relieved, yet almost disappointed.

“..very well.”

He breathes in, and takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes flit to you, a small flicker of boldness somehow making him hover over a line he dares not cross. His gaze wanders to your lips, the slight crinkle beside your eyes, the squish of your cheek against your palm. He eyes your clothing. 

A stellaron hunter.

It was as though he was placing himself as the bait in a trap. As though he was the one caught in the trap. What else could he complain about? Except for that of which he can't admit – his unbecoming is his fault.

His fault for unreeling like a ribbon under your daft fingers. He finds himself wanting to spill like an ink bottle, the surface tension of the liquid keeping it from just flowing over the thick, glass borders.

And he breathes in your perfume. He breathes in the expanse of the night's air. And he spills. He spills so cautiously, so quietly, as though he is afraid of staining his own lips with the tenacity of his words.

He has many secrets. Most of which were handed to him, more akin to an heirloom than an actual personal matter. More akin to a treacherous contract than whispered confessions. How he wishes this was a confession to you, than an unveiling over his disgusting innards.

But you listen, unwavering. A lazy smile still gracing your lips, stained with grapes and understanding. It is as though you were stained in so many ways, his words are unflinchingly simple to you. It becomes a confession, rather than a revelation at the altar of the cartilage shell of your ear.

And you keep it. You keep it like a lost prayer. Like a silent vow. 

“..want me to whisper it to you?”

You return the sentiment, offering a request. It seems you are no guiltier than he innocent. 

———

“Can't convince you, can I?”

“Not at all.” Please don't try, anyway. He lets those words die on his tongue.

You huff out a laugh, a bit forceful, as you look away from him, folding your arms.

“Shit, you don't pull any punches, huh?”

A pang of guilt hits him at the slight hurt in your forced laugh. But he can't be deterred.

Not that you were going to, considering Elio's script. It's on you, really. But you didn't expect it to actually hurt.

You watch the empty audience seats, his back turned to it.

“It's a pity. I wish I could have seen this theatre when it was filled to the brim with people.”

“..it would have been an extraordinary view. It always is.”

“You look forward to it?”

…

“Not anymore.”

You hum, your teeth nipping at the skin of your lips. The quietness of the theatre is exemplified at the rustle of your clothes, as you turn to look at his back. The light of the podium makes him look beautiful. His halo is almost blinding. He looks like the Sun. You'll be lead to your death, at this rate. Wasn't Ruin supposed to be your saving grace? Here you are – disguised as both Icarus and the blinding Sun.

Sunday stands still, a cleancut form, unable to face you. You can stare at his back all day. But the pain resounding in your chest from your heart hurting strings you back into the present. You breathe deeply, and sigh,

“Alright. Goodluck, then.”

With one step forward, you disappear as quietly as you came. It's a trick familiar to your group; as Sunday knows. But even then, he braces himself to greet the empty space you leave behind, his heart sinking further at the loss of your presence. 

———

Sunday finds the shackles of punishment more liberating than death on his knees.

He learns this in isolation. He learns many things in isolation.

He learns how to miss you.

Phantoms and taunts of your words echoing the empty expanse of his empty mind, wafting through the many whispers of the stellaron that plagued his mind. 

His finger twitches upwards, when his lifeless eyes imagine the faint illusion of your affection, grazing fingertips over his knuckles. You hadn't actually ever gotten so physically close to him, but he indulges himself. He imagine the soft sensations of your lips on his jaw, trailing up to ghost the shell of his.

“Miss me, Mr. Dreammaster?”

He shivers at the illusion. Your voice is close yet far; reverberating in the hollow wasteland of his mind like a single thread of gold.

A lot. He wants to say. He swallows the words, and for the second time, the fruit lodges in his throat. To admit is to acknowledge the sin.

“Make it up to me, Mr. Dreammaster?"

A knock. Your phantom, agonisingly so, vanishes like a mist casted away by a gush of wind. But the interruption is far from divine.

Jade, from the IPC. 

——

Like gently settling fog, rumours stagnate over a crowd. The whispers and the hushed words are not elusive to your ears.

Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. Firefly is accompanied by Silver wolf, you wouldn't have to worry.

As much as your thrills lure you to the lavish party to celebrate the Nameless, your repulsions seem stronger. 

You sip your beverage, tipping the glass up, but your eyes stay on your phonescreen. You hadn't ever texted Sunday, and neither had he texted you. You two hadn't even called. There was no history. It would be as though you could keep your phone open for hours and no one would bat an eye. Even for the most prestigious of those in stature would have to occasionally practise patience when it came to him. Who would you be? The vague, elusive stellaron hunter who's suspected of causing trouble wherever they go? Like a stray piece of pebble that's easy to disregard and kick away, who is he to ever glance at you?

And so you stare, measuring in silence, the strange stirring of feelings in your stomach. You could blame it on your beverage, but you hadn't drank enough really, mainly because you couldn't even bother keeping it down.

Buzz

You blink, watching a notification pop up, and promptly retreat as you click on Sunday's contact again.

He messaged you?

No, it couldn't be. It must be one of The Family's members.

You push yourself off of the wall you'd been warming with your back, and take a small step forward in contemplation, your eyebrows knitted as you stared.

Why would they send you to his office's location?

——

Sunday breathes in, the cool, familiar air of his office hitting the back of his throat as he does.

There is a certain pleasure in ordinary things. 

The patience of a ceramic cup that stays warm with coffee. The smooth crafting of the surface of a wooden desk. The ambience of the air conditioner accompanying the steady scribbling of a pointed tip on paper. The comfort in reclining back in a cushioned office chair. Things he may as well soon never come across again.

He swallows, his eyelids doing little to shield the overhead lighting of his office, but still keeping them closed to simply savor the feeling.

A shadow emerges, obscuring the light from his eyes, casting a shade on his face. It's soon accompanied by the faint wafting of perfume.

“Miss me, Mr. Sunday?”

This wasn't Ena's dream. But for a moment, he could have considered it.

You're leaned over from behind him, watching down at his face as he opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but decides to stay silent.

Your hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face, your palm pressing beside his eye, fingers reaching the bottom of his chin. Your thumb lingers around the edge of his mouth. You both stare at each other, simply noticing the dilation of each other's pupils.

“It's just Sunday.”

He tells you. There is no animosity, no hostility in his voice. It's almost a whisper, as though he's unsure if you are real. His own hand reaches up, and cautiously, his fingers graze the side of your face.

Your skin is warm. Your relaxed smile widens as he does so. He shivers.

“Savouring your final moments?”

He smiles.

“I am.”

You stay that way for a moment, before slowly leaning back and standing up straight. Sunday gets up from his chair and moves to stand across you.

“Couldn't let me know where you were a little earlier?”

You tease him, but he can sense the slight irk in your voice.

“My deepest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

You hum, spinning on your heel and walking around his office, fingers grazing the edge of his desk as you walk beside it, and to the front. You turn, leaning on it, your back facing him.

“A secret won't be enough this time, y'know?”

He watches your hand fiddle with a few trinkets on his desk, your other hand supporting you. He makes his way to you again, rounding the desk, and stands in front of you,

“What may help?”

You hum again, but he knows better. You're feigning your contemplation.

You smile, still leaned back against his desk.

“I wouldn't know. Something special before we depart?”

“Hm.. is that so?”

He steps closer, his hands placing themselves right beside your waist on the desk behind you, caging you in. His eyes never leave yours.

“Mhm.”

You smile, looking at him.

He leans in, eyes falling lower, on your lips, as he asks,

“Now, what shall I do?”

His warm breath fans over the lower half of your face, and the small exposed bits of your collarbone.

“Perhaps do as your seniors advise you.”

“Hm? Who?”

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, push off of the table and swerve him, pushing him against the desk as you lean in,

“You can listen, can't you?”

He breathes in, slightly winded at the switched positions.

“I might need guidance.”

You huff out a laugh,

“I'll guide you, so listen well.”

You lean in, your lips almost brushing his, but pull away when you sense he might lean in, his lips stay slightly parted as he watches you.

“You need to be patient, okay?”

He almost doesn't hear you, swallowing as he eyes your lips, his abdomen constricting, feeling something tighten and coil.

“I will.”

You smile. And lean in, testing his resolve,

“Do as I say, alright?”

His lips twitch, and his breath hitches. He waits, agonisingly, as your lips brush against his, but don't press. He whispers out,

“I will.”

.

“Good.”

You finally press your lips against his, and it's as though a river rushes through his veins, as he eagerly kisses you back. His breathing is heavy, his hands unsure as they hold onto your waist, but you're made aware of his desperation as his nails unconsciously dig into your flesh, through the thin fabric of your shirt. You suck in a breath at the feeling, and he almost moans, his wings bristling and tensing as he desperately tries to deepen the kiss, almost panting into it as your tongue brushes against his lower lip, eagerly parting them open.

Sunday can taste the alcohol mixed with your sweet saliva, causing his head to spin a bit, but instead he presses further, his tongue eagerly lapping at every inch of your mouth. You pull away for a moment, but his mouth follows close, kissing the side of your mouth and trailing them down the column of your throat. You breathe in, shivering as you close your eyes for a moment, each wet kiss electrifying and going straight down to your core. 

He mumbles your name against your skin, his tongue laving at a spot before his teeth nip at it, causing you to gasp. Your hands crawl up to the base of his head, one pushing into his fluffy hair and fingers entangling within the strands.

“It's okay.”

You breathe out, but he shakes his head slightly.

His tongue presses against the base of your throat, and drags up all the way to the corner of your mouth, before his lips envelop yours again in a heated kiss. He parts, panting,

“I wanted to see you. Every second I spent there..”

His hands run up and down your sides, feverish at the contact they'd been restrained from,

“I know.” You say, looking at his dishevelled state, your hands coming to rest on his chest.

"I wanted to return to you."

You feel his hands slide down and rest on your hips, his knee nudging between yours, before he slides up further and pushes his thigh at your core, making you jolt for a moment at the contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, almost pressing you down onto his thigh. Your hands clench at the fabric of his shirt as the contact shoots up your spine, making you arch slightly into him.

He breathes in, leaning down, his lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath coming out in puffs as he whispers,

“I'm yours, aren't I? So go ahead and prove it.”

You smile.

“Alright, then.”

–——

“[Name]!”

Firefly's voice calls out to you, and you smile, looking over her winded appearance.

But you weren't in the state to complain. You looked similar, if not even worse. Your shirt was slightly wrinkly, tie askew, your hair patted down in a rush. You hope no one noticed you wobble.

“are you okay?”

Firefly would be more worried instead of confused if not for the wide smile you've donned. She glances over her shoulder at the bustling crowd, her eyes almost searching for someone, before returning to you.

“I'm alright. Your hair.. seems exciting.”

You comment, and Firefly blushes, patting down her own hair.

“I'll tell you what happened later, but.. we should leave now.”

You nod,

“Silverwolf?”

Her hologram appears without a second's delay, her annoyed resting face almost lovingly familiar to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.”

You both chuckle slightly at her.

The party ends on a positive note.

———

“Quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Greetings, to you too.”

You smile, your virtual form glitching slightly. Although Himeko doesn't disregard you as she does Kafka, she's still wary of you, as are the rest of the crew.

“Settling in well, chicken boy?”

Himeko cuts in,

“What do the Stellaron hunters need now?”

You chuckle, softly,

“Miss Himeko, it's been a while, hasn't it? Regardless, I sincerely apologise, but these questions are solely for Mr. Sunday here.”

Her face shifts, almost unnoticeable, clearly displeased by your words. She sighs, and glances back at the new recruit. The rest of the crew follow her suit.

Mr. Yang's voice flows in,

“Perhaps there remains any unfinished business with the stellaron hunters? It would be wise to address it sooner than later.”

“None of the sort, Mr. Yang.” You reassure, hands neatly folded, as you smile,

“Just a few, simple questions. Think of it as a.. survey, of sorts.”

“A survey?”

Sunday steps forward, facing your hologram directly. You would have blushed if it wasn't virtual.

“3 questions. That is all.”

“..alright.”

You sense his hesitation, slowly melding into trust as his thoughts process. Although relationships between your factors are complex and messy, it is you that's asking him.

“What is your name?”

“..I am Sunday.”

“Where are you stationed?”

“The Astral Express.”

“Are you happy?”

The question makes him hesitate, words stuck in his throat like a grape seed for only a moment.

“..yes. i am.”

You smile. Sunday faintly returns the expression. After a brief moment, you turn to Himeko,

“Kafka will speak to you shortly, Ms. Himeko.”

And you vanish. Just as mysteriously as you'd come into his life.

[mysticmellowlove]

ENTITY CO - LEON

note; welcome to the first post from my new series, I'm hella stoked about this, give the people monster yans!

warnings; sub yan, sub male, a/b/o, monsterfucking, dom reader, yan male, male reader, possessive/territorial, monster caulk!, omega reader, anal,

Entity; Werewolf - Leon. Unnatural strength, enhanced senses, transforms under the light of the full moon, infectious, widespread, weak to silver

"I know you've had a long week O3." My lips pursed as I looked up towards the handler who looked after my section. ENTITY was a new and rising enterprise dealing with relocating hybridized 'monsters'. I, however, was an in-house monster which simply meant I'd be staying here for the rest of my life. It was not the best job but at the end of the day all my needs were fulfilled and I was only a couple of tasks below platinum, the tier when the real privileges set in.

