#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

[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.

[ophelian-darling]

Prompta 94 + 38 with noriyaki kakyoin. He's ready captured you and confessed his love to you and you're still trying to get used to your new home.

"I'm the only one who can understand you"

"You're adorable when you're asleep"

TW: Isolation, Obsession, Implied Stalking and kidnapping, delusional thoughts.

Word Count : 1.3k words.

enjoy ♡

"Smile for me!" 

It's been weeks- at least in your perception. There are certain thoughts of obscurity that gnaw your brain, the effect of Noriaki present even in the scatters of your mind's rambles: Time has no existence except that of the imagination, the more our thinking daubs with life colors, the more we get old. The clouds behind the window marched in a Foggy lane; so dreadful with a beauty of its own.

"Everything is beautiful! our eyes just can't see the bewitching charm of it. it's the human eye that is ugly" 

Noriaki would chatter for hours about everything and nothing. Clutching a brush and standing in front of a canvas, aimlessly coloring a homely sketch in a passion of a Picasso yet in the skill of the Austrian painter, an opinion that God forbid if you shared to him no matter how he insisted you to. Better leave him to swim in a warm sea of his own illusions if it meant that you're out of any disturbing antics he would present. 

A first look at him would tell no secret about the madness veining through him; it's just an introverted classmate with an amateur hobby of painting, someone who isn't recognizable in any way or form. Anyone who sees him scribbling on a paper would think that he's just recording notes for a class, while he is lining a crimson billet-doux. They would think he was fulfilling his class cleaning duty in the evening, while he was wiping the violent evidence of his crimes. They thought he was a sweet boyfriend to walk his lover home, while he was-

"What are you thinking of, Dollface?" 

"Uh-" Instinctively changing your position as you uttered a faux-casual 'nothing', you realized that you were staring through a skylight window for too long, perhaps forgetting (or ignoring?) him as he ordered you to smile. quickly, you put your lips curves to a height that felt awkward, a smile of a rushed family photo. He hummed in response, seemingly buying it so as to complete his 'Masterpiece' (using his words).

"I'm almost done, I can't wait for you to see it" 

"I'm so excited to see it!" you lied, the family photo smile still plastered on your face. 

"This is the best thing I've ever drawn so far" He smiled, cheerfully eyeing your resting figure on the chair "I wanted to paint you in full coloring for so long, and now I'm glad I got the chance to finally do it" 

Just at your left, a wall stood still, dozens of haste sketches hanging on, some semi-completed, others either barely spilled any effort or neglected at their prime, jittery lineaments in dark pencil. You could tell that Noriaki was frustrated with them: they never matched the tableau vivant he carved in his mind's eye; yet they somehow ended up being useful enough to have the honor to be remembered and kept. 

Leisurely, the corners of the house engraved themselves in your memory corridors, so was the daily script of life here: days mimed each other, Noriaki's smiles split into thousands of colors, yet his eyes were ever the same as fake greens; none of them held any normalcy or spontaneity, just faux calmness. In the morning, you both wake up- He's the first to rise from bed, rattling you awake before having breakfast together. His tongue flows when the sun shines, he talks and speaks and laughs and chatters nineteen to the dozen, his voice very clear in your anamnesis yet his words hazy. as your teacup hangs between your thumb and index finger, you focus on the movement of his lips and nod at whatever letter he throws. As the ether discolor into cinnabar, his room is solely altered to be a temple honoring you: poems, paintings and pictures wallpapered the small room in a morbid show of attachment. When the moon is crowned in the sky with stars, The jar of cogitation breaks, and Noriaki would animate his dreams of a family and a blithe life, framing you and him in one iridescent cadre, until the heavy curtain of dreamless slumber falls on your eyes.

"I'm done!" He announced happily "Come take a look" 

You stood up, blood circulating again through the muscles of your backside and thighs. Of course, sitting for two hours in a stiff position to please the Mr.Artist was nowhere of an exertion near his. You just have to sit and look pretty, he would argue.

"It's the best ever! I'm really proud of this one. I've been thinking about making it real for so long, and it's as perfect as I imagined!" The palette in his left hand moved with each word, intonating his speech. He surely was excited- you never got a reaction so enthusiastic from him.

You kept your smile, looking at the product of two hours in front of you.

A dark line rimmed a color that seemed like your skin tone, vigor lines on what you assumed to be the head pastiched your hair, proving even more how much of blind digits he had. The eyes of your own face were closed, an expression you never felt or recognized on your features layered your replica on the canvas. it was what a crow would caw compared to what a nightingale would chant.

"So?" He waited for your approval.

Life with Noriaki taught you a massively important key skill: Lying. your lips curve up, your vocal cords silken as the lie rolls down your tongue "It's really beautiful!" you reach up to his face and kiss his cheek as a 'thank you for bothering yourself to appreciate my beauty'. He basked in your validation and demanded it almost always.

"But I'm kinda curious, why did you draw my eyes closed?" you noticed his smile shift from a saccharine one to egoistic.

"You know you're already cute right? yet not genuinely" He stared at the painting, carrying on "I think that honesty suits your face best. I know that you didn't like the painting, and I know that you never liked any of my sketches or anything I ever made for you" His lips merged into a thin line, a gray flicker flashing in his irises