"But we're having some trouble with Leon again, he's mid-rut and refuses to fuck any of our other omegas. You're the last one we can come to." The handler looked down at me from his balcony as I nestled into the furs that comprised my nest. I had just gotten done with helping two other alphas with their ruts and now... now they want me to do it all over again. I grit my teeth and tried my best to pretend as if I wasn't completely drained dry. Day after day of helping men who barely gave me another glance had really grinded my gears and now I have to help Leon?

Notorious for rejecting omegas, sometimes even going so far as to maim them and leave their dead bodies for his handlers to find, and prone to extreme violence and isolation... Leon was by far one of the worst werewolves held in ENTITY's facilities.

"So you want me to go in there and help him out?" I scoffed as I looked upwards. They nodded because, of course, it had to be my responsibility to deal with all the hardasses here. With a simple shrug and a sigh, I was on my way to the isolation ward.

The isolation ward is the home of the most dangerous monsters in the warehouse. It was darkened to their liking and the atmosphere was horrific. My instincts were going haywire. This place was awful, the complete opposite of a nice place to rest and create a nest. A bitter feeling grew in my stomach as I was escorted down the hallway by the isolation wardens.

We eventually stopped at one of the doors, Leon's name and species engraved into it. I shook my head in annoyance before the warden himself guided me inside. There were no formalities, no warnings, nothing but a small shuffle and the sound of a lock behind me. This wasn't a simple task, everyone was assuming I wasn't going to make it out of here. I grit my teeth at the gall they had to just sack their most useful omega like this.

However, with the task at hand I focused on the murky haziness of the room. I had to say the forest smell that seemed to permeate the sheets spread in the corner was calling to me, Leon smelt good as much as I hate to admit it.

Movement emerged from the blankets and there he was, the hulking beast that was Leon. He was shirtless, only a pair of beaten-up boxers covering what I knew to be a massive cock. Scars littered his chest as his yellow eyes seemed to pierce my soul from across the room. I hadn't really seen him around before but from the rumours I heard apparently he had been found up in the Alps. His beast was majestic white, mottled with old rusty stains from his time as an apex predator. Now? Now he was a lumbering hunk of meat. It was... sad in a way.

"You're mid-rut, rejecting all other omegas," I stated. I was stalling and I think he knew it as well as he sniffed at the air. I knew he wouldn't be able to scent slick on me, I was tired and not at all aroused to be in this position. Years of acting like someone I wasn't all because I got dragged here to this facility... it had worn me down.

"You smell like three other men." His voice was gravelly, a tone so deep that in any other circumstance it would send shivers down my spine. I swallowed my pride and walked forward, inspecting his makeshift 'nest' with slight disgust. I was wary about him sure but I also had a job to do. This was no place for someone like me to be, it was grungy and dark and hard.

I began to shed my shirt, letting it fall into the muddled mess of blankets below me before I was unceremoniously stopped by a guttural growl. My inner self froze at the sound as it reverberated around the room, frozen in fear as his clawed feet audibly approached me.

"Who the fuck did this?" He whispered low, his head leaning into my neck as he scented me, trying to find the last male I was with. I coughed to clear the uncomfortable feeling. Before I could say anything he slid his hand around my face and clasped my mouth shut.

"I know what you'll say, 'it was nothing' but it isn't is it. You don't know me but I've been waiting for you. Years..." The weight in his voice was palpable as I smelt the sweat and rolling scent from his hand. My muscles were taut as his claws trailed down to the bruises and scars on my back.

"They tried everything to get me to calm. I call them sacrifices, which they tried to appease me with when I arrived. But you, you were in the middle of it. A simple throwaway scent that I'd be tracking down for months after my arrival. Leather and lemon tang, so fucking indulgent." My eyes fluttered as I could do nothing but listen to him. I didn't remember that day at all, all I knew was that I was helping the newer omegas settle in, could my scent have entangled with theirs? Was that why he was able to sense me?

In a room full of ripened omegas he found my scent.

"I stalked the halls, cries and calls from all the other hybrids here couldn't get me off that fucking scent and just when I thought I found it... they locked me up here." He growled, his teeth beginning to nip at my neck, my gland. My eyes widened in alarm. There was one big rule between all the werewolves here, no marking. Absolutely no marking, we were here to be hired out after all. I felt my heartbeat rise as his teeth grew closer to my sweet spot. My legs grew weak but as I suspected he was holding me up, the hard muscles in his chest pressing against my now unclothed back.

The small trickle of slick that left me made me ashamed for a moment, to think that such an animalistic man could get me going like this after everything I had tried to do to solidify myself here. I didn't want to be an omega...

"Fuck, there you go. Getting wet for me now, aren't you? There's that smell I love so much. The bite of leather, the hint of lemon, the smell of sweat." He grunted as his hips rocked into my ass, his hard cock basically fighting to be free of his boxers.

"There's something about you, something I could sense from the very first time I detected you." He whispered, his free hand going to trail to my underwear, tugging on them until the elastic snapped back to my hips.

"You're exactly what I need, something no one else can give me." My breathing stuttered as his hand left my mouth and he pulled away. I turned to look at him, wondering if he meant what I thought he did. Did he know, how did he know? My mind seemed to fizzle out like a sparkler, I hadn't even met with him beforehand and he seemingly already knew everything about me.

He grabbed my hips and pulled me in, his towering figure loomed over me almost in a protective huddle.

"I know you want to." He whispered, his tone salacious as he looked me in the eye. His claws left my hips and wrapped around my wrists as he brought my hands upwards to wrap around his neck, bearing it to me. My breathing stuttered.

"Fucking ruin me omega, teach me who's the bitch in this relationship." And just like that I couldn't help the wetness gather in my boxers, nor could I stop myself from turning in his grasp and wrapping my arms around him. Harshly I pressed my mouth to his, taking advantage of his crouched height. It was all teeth and tongue, my teeth basically tore into his lips as I willed him to open it. His eyes fluttered shut as he let me in, not even competing with me as I explored his mouth.

He was hot-blooded against me, his arms crowding around me as he gently nudged me towards his gathering of blankets. I nearly recoiled at the dingy feeling and the harshness of the ground.

"First mode of action we're going to have to overhaul this horrific nest," I grunted as I flipped him over, with his help of course, and sat on his waist. He looked sheepishly up at me, a pretty pout on his lips.

"Sorry, I tried..." I silenced him by shoving my fingers into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue.

"You said you wanted to be treated like a bitch? Then sit pretty and shut the fuck up." I growled as his pupils seemed to blow out, his eyes nearly completely enveloped in black. I pressed my hips into him, letting the sheer size of his cock nestle against my ass before I decided that enough was enough. I wanted him inside me, I wanted him to break at the feeling of me.

I pulled my hands back so I could undress myself. His eyes seemed to rove over my figure, the occasional grunt and growl leaving him as he took notice of the many marks my other 'partners' had left on me. I could basically feel the intensity roll of him, the heady scent of an angered alpha, one so similar to a mate protecting their own.

"Fuck, look at you. Bet I'll be able to slide right in." He groaned as his head fell back to the tangle of blankets behind him. A content sound left my throat as I looked at his bare neck. I could feel my hands tense as I fought the urge to nip at him.

"Please, let me feel you. Let me take you, let me become wholly yours." For a moment he sounded vulnerable as he looked up at me, a shine in his eyes. I reached behind me and grabbed his cock, pulsating and hot I eased him into my hole. If I weren't currently in the haze of sex I would've been embarrassed at the ease it went in, the amount of slick I had produced prompted no issue for his large dick to nestle inside me.

The sounds that reverberated around the room were primal and audacious. The sound of his cock rocking into me was punctuated with the squelch of my arousal. I breathed out a sigh as I felt that particular emptiness be filled.

His hips seemed to shudder at the feeling of being inside me, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he let out an exhaustive groan. Immediately his hands found purchase on my hips but he didn't move me. He really was giving up all control to me, fighting against what I assumed to be his roaring instincts to let me fuck him into oblivion.

I did exactly that, raising and slamming my body down on him as if I was trying to impale myself on his cock. I felt it pulse in my ass, hitting all the spots that made me want to keen into him. My hands wrapped around his neck as I used him to drive myself down deeper... harder.

A hoarse growl left him as his eyes opened and watched me, my expression and my sweat-shined body above him.

"So fucking beautiful. Fuck!" He cried out at the brutal rhythm I had set for myself, lost in the feeling of ecstasy and domination.

"Take all of me, my cock, my breath, my life. It's all yours, whatever you want." He continued to babble on, his words breathy as I stole his air. I began to feel his cock swell inside me, anticipation pulled at my walls as I felt my own dick twitch. Like a sudden wave, I felt my orgasm come over me, sticky cum painted his chest as he growled out in satisfaction.

"That's right, mark me pretty boy. I belong to you, fuck I belong to you." His hands stroked my cock, pulling the last strings of cum from me. He was greedy as his finger traced over my lip, gathering the musk onto his hand before he licked it off. A rumble left him as he tasted me. I huffed as I slammed my hips down, half weary from the feeling of pleasure enveloping me, and felt his cock swell in my ass. His knot formed as I slumped down onto his chest, the feeling of sticky cum being shared between us. I could feel him in the most intimate parts of me, filling me up with his seed.

His hands went to the back of my head as he pressed me into his neck, the smell of his musk seemed to wrap around me like a blanket. I felt myself grow sleepy as I unwillingly nestled into him, unable to fight the sense of protection I felt around him as he enveloped my body completely.

"Sleep precious one, I'll be here when you wake." He hummed as I finally found myself letting my exhaustion take over me. My day had been long and even though I wanted to sleep in my own nest I found that being here wasn't so bad after all.

Leon coddled the male to his chest as he breathed out in tune with him. Finally, he had his precious omega in his arms. Since day one he had been looking for him, the one they called O3. How demeaning he thought, to be given a number instead of a name. But now he was here and he wasn't O3 anymore, not to him at least. His precious omega, his life, his love, his muse.

He didn't care about the blood he spilt in his endeavour to find him. All those other omegas couldn't even hold a candle to him. Their desperation and submission disgusted him, the wanton moans that were so obviously fake. Not like his omega, the guttural sounds from his chest were real and his alone. He made him feel that way, not anyone else. Not one of the other alphas he had been forced to service, never again.

The door to his 'cell' opened and his main warden walked in, in his hands a bag to clean up what they assumed would be a mess. They stopped in their tracks as they saw the two bundled up together. A feral growl left his throat as he watched them intently.

"Have his stuff moved here." He said as he looked at them, their eyes surveying the room as if it were hiding something. When they didn't answer he gently pulled himself out of his warmth and laid him against the blankets.

He stood to his full height, uncaring about his slicked cock as he prowled over to the warden. Before they could do anything his hands were around their neck, heaving them up into the air.

"They're mine." He growled, his eyes flashing a disturbing yellow as he bared his teeth to them. He looked towards the camera in the hallway outside, knowing that others would be watching him. With a snide grin, he brought his other hand to the warden's head and dug his claws into them.

Their skull broke with a satisfying pop.

His eyes locked onto the camera, his mind making up what would be happening in the warden's offices at this very moment. He threw the limp body outside of his cell and turned around swiftly, letting the metal door click shut behind him.

[whxtedreams]

Chapter 10: What Reminds You of Them

Blood Runs Thicker than Water - Joel & F!Reader (Platonic DBF!)

Summary: The weight of the new world is heavy on everyones shoulders. Maybe a card game will help?

Word Count: 2.3k

Tags: Mentions of loss, mentions of readers mom, mentions of sarah, reader has short hair, depression (myles), everyone just dealing with shit, joel trying to explain to reader that her dad is just a lil sad.

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on AO3

Chapter 10: What Reminds You of Them

The horizon is bathed in a soft, hazy red glow, casting a warm hue across the landscape. Down below in the valley, a thick, dense fog weaves its way amid the mountains, slowly creeping up the sides like wisps of cotton. Scattered across the valley floor are various transmission towers, their metal skeletons once humming with activity. Now, nature begins its slow takeover as they lay dormant on the forgotten grounds, vines twisting up the towers and trees gradually swallowing them into their embrace.

The sun makes its slow descent behind the towering mountains, its last rays casting long shadows over the valley below. The moon takes its rightful place high up in the heavens, overseeing the narrow hiking trails snaking through the terrain. You sit at the edge of the rocky cliff, your legs tucked up against your chest as you take in the breathtaking view. Your thoughts drift back to the previous day, remembering how you had explored the valley. You had braved the climb up a fallen transmission tower to cross rapid waters, much to your father's worry.

Your eyes follow as Joel and Tommy appear in your line of vision at the bottom of the steep trail, their rifles held at the ready. They had ventured out around noon, armed with the intentions of hunting, and their efforts are now evident as they make their way up the trail, the weight of a freshly hunted deer in their grasp.

Your face lights up at the sight of the brothers, and you quickly rise to your feet, a grin spread wide across your face. You break into a jog, making your way back to the historic pub where your small group has sought shelter for the night.

You emerge from the tree line and navigate your way through the parking lot, skirting around dilapidated cars and piles of rusted scrap. In the distance, the pub comes into view, standing majestically tall as the last rays of the setting sun cast a warm glow over its brick exterior. The building takes on a castle-like quality, silhouetted against the orange and red hues.

You struggle against the considerable weight of the oversized front door, your feet shifting slightly on the ground as you summon all your strength to push it open. Muscles straining, you slowly creak the door open, the heavy wood groaning with resistance.

Footsteps echo loudly on the tiled floors as you race through the old building. As you reach the top of the stairs that would have been used by guests during the pub’s prime, you come to a halt in front of one of the rooms your father has started to set up camp in.

He stands with his back towards you, his gaze fixed out the window. Candles on the bedside tables cast a flickering, buttery light onto the mustard-colored walls, the wax of the candles starting to drip down the candlesticks. The rooms are basic but cozy, equipped with the bare minimum - a double bed, a chair, and a floor lamp along with the bedside tables.

You approach him silently and stop next to him, curious to see whatever it is that he's observing so intently. However, upon peering out the window, all you see is the peaceful sight of birds flying to their nests in the trees as the day comes to an end. You glance up at your father, taking in his expressionless face as his gaze remains fixed on the outdoor view.

You observe him closely, noticing the way his eyes glisten and his jaw clenches, a familiar expression that mirrors your own when your emotions begin to overflow. Concern tugs at your heartstrings as you speak softly, the question falling from your lips, "Why are you sad?"

He jolts slightly as he looks down at you, having been lost in thought before your sudden presence pulled him back to reality. With a heavy sigh, he glances back out the window as the light from Joel and Tommy's torches become visible. His gaze becomes distant as he speaks. "Your mom and I used to visit a lot of places just like this one," he says softly. "She was quite the history buff." He pauses, his words tinged with a hint of nostalgia, before he walks away from the window towards the door.

Your dad's casual comment about your mother catches your attention, and your eyes widen with keen interest. It is rare for him to bring her up in conversation, usually brushing off any mention of her name. So the fact that he's mentioned her unprompted piques your curiosity - and you are determined to grasp onto any details he shares.

You turn away from the window, a question about your mother on the tip of your tongue. But before you can voice it, your father has already made his way halfway down the stairs, leaving you alone in the room.

By the time you reach the downstairs area, Tommy is already hauling the slain deer into the small kitchen behind the bar. Joel, meanwhile, drops his bag onto the counter top with a thud and proceeds to start unloading its contents. He carefully places the assortment of items they'd managed to scavenge on top of the bar.

You clamber onto the stool next to your father as his conversation with Joel ends with hushed voices as your eyes scan the items spread out on the counter. A few sealed packages of food and some basic necessities cover the surface. You cast a quick glance at the finds, trying to hide your disappointment. You understand that survival means only grabbing what's necessary and nothing more, but you can't help but feel just a bit let down.

Your dad's fingers close around a packet of cigarettes, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "I can't believe you actually found some," he mutters, extracting one from the pack. He rises from the stool and announces, "I'll be outside." Without further words, he turns and begins to make his way out of the room.

You pivot on your stool, intending to follow your father, but Joel gently suggests it might be best to give your dad some time alone right now.

You reluctantly turn away from your dad's departing figure and return your attention to Joel. With a heavy sigh, you rest your arms on the bar.

Joel pats at his coat pockets, a frown of concentration etched on his face. He rummages through them, eventually pulling out a small yellow and white striped cloth from his back pocket. With an enigmatic smile, he stretches his arm across the bar and hands it to you. You take the item, your fingers curling around the fabric as you regard it with cautious intrigue.

You unfurl the fabric and examine it quizzically, your curiosity piqued. Expecting to find something concealed within, you're momentarily surprised to find it's just cloth. "What's this?" you ask.

A soft chuckle escapes from Joel as he shakes his head, moving to stand beside you. Taking the cloth from your hands, he begins folding it with practiced ease. "It's a bandanna," he clarifies, positioning himself behind you. He then places the cloth on your forehead, skillfully tying the ends beneath your short ponytail.

"Keeps the hair out of your face." His touch is gentle as he removes the hair tie from your hair, allowing the short strands to fall loosely around your neck. Joel moves to stand beside you, and you notice the subtle rise of a soft smile at the corner of his mouth as he carefully adjusts the fabric, ensuring it's secure.

You shake your head to test it out and smile as the hair stays out of your eyes.

Tommy reappears in the room, holding two half-full bottles of alcohol in his hands, his face lit up with an excited grin. "Looks like we're eating and drinking well tonight," he declares with a booming chuckle. He sets the bottles down on the opposite side of the bar and proceeds to scour the cabinets for unbroken glasses.

With a glass in hand, Tommy turns and starts pouring alcohol for both himself and Joel. He pushes the glass across the counter towards Joel and takes a long sip of his own drink. Then, he glances your way, nodding approvingly. "Yellow suits you," he praises, his words accompanied by a small smile.

You murmur a quick thanks in response as Joel and Tommy start discussing their plans for the freshly caught deer. Their conversation fills the background as you fiddle with the ends of the bandanna.

You peer over your shoulder towards the parking lot through the large window. The world outside is steeped in almost complete darkness, the stars above offering minimal light. Your father is seated on the husk of a car, a small lantern by his side and a lit cigarette between his lips, casting a flickering glow against the side of his face that you can see.

Joel's hand gently rests on your shoulder. His gaze meets yours, accompanied by a sympathetic smile. "Come on," he murmurs, a playful tone in his voice. "Why don't we play a game of cards while Tommy cooks us dinner? Let me beat you again."

A disapproving frown creeps onto your face, and you let out an exaggerated huff before jumping off the stool. "You only win because you cheat," you retort, moving towards a table by the fireplace with a pout.

Joel responds with a scoff, an amused grin tugging at his lips. He takes his seat at the table, retrieving the deck of cards and diligently shuffling them in his hands. "Is that so?" he retorts, his tone both challenging and playful.

You can't help but gloat as you take the cards he's dealt. "Tommy told me so," you declare as you begin organizing the cards in your hand, the hint of a smirk on your face.

Joel responds with a resigned sigh, his focus on sorting out his own cards. "Just because he says somethin’, doesn't mean you gotta believe him, sweetheart," he warns, his tone a mix of gentle teasing and mild irritation. He shakes his head slightly, seemingly displeased with the cards he's been dealt.

You can't help but chuckle as you place down a card on the table. "He told me you would say that," you repeat, your smile widening as you revel in the thought of having anticipated his response.

Despite your smug attitude, Joel remains unfazed. He exhales a deep sigh and places his card on top of yours, matching your play.

Joel ends up winning four times in a row.

Your dad remains mostly withdrawn over the following week, his expression distant and detached. Both Tommy and Joel seem to intervene whenever you attempt to engage in conversation with him, subtly redirecting your attention elsewhere.

You've seen your dad behave this way before, but never for this extended period of time. Day after day, you wake up, silently hoping that it will be the day that he snaps out of it and returns to his usual self — just like he has in the past.

And yet, he doesn’t.

On the sixth day while you sit by the river, lost in your thoughts as you watch the soothing flow of the water, you turn to Joel. "Have I done something to upset my dad?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, the concern palpable in your words.

Joel's expression softens as he hears your question. He immediately pulls you into his side, pulling you closer to him. "Of course not, princess," he replies gently, his voice filled with a mix of reassurance and tenderness.

After a moment's pause, Joel continues, his tone soft and understanding. "He's just a little sad, that's all," he explains, his gaze fixed on the flowing water before you.

You scowl slightly at Joel's explanation, genuinely confused. "Sad?" you repeat, your voice tinged with confusion. "Why would he be sad?" The situation doesn't make sense to you, and you look up at Joel, seeking clarification.

Joel lets out a deep sigh, his eyes meeting yours. He tugs gently at the bandanna tied around your forehead, his touch gentle and tender. "He just misses your mom," he explains, his voice tinged with melancholy. "He misses how things used to be, how the world used to be."

You murmur a soft "Oh" in response, leaning into Joel's side as your gaze drifts to Tommy, who is washing his hair on the other side of the river with your dad. The silence that follows is filled with your unspoken questions and thoughts, hanging heavy in the air.

You turn your gaze back to Joel, a slight frown of confusion creasing your forehead. "Why is he missing her now?" you ask. "She died when I was born."

Joel takes a deep breath, seemingly contemplating how to explain it to you. "Sometimes," he begins slowly, "there are things that happen that remind us of something we've lost. It brings back memories."

You fall silent, mulling over his words as you begin to comprehend what Joel is trying to say. It's then that you recall your own fears and how the sight of fire still makes you think of losing Joel. The memory of being caught in the fire still haunts your dreams even years later.

You realize that your dad, like you, must also suffer from the same pain. The memory of losing someone you love can be triggered by the smallest things and bring forth powerful emotions, even years afterward.

“What reminds you of Sarah?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

There's a sudden tightness in Joel's grip on your arm, and you can feel the shuddering exhale of his breath. The mention of Sarah's name brings a flash of pain to his face, as memories of his lost daughter flood his mind. For a brief moment, his grief is palpable.

He's silent, his gaze transfixed on the river, his knuckles turning white as his grip on you involuntarily tightens. After a few moments, he finally speaks, his voice thick with emotion.

"Everything.”

Click here for Chapter 11

Notes

this is kind of a intermission, just a filler tbh. not extreamly happy about this chapter but i wanted to write them travelling before they reach somewhere suitable to stay.

If you want to be tagged, please comment on the masterlist for this series and I will add you. If you want to be taken off, please DM so i don't miss your request.

Every comment, like and reblog means the world to me. please let me know your thoughts about this, i want to ramble about this story so much.

tags: @sunandmuun , @rain-soaked-sun, @frootloops1213 , @samarav , @geralallfandoms , @joelmillersblog , @severussimp , @kitdjarin1 , @yesjazzywazzylove-blog , @justanotherteen12@lils-1979 @elisha-chloe

[anianurst]

can we have a mini series for the sun and the moon ??? :(

Summary: if you were the moon, Yuji the sun, Megumi the stars, then Satoru was like the earth

A/n: hi anon! hope you like this small conti of my first post. maybe if I can think of another part I'll make a pt 3. this actually turned out to be heavier angst than what I was originally planning (I apologize in advance) I'll say it again: major spoilers for JJK that won't be covered by the anime (yet. probably season 3)

Warning(s): spoilers for the second season (the start of the Shibuya arc), as well as manga chapters 136+, mental breakdown(on readers part ig), megumi's unrequited feelings brought up again, misdirected anger and all-around messy feelings

A lunar eclipse happens when the Earth moves between the Sun and the Moon. As the Moon orbits, it falls into the Earth's shadow, which causes it to temporarily darken or change colors.

'How did all of this happen?' you think to yourself. There's a stillness in the air as you hug your knees closer to your body, trying to hide from the cruel and unforgiving world.

People mindlessly stand around you, an after-effect of being hit by Satoru's domain expansion. Their eyes roll into the back of their heads, and grumbles of nothing slip past their lips. But, you don't pay any mind to them. Not when you're trying to soak up the residues of Satoru's cursed technique, the last things left of him.

The crater left by Satoru seems to keep you tied to the ground. The scatterbrained people, spilled blood, dead, twisted corpses left behind by that patch-face curse, and the insurmountable damage don't mean anything to you. Not when Satoru's been ripped out of your life.

".....!......"

".....y.....!"

"...y/...!...."

"...y/n-chan...!"

You lift your head, eyes blank and body feeling so heavy, to see Iori. Her shoulders rise and fall as heavy breaths escape her, and you wonder where she came from. Her hair's disheveled, a good representation of the shit show that just went down in Shibuya.

Her mouth moves as she speaks, but nothing seems to be heard. Her hand touches the side of your head, and it's covered in red when she pulls back. Oh, so that's why you can't hear very well; you probably had some severe head damage.

The next couple of moments pass in a flash as you let her pull your body up from the ground and out of that forsaken train station. Everything's hazy as your eyes take in the damage down to the city: buildings destroyed, ash basically covering every, blood that's seemed to dry up and turned an ugly brownish-red, and bodies littering the ground.

"y/n!" Yuji says, his voice full of relief as he rushes towards you. His hands quickly come up to cradle your face as he inspects the new scar underneath your right eye. His eyes shine with a bright reassurance at the fact that you weren't killed in Shibuya. It doesn't take long for his oh-so-bright smile to reach his face as he quickly wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your hair to seek comfort.

Megumi stands some ways back as he watches Yuji gush all over you. A heavy pain fills his heart, but it's quickly replaced with relief that you're okay. He steps towards you, and places a hand on your head and says a quiet welcome to you.

You'd break down right about now if it weren't for the fact that your eyes land on a tall, blonde woman seated on the couch. Yuji and Megumi are pushed away in a blur as you quickly grab Yuki by her collar.

A nasty sneer makes it to your face as you glare at her. A destructive aura surrounds you as a vein pops out from your neck. As quick as you were to move, the others in the room swiftly tried to de-escalate the situation.

"y/n! Calm down! She's here to help us!" Yuji says, his hand coming to place itself on your shoulder.

"Help us? Where the fuck was she when all of your friends were dying, huh?" you spit back, eyes never leaving Yuki's as her face turned blank. "Where the fuck were you?" you repeat. "You're a goddamn special grade sorcerer, and yet the only time you fucking show up is after everyone's dead? You fucking slacker."

Your words cause a heavy shift in the room as everyone listens to your tear into Yuki. They all know it's not her who you're mad at, but it's easier to let you lay all your anger into her.

"We're going to go see Tengen-sama," is all she says as she removes your hand from her shirt, quickly rising to her feet and being the first one to leave the basement where you've all sought shelter.

Yuta (ever the good upperclassman) takes a soft step towards you as he ruffles your hair. "I know it's tough, y/n-chan," he tries to comfort.

But instead of thanks in return, all he gets is a scoff of disgust as you turn to look at him with an indescribable look in your eyes. With a suffocating gaze, you move to follow after Yuki. "The only thing she can do for now is give herself up as tribute when it's time for someone else to die," is all you say, your back facing everyone.

'No! No! No!' is all Yuji thinks as he watches you walk out of the basement. This cruel world can't take away your soft smiles from him. Your kind eyes, warm embrace, and ever-radiant warmness! You are supposed to be his shining moon that he looks to for solace, a safe place where he doesn't have to carry the burdens he's been cursed with.

He's stuck in place before Megumi knocks his arm with his elbow and tells him to follow. With a grave heart, he obeys, hoping (no, praying) that this is just a phase, and you'll go back to the girl he loves.

[chrrybombshells]

Mark + Fem Reader 18+, Minors DNI, Mentions of 'Noona' and slight mentions of overstimulation and cock-warming. Please ignore any typos I just kinda let this out in one go.

You never felt this before. This feeling of desire that was so strong that it almost felt animalistic. Mark had just come home from a shoot, late into the night, and he had come home with his hair and makeup still done, fake tattoos scattered across his skin. He looked almost unrecognizable from the sweet boy that kissed your forehead this morning on the way out the door. He looked older, broader, and completely irresistible. He was busy unlacing his boots that he hadn’t even noticed you get up from your spot on the couch and gravitate towards him like you were not in control of your own movements. All that was on your mind is that you needed him and needed him now. Even in the dark hallway, he could feel your presence, the hair on his neck rises as he feels you behind him.

 “Baby, why are you still up?” He asks as he feels you press your body against his back, he is very aware of the thinness of your nightgown and your wandering hand traveling up his chest. He lefts out a soft sigh as you begin kissing the back of his neck, a shiver runs down his spine as your teeth grazes the skin, making him want to beg for you to finally bite down. 

“Noona” he whispers as he feels your hand go lower and lower, teasing the outline of belt. “I want you so bad, do you know how sexy you look?” You say, mostly to yourself but Mark whines at your admission all the same. He turns around to face you, you’re looking up at him with wild eyes that make his breath catch in his throat. Your silhouette, highlighted by the moon light, looks tantalizing in your sheer pink night gown. Mark doesn’t even realize he’s licking his lips until he looks back to see you staring at them like he hasn’t kissed you in years. You couldn’t wait any longer, you all but lunge yourself into him, his arms wrapping around waist as you kiss him. Your hands are everywhere, his hair, his neck, down his back, across his front. It was like there was so much of him and you couldn’t figure out where to begin. It was so overwhelming for him, to feel you have this much desire for him. You bite down on his bottom lip, a little rougher than you probably should have, but Mark’s knee buckles slightly at the pain. 

“Baby, please” he whispers, not really sure what he’s asking for but the feeling of your lips on his neck again has his mind hazy. “Couch, now” you tell him, taking his hands off your waist to lead him to the middle of the living room. You push him down, his eyes are blissed out and his cheeks are flushed. He watches you slowly climb over his lap and start slowing moving your hips against him. You reach over to pull his shirt over his head and your hands trace the patterns of the fake ink. He looks so intoxicating like this. The dark ink against his soft skin, his hair tousled from you pulling on it and the way he looks up at you, waiting for you to do something, anything. 

“I’m going to have my way with you, if you’re ok with that.” You look into his eyes, hoping he’s listening but not quite sure. He nods his head yes, but thats not enough, you needed to hear him. “Use your words, baby” your finger traces his lip and he opens his mouth to take it in, sucking on it lightly before letting it go. “Take what you need, Noona, I’m yours” he groans. HIs voice is so husky and his eyes fight to stay open as he feels your hand trace down his stomach to reach for his belt. You slowly undo it, watching his chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. Your reach finally goes to where he’s been dying to have you. “You’re so hard, Markie” you whisper as you slowly drag your hand up and down, over his boxers. “Please take them off, please” he begs. You lift yourself off him long enough for him to throw off the remainder of his clothes. Once done, he all but pulls you back into his lap and watches as your fingers ghost the head of his cock. Its pink, just like the color of his cheeks, and if you weren’t so impatient you would have spent hours just appreciating the taste of it, you almost start drooling thinking about the weight of him on your tongue. But you needed to feel him inside of you so badly you thought you might explode. You didn’t even bother taking off your gown, you just pull your panties to the side and begin teasing the both of you. The head of his cock rubs against your clit and you watch his face as he fights himself to stay patient.  “Look at me” you request softly, Mark lets out a sigh before pushing himself to follow your instruction. He looks into your eyes as you sink himself into you. His lips part open and he continues to fight his instinct to close his eyes. He’s so overwhelmed by your gaze and he lets out another whine as he takes your hips into his grip. Once fully seated, you wrap your arms around his neck and slowly begin to rock yourself. Everything feels so good and you cant help but moan his namely loudly into his ear. You bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Your nails drag against the column of his neck, down to his shoulders and down his back, leaving angry red lines in their path. “Faster, please I’m so close” Mark begins. Your movements become faster and rougher, so focused on wanting to hear him moan your name again and again. You felt that familiar build up deep in your stomach and your pace gets harder to keep up. As if Mark could sense your need for assistance, his hands move from their tight placement on your hips to reach under your gown to play with your clit. It took only 3 lazy circles of his calloused finger and you were shivering and moaning against him. You wanted to be the one in control but somehow he was still able to make you weak against him. 

“Relax sweetheart, I got you, I’ll make sure you cum.” Mark promises you breathlessly. A few seconds after you felt his warm breath in your ear, your movements freeze and your orgasm washes over your body. Your pussy throbs around his thick cock as your body tries to push him in deeper, and push him away, simultaneously. You try to push past your overstimulation because you have to make him cum, you have to see his face and hear him lose control. And really it doesn’t take much. After feeling you lose control over him and seeing you work so hard to make him cum, he loses his willpower. A strangled moan rips through the depths of his chest, its husky and deep, but it turns into a high pitched whine after your hips continue to rock, even after you have deprived him of everything he had left. 

“Stop, stop, I cant” he whispers.You slowly your movements to a halt. You collapse on top of him and just rest. You can feel his heart racing against you and the smell of his cologne mixed with the sweat of his body is intoxicating. You try to test if you could go another round but the gasp Mark lets out as he still you movements tells you other wise. 

“Give me another minute, I think you broke me.” He confesses with a soft chuckle. He would later tell you that the way you more of less jumped his bones in the middle of the hallway was the sexiest thing anyone has ever done to him and he hopes he can get you that riled up again. He would also consider if he was brave enough to get a real tattoo if that was the kind of reaction he would get to fake ones. He would consider his pain tolerance until he starts softly snoring while still inside you. You would find it adorable, forgetting he had a long day and would somehow be able to get up and cleaned without disturbing him. 

[vani-ash]

Kim had been on the run when he first met Porchay. A hunter. Kim had escaped captivity and was now hiding. He'd barely managed his escape. He'd been abducted during one of his feedings, the human he had drank from had had something injected in them, and when Kim had drank, it had burned. Then he was knocked on concious and kept locked up for weeks? Months? Years? He couldn't tell it had passed in a hazy blur.

But he had escaped that was what had mattered. But he was weak. Had been starved, surving on just enough to keep him alive and nothing else.

And now he was laying in a filthy alleyway. He had no idea where he was. No where he knew of. He had run through a forest that had felt like it stretched for forever before finding the edges of a town. But the town was quiet. It was early hours of the morning. Everyone locked up safe asleep in their houses. Kim was not in any state to be breaking in and fighting right now.

It was cold. Kim knew he couldn't fall asleep here. The sun was only a few hours from rising, and if he slept here, he'd never wake up. Well, he would, but it'd be for an excruciating death. And then he'd never wake up.

But it hurt. Everything hurt. He'd been chained up with silver cuffs, which had left angry marks all across his wrists and ankles. Had been constantly injected with holy water to keep him weak and stop him from healing. He'd hadn't had any blood in the last week. He was bleeding himself from his side, been shot by an arrow which hadn't stuck, but it had left a gaping wound, which all Kim could do was press his hand against.

He tried to stand. His legs wouldn't work. This was it. He'd managed to escape but for what? He was still going to die.

Kim looked at the moon and then closed his eyes. Well, at least he'd get to see one last sun rise. It had been years.

…

"-Okay?"

Kim was being lifted up. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him that wasn't to cut him open.

"Hang on. It's just a little longer."

He was being placed on something soft.

Opening his eyes just barely, he saw someone leaning over him. A neck just centimetres away. Using the last of his strength, Kim pushed himself up and bit.

--/--/--

When Kim next woke, he was covered with a blanket. In a dimly lit room. He sat up. He felt, well still not great but better. His side didn't hurt even a little. Strange. Pulling his shirt up, (That was definitely not his shirt) his side was completely healed. He was also clean. No blood or scratches or torn clothing anywhere on him.

Kim stood up easily. No head spins, no muscles screaming in pain. Nothing.

Leaving the dark room, Kim found himself in a hallway. He was at the end, so the only place to go was forward. He could hear light clattering of things being knocked together. Someone was here with him. Lightly walking forward, Kim prepared himself.

Whoever it was wasn't exactly an enemy. They had put him in a soft bed. Made sure no sunlight could get in, cleaned him, and got him clothes. And judging by how he was feeling had gotten him blood. But all of that didn't mean Kim was suddenly going to just instantly let his guard down. This could still be a trap.

Turning the corner, Kim saw a living room/kitchen area. There was a couch in the centre with a bookshelf lining the wall next to it.

On the other side was a small dining table, and then behind that was a kitchen, small, tiny even. There is barely enough space to fit two people in. But there was someone in it right now. Their back turned to Kim. They were humming.

Kim stood there and watched. If they were a threat, they weren't a very good one. They hadn't even noticed him.

The humming was pleasant.

Kin didn't count how long he stood there. Just watching, listening. A few seconds or minutes? An hour?

Eventually, the person turned around.

"Oh!" They jumped. It was a boy. Young. No more than 17 Kim would guess,"You're awake. You slept the whole day yesterday and all today!" The boy smiled, and Kim narrowed his eyes.

"Where am I?"

The boy turned back to whatever he was cooking.

"My house."

"Why?"

"I found you bleeding out, I couldn't just let you die, so I brought you back here." The boy turned around and smiled again, now with a bowl in his hand filled with rice.

"Why not? You don't know me."

The boy walked to the dinner table and sat down.

"Do I need to know someone in order to help them?"

"Who are you?" Kim did not like the answers he was being given. While they were technically answers to his questions, they were still vague, which put Kim on edge.

"My name is Porchay!" The boy exclaimed,"But you can call me Chay. Who are you?"

"…Kim."

Porchay smiled,"Kim."

"Do you know what I am?"

"Yes."

Chay was very relaxed. Far too relaxed for someone who knew what Kim was.

"Did you give me your blood?"

Chay laughed,"I wouldn't exactly say I gave it to you. You bit me while I was trying to check you for more wounds." He pouted.

Kim definitely did not think it was cute.

"You should say sorry for that, by the way. There I was just trying to make sure you weren't dying and you bite me!"

"I was dying." Kim deadpans.

"Yeah, well, I would've figured that out and offered my blood if you'd waited like 20 seconds."

"How come you're not dead?" If Kim had been starved and on the verge of death being so close to fresh blood, having it be placed right in front of him? He knew he did not have the willpower to stop himself from killing someone. He doubted any vampire would.

"I don't know. You tell me. You bit me and immediately passed out. Did I taste that bad? I had to cut my wrist myself and make you drink while you slept."

"I bit you uninvited, and you still gave me blood?"

"Well, I didn't carry you all the way home to just let you die here." Chay laughed.

Kim felt something stir inside him at the sound of Chays laugh.

"Are you still hungry? I don't know how much you need to drink, so I only gave you a little of mine."

Kim was, but the last time he'd been drugged.

"No."

"Okay,"Chay was still smiling like this was a normal everyday conversation,"Tell me when you need more."

What was happening. Kim was lost.

He'd escaped captivity. He'd been dying. Ready to watch the sun for the first time in however many years.

He'd woken up in someone's house. Someone who had fed him. Cleaned him. And was now offering to feed him again if he asked for it.

"I'm leaving." Kim made a move for the door. Chay stood up, his smile fading.

"You can't! You're still healing! And there will be people looking for you."

Kim pushed Porchay against the wall by his throat,"What do you know?" He demanded.

"I just want to help you."

[halcy0ng1rl]

rises the moon | sable x mikaela

w/c: 3.3k

synopsis: Sable was exhausted. For what felt like days, she had been tucked away in a corner table at the Moonstone trying and failing to find material for her show, yet there Mikaela stood, shining like a beacon on the blackest night.

fluff, wlw, winter aesthetic

But after sunlit days, one thing stays the same,

Rises the moon. 

December: Downtown Greenville, 2010, 7:45 pm. 

Sable was exhausted. For what felt like days, she had been tucked away in a corner table at the Moonstone, diving through shady internet forums on her prehistoric laptop in a feeble-sounding attempt to research new material for this week's episode of All Things Wicked This Night. The table was buried in curled-up notepad paper, discarded sticky notes, pens, and drained cups of coffee. 

Sable, dressed to the nines in a big white hoodie with her hair messily thrown up in a clip, pressed her fingers to her temples and frowned deeply. The jukebox was routinely stuttering out what was supposed to be relaxing jazz, but only intensified Sable’s rising level of irritability. One more trill of a saxophone, and she would be inclined to throw her fists at it. 

Her fingertips were sore and pink from rapidly slamming her fingers against her computer’s worn keyboard, typing yet not making any worthy progress. Eyelids thick with sleep, she took a moment to escape the cold brightness of her screen and instead looked at Mikaela, a much warmer sight. 

Momentary solace washed over Sable’s tired body as Mikaela smiled and caught her eye from behind the plant-covered barista counter. A calm amidst the storm.

She was wearing a big knitted turtleneck the colour of tumbled amethyst, the sleeves tightly rolled up to reveal the rows of gorgeous golden bracelets adorning her wrists. The smooth, intricate lines of her forearm tattoos stood out beautifully against her porcelain skin and made Sable think, for a moment, of what it might be like to trace them with her fingertips. Her dark blue apron was tied alluringly tight around her waist, an intricate bow securing it in place at the back. Hazy electric blue emitted from the neon sign hung on the wall and mingled with the topaz glow of fairy lights strung around the pillars, casting a gentle contrast of warm and cool to grace her features.

Her delicate hands were busy crafting what was most likely the fiftieth holiday-themed coffee ordered that day, sprinkling red and white bits of crushed peppermint onto a generous accumulation of airy whipped cream. Her haphazardly kept apricot curls danced in front of her face for a moment as she leaned over the counter to hand the steaming cup to the night’s final customer. 

When the door shut and the bell chimed its last, Mikaela let out a relieved sigh and hurried over to flip the neon sign to closed. She hung her star-speckled apron on the rack and let her hair tumble down her shoulders, a visible serenity crossing her freckled face. Distracted, Sable tried to focus on her screen again, but all the words on the tab she had opened blurred into indecipherable blobs. The back of her neck throbbed with a dull ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she stretched. 

Sable typed away, now laser-focused on the matter at hand– she loathed the idea of facing an unfinished document in the morning. As she worked, doubts corroded her tired mind. What if she had to cancel this week’s episode and leave the broadcast dead, subsequently disappointing her listeners? Would she take one break and feel compelled to take another, and then another? Was she losing her spark? 

Absorbed in the suddenness of this overwhelming melancholy, she raved nonsensically without thought on the document, each new sentence becoming less coherent than the last; Is it possible that the Yamaoka family was subject to an unwilling act of demonic intervention years before Rin’s father committed his vile crime? The sword that he used may have been an heirloom, passed down as a curse. It is stated that Mrs.Yamaoka’s body was chopped up. Almost in ritual? Goddddd there’s too many theories. Aliens! A fucking MAGIC SWORD! This case is so OLD Oh my GODDDDDDDDDDDDyihbwdjnxmjhghhhhhhhhhh i’m hopeless. 

Needless to say, she wished she had chosen to write about an obviously fake chain mail story, cryptic text post or even a fake ghost sighting instead of something so convoluted—at least then, she could have extended some creative liberty to her craft. Sable retreated further into her hoodie, drearily remembering that she had chosen to waste her day doing this instead of studying for finals. 

“Tired yet?” Sable jumped at an unexpected voice interrupting her frazzled thoughts. Her posture eased when she realized that the voice was not that of a demonic spirit conjured out of her subconscious despair—but Mikaela’s. 

She leaned against the chair across from Sable with a wry smile gracing her lips, forehead painted with concern and slight amusement. 

Sable stretched and finally met her soft eyes, of which she had their undivided attention through thick circular lenses. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” 

Mikaela laughed sweetly, “Look at who you’re talking to,” she gestured toward the cluttered table with one gold-ringed hand. “I’ve been here a thousand times.” 

“Yeah? And do you always feel like gouging your eyes out?” Sable didn’t intend to sound venomous, but the remark bit acridly when she spoke it. She slumped further down in her chair, this time in remorse, and buried her face in her hands. Forlorn. 

Mikaela gently closed Sable’s laptop and stood closer to her. “Only when I overwork myself– which is most of the time,” 

“Terrific.” 

“I think you should take a break from the show for a while,” her voice turned syrupy, and she gently brushed the tips of her fingers along the purple shadows beneath Sable’s right eye. “It’s draining you.” 

Sable let out a relieved breath and leaned into Mikaela’s touch, savouring the momentary solace. “It’s the only thing keeping me sane,” she breathed, knowing as she said it that it wasn’t the full truth. 

In Greenville, being different means being ostracized. Stared at on public transport. Spoken to with overbearing passive aggression. All Things Wicked This Night was a way for Sable to connect with people who understood her, even if from miles away. That fleeting, yet fulfilling feeling of being heard for even a second in the comfortable dark of her attic, alone yet not wholly, made her feel like she wasn’t neurotic for being the way she, to the dismay of onlookers, was. 

She felt as if she owed it to her listeners to be there for them like they always are for her. 

Yet, there was also another constant in her life who was always there for her, patient and understanding and always right around the corner. 

“Maybe being insane for a while could do you some good,” Mikaela laughed, tucking an errant strand of violet behind Sable’s ear. Sable felt her defences weaken, and her heart thrum with a steady adoration. As per usual, Mikaela was right. 

She sighed, looking up at her with a small, accepting smile. “Brace yourself, then.” 

“I’ll be right here.” As Mikaela bent down to kiss Sable on the cheek, she caught a whiff of sweet, vanilla perfume lingering on her neck and welled up with honey-sweet reverence. Her lips were softer than silk, the touch of them a gentle, forthright promise that healed a part of Sable she never knew to be fractured.

 Sable pulled Mikaela down closer to her chest, and for one infinite second, basking in the familiar warmth of her embrace, the bickering in her head faded away into listless murmurs of violet and velvet. She felt herself come back to earth as her fingers dug into the inviting fibres of Mikaela’s sweater, her face kept safely in the crook of her neck. 

She inhaled once, letting the soft, soothing notes of cacao and amber envelop her delicately like a whispered confession. Sable let go as the moment slipped away, feeling a dull, yet content ache settle within her chest as time visibly passed her by. 

Mikaela smiled– her seafoam blue gaze tender and deep and full of emotions that could not accurately be named– and clasped Sable’s icy hands warmly within the sanctuary of her own. Mikaela ran her thumbs over her cracking, stiff knuckles, easing away the discordance weaved into each bone as if to say it’s okay, I’m here. 

Sable latched onto her again and closed her eyes. She could hear the faint whistle of a blizzard raging outside the window, shaking the barren trees. 

“I’ll make you a tea,” Mikaela unclipped Sable’s hair and smoothed it out with her fingers, staring for a moment out at the puffs of dreamlike snow falling beyond the frost-covered glass before walking back to the counter. 

Sable curled her knees up to her chest and held herself together, cradling the tendrils of warmth Mikaela’s touch left behind close to her heart. She pressed her nose to her sleeves and inhaled, delighted to find a scintilla of her perfume interwoven in the fibres. Her eyes followed Mikaela fondly as she began to mosey about the small kitchen space– they were in their own little world where it was just the two of them, along with the ever-falling snow. 

The kettle bubbled and hissed, and Mikaela’s bracelets jingled musically as she procured Sable’s tea. She gathered small drips of golden honey onto a spoon and stirred them soundlessly into the steaming mug like a witch stirring her misty cauldron– a comparison that made Sable chuckle softly into her sleeve, too low for anyone to hear– then softly whispered an incantation with her eyes closed. 

Sable could feel the warm blessings seeping into her chilled hands as Mikaela handed it to her, outfitted in a familiar chipping cup with little moths painted on it in gold. Hot steam spilled from the lip of the mug and swirled up to tickle Sable’s nose, emanating a sweet, herbal aroma. Memories of past sick days flooded her mind along with an eruption of mushy gratitude. 

“A blend of lavender and chamomile, with a bit of honey,” Mikaela smiled softly and sat across the table from Sable, who was too awestruck to say anything. Her fingers tapped endlessly against the side of the cracking ceramic. 

A rare, tiny smile poked at the edges of her lips. 

“I– I don’t know what to say–” she fumbled with her hands, staring into the dark abyss swirling around inside the cup. “Thank you. So much, Mikaela…” her words faltered, becoming quiet and dreamy. She didn’t know how to articulate her feelings– of which there were many. Mikaela simply huffed out a small, doting laugh in response. 

“You’re welcome,” her lips settled over her teeth to form a smile that reached her eyes, and she gazed lovingly at Sable with one hand atop hers. 

Bliss. 

After a few, heavenly minutes of sipping and talking idly in the low light of the empty cafe, Mikaela looked at her watch and sighed. 

“We should probably get going, I was technically supposed to close half an hour ago,” 

Sable dejectedly gathered all of her things, bones the consistency of a smooth jello– her mind had grown tired hours earlier, but now her body was finally catching up– and walked out into the frigid night with Mikaela’s gloved hand in hers. The snow hit their faces like small specks of cold ash and had dusted nearly every rooftop with candy-like mounds of powdered sugar. The wind carried itself through the barren trees, causing the branches to crack against each other like a rumble of soft, mute thunder that filled Sable’s heart with joy. 

“My place?” Mikaela asked, breaking the icy silence. 

“Please.” 

They sighed simultaneously as they found refuge from the cold in Mikaela’s pale green beetle, cheeks still red from the frosty chill. Pearlescent crystals jingled from a gold chain wrapped around the rearview mirror and shook as Mikaela put the vehicle into drive, pulling out of the snow-dusted parking lot and onto the slush-filled roads of night. 

In Sable’s bleary eyes, the headlights looked like thick strokes of paint among a mosaic of red, yellow, and green reflections. The colours blurred together into a beautifully dark painting that made her feel right at home. She dreamily imagined what creatures may be lurking in the trees as they passed jagged forests, and found solace in her imagination with her head slumped against the cold window. Dreaming. She could picture spindly limbs peering out from a fallen oak, or a grotesque anomaly beckoning an unsuspecting hitchhiker to come closer. Children’s laughter echoing from a forgotten cabin. Maybe even a witch would flourish past the full moon on her broomstick. That thought made her laugh inwardly. 

She smiled when she felt Mikaela gently place a hand on her thigh. 

“What’re you thinking about?” she whispered as they stopped at the lights. Sable blushed a bit, still staring out at the woods. 

“Ghosts and supernatural phenomena.” 

“See anything?” 

“Not yet,” 

Mikaela laughed sweetly. “Keep me posted.” 

Bright street lights interrupted Sable’s daydreaming when Mikaela pulled into her apartment complex’s parking lot and parked the car. Squinting, she shuffled back outside and felt relieved when Mikaela waited patiently for her to tiredly stumble up the frozen sidewalk and into the lobby, never dropping her hand for a second. 

Her apartment was warm and familiar, lit by soft amber light bulbs and mismatched lamps with stained glass shades. Tapestries hung from the ceiling, blessed with sigils and depictions of the moon, effervescent and feminine in her wake. The walls were painted rich plum, and most of the surfaces such as the towering, full bookshelves, were deep, glossed brown and carved out of wood. Green plants spilled from gold planters on the shelves, brightening up the space and giving it an earthy aroma that reminded Sable of an enchanted forest. A large CRT television sat atop the console, stacked VHS tapes intertwined with clusters of crystals resting next to it. 

Sable shuffled off her shoes– worn black canvas sneakers with miscellaneous doodles all over them– and sat down on the purple velvet sofa with a huff. Curled herself up in between the side table and oriental pillows and closed her eyes as Mikaela flitted around absently. Sable identified the comforting sounds of her hanging her coat on the rack and pouring three drops of oil into the diffuser. 

At the click of a button, the soft scent of lavender filled the room, accompanied by the gentle raindrop-esque sounds of mist funnelling from the diffuser. Sable felt her head loll to the side, ready to drift off right there, and groaned playfully when Mikaela motioned for her to get off the couch. Off to bed with you, her eyes seemed to say. 

Sable collected a few personal belongings she had left for nights like this from one of the drawers in Mikaela’s plant-covered dresser and got the shower running. She scrubbed the lingering taste of coffee from her mouth with minty toothpaste and revelled in the feeling of relaxation that settled deep in her bones as she glided under the warm water. Taking a moment to take care of herself, she lathered her whole body with one of Mikaela’s homemade soaps and luscious store-bought vanilla body wash– she’d have to buy more for Mikaela later as a thank you– and wove thick globs of matching shampoo into her hair. 

When she stepped out of the shower, she felt renewed, fresh. Like she had put on a new set of skin. Dressing herself in silken, moon-spotted pyjamas, she wondered when the last time she had felt like this was and frowned when she couldn’t come up with a memory. The girl that was reflected in the foggy mirror was one she hadn’t seen for a long time. It felt strange, yet good, to see her again. 

But also, she didn’t want to stare too long. Her hours of work were catching up, and quick. 

Mikaela was lounging, expectant, on her bed. She smiled, and sat her book down on the nightstand, letting her eyes travel over Sable, lingering for a little longer than she should have before finally meeting her eyes. Sable closed the distance, now heat-stricken and suddenly wishing more than ever to be asleep, by collapsing into her arms. Mikaela placed a tentative hand on her back, folding the soft material of Sable’s shirt over with her fingers and admiring the fragrance of her freshly washed hair. 

“I won’t take long,” she pulled back, skimming her fingers along the little v of exposed skin by Sable’s chest, letting her thumb find respite along the shirt’s first button. 

Sable exhaled softly, wandering into the depths of Mikaela’s eyes and wanting more than anything to stay, locked in her embrace forever. Something like desire poured from her heart into the room as mist, rolling around the atmosphere like sugary pink perfume, pulling her closer. The soft amber glow from the ajar bathroom door silhouetted her orange curls in an angelic halo of light, mesmerizing and encapsulating as a forgotten Goddess. Sable wrapped her finger around an errant curl, feeling their heartbeats synchronize like ocean waves as they pressed their foreheads together. Cars whistled past, but they were only murmurs in the background. Inconsequential. 

“Okay,” she mumbled, reluctantly parting. 

“I’ll be right back,” Mikaela responded, gently kissing Sable’s forehead before picking up her change of clothes and closing the bathroom door. An electric toothbrush powered on, and the water resumed. 

Sable slumped down against the cushiony bed, staring out the window at the luminous moon, milky white like a dollop of whipped cream amidst the mauve winter sky. Clouds shuffled past, stars twinkled if she squinted. She looked at the moon again, settled right in her line of sight. Staring. Watching. Full. Something wasn’t right. 

She lifted her hand and held it up to the window longingly as if maybe she could find the impossible answer to her question that way. Her skin glinted in the moonlight, and her eyes, heavy-lidded, sparkled with a feeling like home. The moon, stood, effervescent, and echoed a soft glow. Warmth washed over her, a celestial kind of touch. 

She bathed, atop the covers, drinking in the pale moonlight. Thinking, waiting, breathing. Ruminating over her life and finding comfort in the fact that she didn’t feel compelled to think too hard. 

She was too relaxed. 

A smile played on her lips, slightly awestruck in its wake. 

The bathroom door clicked, and Mikaela emerged from the now-dark room. She looked like she was about to say something, but Sable didn’t notice. She was still staring out the window. 

“What phase is the moon supposed to be in today?” she lolled her head toward Mikaela, who stood, confused, near her dresser as she buttoned up her pyjama top. 

“Waning gibbous,” 

“It’s full.” 

Mikaela hummed and settled herself next to Sable on the bed, twirling a lock of fading purple hair around her index finger as she, too, locked eyes with the moon. Similarly awestruck. “That’s sweet,” she said slowly before guiding Sable’s eyes back to hers with a gentle flourish. “She’s trying to help you.” 

Ribbons of light from passing cars flickered along the poster-covered blue walls as they shuffled under the covers, Sable curling herself up against Mikaela’s breastbone and Mikaela caressing Sable’s back through her silk top. The symphony of tires gliding over the falling snow and wind carefully being carried through barren trees ebbed and flowed along with their heartbeats, lulling the city around them into a gentle hush that could be forgotten among the sanctity of touch. 

Vanilla and Lavender danced in the night and settled, slowly, but wholly, around Sable’s shoulders as she mumbled against Mikaela’s freckled chest, a small but tender “Thank you.” 

Mikaela kissed the top of her head sweetly, in promise. Uncharacteristic tears pin-pricked at Sable’s weary eyes, drifting slowly away. 

“It’s okay, you can rest now.” 

Dec 23, 2010

xMoonlitSablex: Hey, going to take a small hiatus from ATWTN for the next couple of weeks. You’ll probably find me skulking around the graveyard :p Xoxo, Sable

26 notes 

_mikaelareid_: <3

Supersusie99: did u see the new marble hornets entry? Slender acc shows up ROFL 

[new-berry]

Fabian /Anthony not true safe for work.

Germany

Sometimes the best part is not knowing. Anthony turns and stares at the magazine display. It’s sometimes easy to work out what they mean. “Auto” somewhere in the title - car magazine. Airbrushed blondes - some kind of gossip.

“What’s that about?” Anthony points to a black and white image of a building, taken from underneath guessing some kind of architectural digest.

“Secrets to building in Minecraft.” Fabian patiently translates.

Anthony immediately pulls it off the shelf, sure he is being bullshitted. Inside are the bright blocks and square zombies of the game.

“Huh.” He says putting it back. “Kinder means children.” Fabian is laughing at him. Even though his voice is neutral, Anthony knows. He turns to Fabian who is holding a hemp shopping bag and looking up.

“And now you know the word for adult as well.” Anthony looks to the bookshelf and yeah, that’s kinda obvious. Fabian’s really laughing now and Anthony says; “you could have said anything man. I thought it was something intellectual, some art photography something.” Serena has started to show Anthony the basics of photography. He’s been getting into it, watching a few tutorials thinking about buying a camera.

“I promise to tell you the truth,” Fabian tells him deadpan. “Even if it’s disappointing.”

The Euro’s have been cleaned off the streets, enthusiasm had nose dived once Germany lost their last game. In shorts and t-shirts and pulled low baseball caps they are any other fans that haven’t quite headed home yet. Fabian holds Anthony’s hand, tugging him down the street. It’s too hot to be overly affectionate, the hazy rise of reflected heat pinging into the hot air, endless warmth rising and falling like watching an animal breath. Too fast and panting.

His accent’s thicker than normal, almost a caricature, harsh r sounds, and a gravel to the roll of words that Anthony is not used to. Anthony lets himself be towed along, listens to Fabian read out the names of the street signs, translate the names of restaurants. Between his fingers he can feel both of their pulses. He imagines being a tourist, staying in a hostel maybe going hiking. He imagines Fabian patiently guiding him up some hill, imagines them in clubs even hotter than the street is now.

They are not staying in a hostel. Their hotel is not homey or cheap or lived in. The aircon is a welcome cruel blast, the hair on his arms raised and Anthony is only warm where they are holding hands.

The receptionist has haughtily ignored Jamal Musiala and Jude Bellingham, she is deeply unimpressed with the two of them. Anthony’s trainers squeak on the tiles and he suddenly grins at Fabian in the reflection of the elevator doors. He knocks his hat off “needs dying,” he says to Fabian who tells him “please get it cut in Europe.”

“No promises.” Fabian is wearing sunglasses and Anthony looks directly at them, his reflection on the glasses and in the mirrored door endlessly looping back. “I’ll translate for you,” Fabian’s voice is low and cajoling. “I’ll explain exactly what you said.”

The tv is disguised as a black work of art on the wall. An expression of the void Anthony guesses. If he watched British TV it would be England's loss and Peppa Pig. East Enders and cooking shows.

“Is this the honey moon suite?” The whole room is dominated by a fuck off huge bed in the middle of the room.

Fabian laughs. He’d looked tired before. But the longer that have been there, Fabian standing in rooms and speaking with everyone, Anthony catching one or two words in the sea of German, the more confident and alert he’d become.

The balcony is narrow and looking m down from it, ten floors away people are walking down the road they were just on. All the cars look sleek from on here. Little flags on bmw’s.

“This hotel is popular with diplomats,” Fabian’s right behind him, close but not touching the hairs on Anthony’s arms rise m again “how do you know that?”

The air moves, eddy of breath when Fabian shrugs, “overheard the staff.” Anthony see him in the polished clear window.

[imaginmatrix]

Prompt: Moonlight

I have no clue where the short that this one word prompt inspired came from, but I hope you enjoy

Percy’s mother used to say there was magic in the light of the moon. She said the silver rays could carry any number of impossible things from the stars to the earth; strange beings and mysterious items and concepts like fate and destiny would ride those gossamer bands like a tidal wave to shift the mundane to wondrous.

And then, of course, Percy got older and learned that the moon merely reflected the light of the sun, and was little more than a barren rock doomed to encircle the earth however gravity dictated until the day an asteroid collided a bit too hard and freed it to the lonely emptiness of space. He wasn’t necessarily a practical guy who dismissed fairytales and children’s stories, but he was a cynic, and his mother’s stories lost much of their shine in the wake of losing her.

She used to joke she might choose to become the moon when she died, so she could watch Percy grow and live even after her story was over. But they both assumed they’d have more time before that happened.

These days, the moon was just a rock, the stars just burning balls of gas, and magic was a lie of his childhood.

“Those things kill, you know.”

Percy’s dark brows raised, his face turning to the blonde girl who criticized his life choices before even having the decency to introduce herself. The roof party behind them was abuzz with life; string lights gave a hazy glow to the young adults lounging on sofas and sipping bottles of some sort of craft beer that tasted like shit but all the hipsters pretended was a divine elixir of craftsmanship.

He was on the outskirts, leaning on the stone wall of the roof, puffing smoke from his cig into the dark and staring at city lights.

And now she was too.

He huffed a laugh through his nose, shaking his head and tugging the cigarette from between his lips, “Pretty sure that’s common knowledge at this point.”

“And yet here you are, turning your lungs to raisins anyway.”

Percy was both annoyed and intrigued, almost impressed at her audacity. He didn’t care much for being scolded; he was an adult. He could make whatever bad decisions he wanted.

But this girl was direct. Plenty of people hated cigarettes, but most would wrinkle their nose and move away, or cough dramatically to make a point without words, or mutter to their friends about the disgusting habit. Not the girl beside him. She walked right up and pointed out the obvious, said what most wouldn’t dare say to a stranger.

Percy could admire that.

“Well?” The girl asked expectantly, as if Percy was supposed to answer a question that was never actually voiced.

“Well what?” He stubbed out the cigarette, leaning away from the girl to toss what was left into the bin nearby.

“Why do you smoke.” She said, as if it were obvious.

Percy shrugged, “I don’t know.”

But he did know.

His mother never smoked a day in her life. Yet cancer made its home in her lungs anyway. So maybe it was to spite the universe for that, or maybe it was to dare it to take him out the same way. Maybe it was just self flagellation for being here when she wasn’t. There was nothing to blame himself for, nothing he could have done to stop her from getting sick, but some sort of guilt gnawed through his chest anyway.

So he dampened that guilt by putting chemicals in his body.

Or maybe he was just an idiot who smoked because he tried it once and got hooked, like every other person who relied on the stuff to get through the day.

“Well you should stop.”

Another incredulous laugh rasped from Percy’s throat, “Never heard that one before.” He finally turned to face the girl properly.

And then something that was neither smoke nor guilt filled his chest.

She was pretty, but Percy had seen pretty before. This was different. This was…

Intense.

There was something in her expression that felt a thousand years old; she was clearly around his age, but her gaze had seen the rise and fall of empires, revolutions, tragedies, and everything that filled the eons between.

But she was just a girl, and Percy was a bad poet, and he swallowed a sudden bitter taste in his mouth as he found words to combat the way she seemed to see right through him.

“Do you usually berate people you’ve just met, or am I special?”

She looked thoughtful, “A bit of both.”

“Yeah?” Percy wished he wasn’t a smoker, just so it would be easier to catch his breath around this girl, “What makes me special, then?”

“You’re in my spot.” She turned back to the city, those eyes shifting from his face and her profile caught the light in a near halo. The sensation of her focus leaving him had Percy desperate to hold it again.

“So you live here?” He leaned beside her, back to the wall so he could better see the slope of her nose and the curve of her lips.

A nod, “It’s my roommate’s party.”

Now an answering brow raise, “I thought it was a housewarming thing?”

“It is.”

“So wouldn’t this technically be your party too?”

Another shrug, but the continued conversation saw that her head turned back to him and Percy felt himself drown in the impossible gravity of her attention once more. “I’m not really a party person.”

“Me neither.” At her pointed look that said ‘but you’re at this one?’ he clarified, “I was dragged along.”

This answer was satisfactory, “You’re Percy then.”

Hearing his name from the lips of a stranger, particularly this stranger, was startling. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Because you’re the only person here I don’t recognize, and Charles said you were coming.”

“Right.” A beat. “And you’re…?”

“Annabeth.”

It wasn’t a name Percy had ever heard before, but as soon as she said it, it became one he knew he’d never forget.

Annabeth’s gaze turned out and up again. A silence settled over them.

Percy was frantically searching for something to say, a question, a statement, anything to keep the conversation going, when Annabeth spoke again; “You can’t see the stars.”

It took a moment for his brain to catch up, “…What?”

“Light pollution.” Annabeth nodded to the city, “It hides the stars.”

Percy glanced up, the sky dark and empty while something old and primal tugged at his gut and whispered that it shouldn’t be. “You can see a fair amount in Montauk.”

“I’ve never been.”

“I’ll take you some time.” It slipped out before Percy could consider the fact that inviting a girl he just met to drive outside the city with him to look at stars was weird, but to his relief she smiled.

“I’d like that.” Annabeth fixed him with her gaze once more. And once more it was crushing, and Percy was close enough now to make out the color of her eyes.

Some people might have called them gray, but a word so colorless and boring couldn’t come close to what they were. Silver was the closest, Percy decided. Silver and seeing every little hope, fear, desire, and secret Percy had buried deep down, as if he was laid bare without clothes or even a physical form to hide in.

Percy cleared his throat, “At least you can still see the moon.”

Annabeth didn’t look back to the sky when she said “Not tonight. It’s a new moon.”

Could have fooled Percy, the silver glow of Annabeth’s irises a fine replacement. Even better, as she carried two moons in her eyes, rather than just the one that hung in the sky.

“Ah. Well. Tomorrow then.”

“Mmm.”

Silence again. God. The silence hurt— not a sharp pain, but a dull ache, like the moment between comfort and burning when one held their breath for too long.

And he’d known the girl for less than ten minutes.

But in that time, he had decided to quit smoking, take her to see the stars in Montauk, and let her occupy every corner of his mind for as long as she deigned to stay for.

The numbness that plagued every waking moment for the past 3 years ebbed.

“Do you—“

“I think—“

They spoke at the same time. Annabeth laughed breathlessly, complimenting Percy’s own nervous chuckle.

“You first.” Percy said.

“No, no, you go.”

“I insist.”

Annabeth scrunched up her nose, making freckles Percy hadn’t noticed sharpen. “I think,” she started again, “that I’d like to go inside.”

Percy’s heart sunk, “Oh, uh, yeah, it’s kind of cold.”

Annabeth didn’t move, instead staring at him in a way that had him squirming, thinking there was something he should be doing that he wasn’t.

“…Are we going in, then?”

Percy jolted at the realization that he was invited. “Y-yeah!” He shoved his hands into his pockets, pushing off the wall.

Annabeth rolled her eyes, tucking a curly lock behind her ear as they walked back to the exit. Percy wondered what it would be like to do that, to reach out and brush errant locks from her face.

They stopped at the door to the stairs, and for the first time since they’d met, Annabeth seemed hesitant.

“I don’t… do this often.”

Percy furrowed his brow, “Do what?”

“Invite guys I just met to my bedroom.”

Oh.

His brain short circuited— inside meant inside, bedroom meant bedroom, she’d said inside, she’d meant bedroom, and he…

Holy shit.

Percy licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry and throat working to form a sound, any sound.

“R-right. Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah, me neither— I mean I have, but I don’t usually, it’s not like, a common thing, it’s not a normal weekend occurrence, I don’t go around picking up girls for one night stands and if I did I wouldn’t like, uh, leave it as a one night stand, I mean at least not these days—“ He bit his tongue to make himself shut up, because dear god that was way too much in response to a simple statement.

He’d made poor choices right after his mom died. Percy had never been one for casual: not casual sex, nor casual dating. He wasn’t that guy. He didn’t generally feel attraction unless he knew someone first, gotten to know them, fall in love with them.

But after his only family had died, he grew desperate to feel anything. Even self-loathing.

This… wasn’t that.

Maybe it was the fact that this girl, Annabeth, had no qualms about shaming him for a bad habit. Maybe he was just cold. Maybe it was the loneliness of a party he couldn’t find the strength to be a part of, to try and put on a smile and make friends and drink shitty beer and pretend everything was fine.

Maybe it was the moonlight in Annabeth’s eyes.

Whatever the reason, Percy couldn’t help but want this. Not in the self-destructive way of his past that left him feeling cold and empty. It was something different, it was…

He wasn’t sure.

Annabeth was smiling though, thankfully amused by his rambling rather than weirded out, and she reached a hand to lace their fingers together. “I’ll show you my record collection.” Her eyes drifted up and down Percy’s body in the least subtle way possible. “You look like a guy who likes music.”

Percy’s chuckle was strained, but his shoulders relaxed, “I’ve been known to sometimes enjoy sounds, yeah.”

Annabeth’s laugh made his skin tingle.

Her hand was warm and soft and fit perfectly against his calloused one.

Her eyes shone like the moon his mother loved so much did; they reflected the light in a way that Percy swore defied physics, holding all the things his mother promised moonlight would. Adventure. Magic. Mystery.

A promise of something more.

And as Annabeth blushed and ducked her head when Percy held the door open for her

as she led him down the concrete stairwell to a new apartment and room with lights so warm and comforting, they put those on the roof to shame

as they sat on the floor and looked at records and picked out their favorite songs

as Moon River played on the turntable and Percy met those eyes that held not just the moon, but the stars and sun and planets and entire galaxies

as he reached for her, tucking those blonde curls behind her ear like he’d been itching to, watching her lashes flutter and her breath catch and her cheeks flush with color and her eyes drop to his lips and back up

as they both leaned in

Percy thought that maybe, just maybe

his mom was right about the moon.

[zmasters]

A Long Goodbye - A Lancer Story

A Long Goodbye - Enkidu

LL 3

Tokugawa Rank 3

Talents: Hunter 3, Black Thumb 2, Iconoclast 1

On a lone moon, a single, crashed ship laid in a heap. The purple Harrison Armory symbol on the side has been scratched out. A silent, forgotten memory, on a forgotten world.

With a roar, the clouds parted. Five Sherman-class mechs striked the ground with the force of a hail of missiles, followed by a Saladin.

“Zyn Vitanonia!” The Saladin ordered over their mech’s loudspeakers. “We have you surrounded! Come out with your hands up, and face Harrison’s mercy!”

No answer.

Five shermans charged their ZF4 solidcore integrated cannons.

“Zyn! For the sake of your safety, please come out!”

Static rippled over the comms. “Sorry Glory, and you too Noah.” A gravelly voice echoed in the cockpit. “But my buddy and I aren’t going back.”

“Zyn wait!”

Not waiting for their commander’s orders, the sherman fired their cannons. Five red beams were launched at the crashed ship, metal melting under the pure heat.

“Oh that’s hot, but I’m used to hotter!”

A tall black mech, purple veins running down the animalistic shell punched from the burning wreck with a feral speed.

The purple blur ran on all fours towards the closest sherman, neon purple ribbons of plasma whipping out of its talons.

“ENKIDU! The sherman pilot yelled over the comms as the plasma talons of the rogue mech bifurcated the sherman in half.

Glory watched in horror as Zyn beat her comrade to death. She and Zyn joined Harrison’s armed forces around the same time. The two served on the same ship, where Zyn was a tokugawa pilot and security officer. While she was always reckless and prone to overclocking the reactor, this feral wrath was not something the calm and collected security officer would have.

The enkidu’s wrath was broken by a hail of laser rifle rounds. Glory swore she heard Zyn growl over the comms as the neon purple eyes of the mech’s head glared at her.

“Warning.” Noah, Glory’s NHP, echoed through the cockpit. “Hostile enkidu’s reactor is rising to dangerous levels of heat.”

Zyn pounced, the plasma talons flailing wildly, completely ignoring the laser volley. The talons firing from the mech’s fingers like missiles, streams of plasma following after them. The six talons buried into the closest sherman, two of which striking the mech’s cockpit. The streams of plasma tighten, retracting the talons back to the enkidu and sending scraps of metal raining down through the air.

Two of the remaining shermans and Glory unloaded their weapons onto Zyn as a third sherman charged. The enkidu met that charge, talons carving into the sherman’s shoulder. The gauntlets of the Harrison grunt held the fragile frame of the rogue with an iron grip, keeping them still as the other three kept the onslaught of lasers up.

The purple eyes of the enkidu glitched to a blood red. A message was crawled directly into the visors of all the Harrison grunts

[i yearn to awaken]

A spark of energy emitted from the enkidu. The sherman holding it still lost their grip, and was punished for their failure.

The enkidu was a blur of neon purple, plasma talons carving the grunt into pieces. As the dance turned her comrade into chunks of metal, Glory was able to make out something on top of her former companion’s mech.

A blue hoodie flapped in the breeze. Metal limbs magnetically lock the figure onto the flailing beast as repair tools healed its wounds. Zyn had left the cockpit, and was repairing the damaged mech. But it was still moving, still fighting.

As the beast leapt passed the corpse of its prey, realization struck Glory with the force of a plasma talon to the chest. Zyn didn’t just steal the enkidu, she stole an NHP.

What happened next was hazy to Glory. Seconds felt like minutes. Gunfire and screams were muffled. She tasted blood.

By the time a relief force arrived, the rest of Glory’s squadron was dead, their mechs having been stolen and their bodies left behind, mangled and broken. Zyn and her stolen enkidu were nowhere in sight, having seemingly left the moon at some point.

Commander Gloria Darman had suffered a broken leg and a concussion, her saladin also having a damaged leg that mimicked its pilot. As well, the casket that held the NHP Noah was damaged. It is currently unknown why the cascading NHP was fully cooperative with Harrison Army forces.

As Noah was cycled and was being prepped for repairs, Glory heard a familiar voice whisper to her.

[drink deep, and descend, my friend]

[scatteredthoughts2]

THE WITCHING HOUR.

The Witching Hour, The Haunting Hour,

When things go bump in the dead of night,

When ghosts and daemons come out to haunt,

Make your heart go THUMP, and your hair turn white.

Strange things happen "neath the hazy moon,

Betwixt the hours of three and four,

Things no eyes should ever see,

So please stay in and lock your door.

Tombstones shift and shadows dance,

As bony fingers break through the earth,

And the dead rise up and leave their graves,

And shriek and laugh in ghostly mirth.

This world is their's and their's alone,

This daemon world of ghosts and ghouls,

No witnesses to their foul acts,

They are only seen by bats and owls.

Their screams and howls are heard from afar,

Above the roars of rumbling thunder,

Werewolves, Vampires, Banshees, and Witches,

And Daemons to shred your soul asunder.

And behind locked doors you might not be safe,

For it's on us humans that they doth prey,

And walls and doors and shuttered windows,

Might not suffice to keep them away.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[blackjackkent]

Dimly, through the hazy fog of the shadow curse, they can see the outline of a high tower, black against a black sky.

"That'll be Moonrise, then," Rakha says gruffly, shuddering as she edges around a particularly dark patch of shadow. "Our destination."

"They got the rise part right," Wyll says, mock-thoughtfully. "Not so sure about the moon. The sky's as dark as the rest..."

Shadowheart laughs softly. "Yet another blessing of Lady Shar in this place..."

"Peace, k'chakhi," Lae'zel says moodily. "If your goddess haunts this place, call on her to shorten the distance we must walk, or be silent."

"Lady Shar's blessing may be all that is keeping the curse from strangling us all," Shadowheart begins hotly, but she's cut off by Rakha, who suddenly lifts a hand and points off into the dark.

"Look," she says. "We're not alone."

A collection of perhaps five or six armored fighters are clumped together on the path ahead, muttering to each other. All of them carry weapons. One - seemingly the leader - carries a torch which is angrily sputtering against the prowling shadows on all sides. They have the air of soldiers preparing for a military operation - or would, at least, if they didn't all also look utterly terrified.

One of them bears a mark on their shield that Rakha recognizes from the cache of supplies where the mimic attacked them. Harpers, Shadowheart had said. She hadn't, at the time, explained what Harpers were, but it seems at least that these people are associated with the name as well.

"Stay together! Keep to the light!" calls the leader, and the others gather closely around her, beginning to survey the area.

Rakha crouches, automatically twisting herself out of sight - but it's a futile effort. The strangers are as keyed up as she is, and there's immediately the sound of a muffled curse, and then the torchlight swings in an arc to aim in her direction.

"Stop!" the woman snaps. "Who's there?!"

The man next to her sights his crossbow down on Rakha, and Rakha feels a surge of the beast's sudden, eager bloodlust. It has hated this place for its deathly stillness, but these are people, living breathing people with blood to spill and a weapon drawn on her. And for a moment she struggles against the brutal urge to simply surge forward and snap all their necks one by one.

(A/N: There are two Durge lines and a Wild Magic line available to us here. The Durge lines: "An escaped lunatic. Be careful, or the madman will take over..." and "A nightmare in the dark." The Wild Magic: "I'm a sorcerer, so kindly lower your weapons - or who knows what my magic might do." The WM one doesn't sound like Rakha at all; the Durge ones are kind of interesting, but this is one of those moments where Rakha's matter-of-fact directness feels more apropos than anything else.)

"My name is Rakha," she grinds out, squeezing her eyes shut against the murderous instinct. "Who are you?"

The Harper captain shakes her head once and gestures with the torch. "First, come closer. Hands up," she says sharply.

Rakha hesitates, then steps out slowly from her hiding place. The others don't seem to have been spotted yet, and out of the corner of her eye she can see Lae'zel muttering instructions to them; all three have drawn their weapons.

The Harpers circle around Rakha, all watching her with deep suspicion. The silence stretches uncomfortably.

"Yonas. Move in," the leader snaps to the man with the crossbow.

He nods, makes as if to step forward - then stops, distracted by the sound of something behind him.

And then everything happens at once.

A shadowy form - flaring with shadow magic that makes Rakha's head ache - surges out of the darkness, grabs the man by the ankles, and hauls him away.

The sound of his scream disappears into the utter silence around them.

Instantly, the Harpers lose any interest in Rakha, all their attention going to their missing comrade.

Rakha stands beside them, peering out at the darkness, bewildered and - deep down - frightened. This place is bad enough, with the searing pain that strikes whenever they step outside the light, and the way the Weave spasms and writhes like a frightened animal in the curse's grip. But that creature... what was it? She could see nothing beyond a vague outline of enormous claws that grabbed Yonas and pulled him into the dark...

For a moment they can hear him shouting back-- "I'm here! Where are you?"

"Yonas?!" calls the captain. "Can you see our torches?"

"I can't see anything!" Yonas answers. "Something's wrong..."

"Follow my voice!" the captain shouts. "Come back to the light!"

Yonas's voice seems weaker now, strangled. "Who's there? Meg? Is that--" The words choke off into silence, followed by a sudden agonized scream, the crunch of snapping bone.

The captain's eyes narrow in an expression of subtle grief. Rakha's head snaps up and the beast purrs in her brain. Surely that was the sound of the man's death at that creature's hands...

But it wasn't.

"Yonas?" one of the younger Harpers quavers as the figure comes staggering back out of the shadows.

It is no longer Yonas, no longer his voice but a strange corrupted whine.

"There you are..." he wheezes, one hand outstretched towards his former comrades. "Come... join me..."

His whole body is saturated in that terrible, corrupted, wrong magic. It hurts Rakha's eyes, it burns in her chest. It tears at everything she is, everything that is left to her.

When the beast growls again, when it says he needs to die, she agrees. Kill. Destroy. Attack with *purpose*. Drive that terrible thing out of the world--

"Move," she says hoarsely, striding forward towards the transformed Harper, flame flaring over her hands and driving back the endless night around her. "I'll take care of this."

(A/N: The Durge option here is Abandon them. Hope they die. which is not where Rakha is at right now but is pretty funny.)

Seemingly galvanized by Rakha's motion, the Harper captain surges forward as well, lifting both axe and torch against the man who stood at her side only minutes ago. "Don't let it get hold of you!" she bellows fiercely. "Harpers - now!"

[the-quicksilver-diary]

The Cold

You sit for hours on end in the raging blizzard, a motionless statue in the cold. Are you alive, child of frost? Or have you succumbed to the cold and joined the many dead that have fallen this winter? Even you are unsure. Recall, child of frost. Recall some semblance of memory to wake you from the fugue in which you linger, such that you may live again amidst the swirling of ice and snow that has engulfed the crevices of your very essence. You take no nourishment, save for chunks of ice you grab from your satchel. They sit in your mouth, sapping all warmth from it until the flesh within turns blue. They don't melt, for you haven't the warmth in your blood to melt them anymore. All you can do is swallow. Your face is sunken, child of frost. Your face is the shifting sky of nights that come earlier and earlier with each passing day: a deep grey-blue with no hint of life, ushering forth a fell wind that makes the trees wail. When your eyes move, they move with the weight of lead and set upon their beheld the indifference of stone. Your scarf, your coat, your hair, your arms. They all trail behind you, wistful and flowing ever behind you into the wind. The only direction your glazed eyes can comprehend, the only time of which you can conceive. Winter holds no expectation, only recollection. Recall the streetlamps along your route. On the curved path of concrete, there sit a dozen wrought-iron streetlamps casting a hazy sphere of harsh yellow upon a layer of untouched snow in the night. There is no moon to guide you, and the stars all hide behind the clouds. The only thing to follow is a gently curving path of streetlamps, the only sound is the crunch of your own steps. Recall her touch, child of frost. A memory so old that you have since started to doubt its existence among the other cascading and mercurial imaginings that could have been real. You only ever saw her at night, and when you did she was cold. When she fiddled the keys in the door with stiff blue fingers, the sound of the tumbling locks that heralded her return was such joyous music. Her coat, colder than ice, smelling like ash and smoke, brought you comfort unmatched by anything since. She, too, walked the route that you do today. She passed the same streetlamps you did, walking alone in the dark. She walked against the same wind, the same snow, the same silence. And when she walked back to whichever of the countless places you two called home, she came home with food. Sometimes there was enough for her too. On the rare occasions that you have ample time to do so along your walk, you stop and listen. You listen to the gaps within the quiet, the spaces within the dark. And just then, you can just barely hear what you swear to be her breathing in the wind, the rhythmic rise and fall of hush that used to help you sleep.

[aslanmerlin]

MERLIN: KINGDOM COME

Season 6 Episode 1 "RISE AND SHINE"

FADE IN: INTRO

KILGHARRAH (V. O.)

In a land where magic is all but

myth, the destiny of a great kingdom

rests on the shoulders of the most

powerful sorcerer ever to walk the

earth. His name? Merlin.

FADE IN FROM BLACK:

[1] MERLIN is having a hazy dream/memory of ARTHUR's death. Fractions of the scene from The Diamond of the Day Part 2 (5x13) fade in and out on-screen. MERLIN SCREAMING ARTHUR's name echoes as MERLIN wakes...

CUT TO: INT. MERLIN'S FLAT (BEDROOM) - NIGHT 1.

MERLIN (V. O.) (echoing, screaming) ARTHUR!

MERLIN bolts upright in bed, eyes flashing gold. His window is closed, but there is a breeze knocking his hair about. Looking up, he realizes the ceiling fan is whirring out of control by an unintentional use of his magic.

MERLIN raises a hand, intending to use magic to stop the ceiling fan - when the fan snaps off its axel. The blades from the ceiling fan spin towards MERLIN. He ducks - they pinwheel over his head and crash to the floor.

Shuddering, MERLIN holds his head between his hands.

MERLIN (whisper) : It was a dream. It was a dream.

(Page 1 of 40)

He's gasping, sweat-soaked, and shaking. His nightmare has left him traumatized.

MERLIN (low, thick with emotion) : Just focus on breathing. The living comes after.

MERLIN slides to the edge of the bed, where he sits trying to recover. He glances at a digital clock on his bedside table: 3:07am.

Words appear at the bottom of the screen: "21 ST. CENTURY. NOVEMBER. "

Rising from the bed, MERLIN crosses to his window - he is on the second story of a flat positioned in the heart of London City. Outside, it's raining. MERLIN looks out over London, watching the cars pass below him in the streets.

Words appear at the bottom of the screen: "FIFTEEN HUNDRED YEARS SINCE ARTHUR'S DEATH."

Seeing MERLIN now is a stark contrast to the way we are accustomed to seeing him. It's hard to grasp that this is the same hopeful boy we met at the beginning of his story. Now, even without the aging spell, you can see that the centuries of loss and suffering have aged him - though he has maintained the physical appearance of a man in his late 20s to early 30s. Light stubble adds to his visible maturity.

Around MERLIN's neck, we see a black chord, at the end of which dangles the royal seal ring that had once been ARTHUR's. The Pendragon Crest in the center of it shines as it catches light from the city below. As MERLIN gazes over London, he fingers the royal seal, running a thumb along its surface.

CUT TO: SERIES OF SHOTS - CONTINUOUS.

MERLIN dons his day clothes - coat, hat, and all - and slings his sathel over his shoulder.

CUT TO: INT. MERLIN'S FLAT (LIVING ROOM) - CONTINUOUS.

MERLIN stands by the front door. We CLOSE-UP on his face as he stands still and closes his

MERLIN : Miht dagan, bepecce me. Adeadap isne gast min freondum ond min feondum.

(Page 2 of 40)

МERLIN's face gradually ages decades. Wrinkles line his features; a wispy, white beard grows. He transforms into OLD MERLIN. Once the aging spell is complete, he exits his flat.

CUT TO: EXT. LONDON CITY (STREET) - CONTINUOUS.

LONG SHOT from behind of OLD MERLIN as he heads down the sidewalk. He looks alone, secluded, out of place. The CIVILIANS who pass him are as oblivious to his pain as they are to the world from which he comes.

TITLES

EXT. FOREST - NIGHT 1. FLASHBACK.

[2] We find PERCIVAL right where we left him EP13 of Season 5, searching for MERLIN and ARTHUR. He hurries through the forest on horseback, scanning his surroundings urgently. He breaks out of the forest, coming upon...

EXT. LAKE OF AVALON - CONTINUOUS. FLASHBACK.

PERCIVAL dismounts his HORSE and comes toward the Lake. After a moment of glancing around with only the moon shining off the water for light, he spots something - someone - at the water's edge:MERLIN. But why is he alone?

PERCIVAL: Merlin?

PERCIVAL approaches. MERLIN doesn't acknowledge him. His face is wet with tears, but his expression is far-off; numb.

PERCIVAL: Merlin. Where is Arthur?

MERLIN stares ahead, still shell-shocked from ARTHUR's death.

PERCIVAL: Where is our King?

MERLIN (beat - hollow) : He's gone. I couldn't save him.

(Page 3 of 40)

(Хочу написать весь сериал но это будет очень долго!!!)

[wanderlust-psifang]

Gothic Sorcery

A street lamp glows like a terrestrial star shining the light on the chasm of an empty street. In the distance is a shadowy figure, or is it two? Maybe it's your lover to meet you on a rendezvous and a friend to share late night party favors. You prance with a second wind towards the shadows, no thought but an end cap to an otherwise boring night, you call out.

Silence. You slow your step, giggling to yourself. Your friends are known to play silly games. You call out once more. Still nothing. The figure (figures?) just remain. You stop and check your phone, glee melting into doubt. No text and service is not so great. Odd, because it's a street you frequent on a daily basis. Looking up, the shadow has moved.

Your hair rises and you get a shiver down your spine. It blends in with the shadows of the buildings, staying just out of the light so no defining characteristics can be seen. It approaches closer and you can hear a caustic, but low, sound as it moves. You shine your phone's flashlight in its direction. You jump back, almost falling, cold blue eyes stealing your gaze as it's head and body look opaque like filaments of dimmed light. As fast as you catch yourself you start to feel tired, fatigued, and you become hazy.

You are cold, stuck in the darkness, the creature of dim light now gone. The streetlight dimming and flickering out as you hear footsteps and laughter from behind. That laugh is undeniable and comforting and a soft touch on your back brings grounds you. You take a deep breath and laugh it off. You turn to your friends and smile, "I need a drink!"

You turn back, the streetlight flickers and begins to shine again, this time there is no shadow figure. You almost feel relief, but upon turning around you hear two heavy thumps next to you and there are those cold blue eyes and a crimson smile. "I need a drink" it says in a deep and echoing voice. It's touch is cold and everything turns black.

...

The Gothic is filled with stories that turn mundane objects into stuff of nightmares. A haunted streetlight, a pair of shoes, a ventriloquist dummy, possessed by otherworldly essence. A house that screams in the night, water pipes filled with blood, and a curious shadow that follows you around. These concepts are old as the buildings themselves and every new invention has a terrifying story as if it was built into it to satisfy our curious minds. Social media is all fun and games until it is driven by a love obsessed murderous AI. Scratching in the walls may be just a rat in the wall, even worse, a squatter. Or it's a portal to the ghost realm and when you find that strange book or old picture and read the weird sentence, the portal slowly opens.

These stories inspire our little minds into bouts of curiosity. Curiosity about the dark and macabre, about the mysterious and magical. Some venture into exploring haunted houses and objects. Maybe their is a peculiar doll at a vintage shop that just has to brought home. Still not satiated and inspired by Gothic Horror, we find a spell online or in a witchcraft book we came across. We say a spell and kiss the doll as if we are gifting it with life itself. We just created a poppet. A creepy, glazed eye poppet, but a magical doll none the less.

Gothic Horror teaches us that magic is everywhere and ghosts can haunt anything. The local cat may be a familiar and that old house really may be a witches house. What if the murder of crows tells us of an omen, or an owl portends a visitation of an otherworldly being? Maybe we really can tie a knot and bind a bad person, or fill a jar with nails and urine to protect us from harm. Maybe making a tea of roses and honey and dipping a picture of our desire in it brings them closer to us or spilling fresh blood on a grave on a Dark Moon opens the veil to communicate with the deceased.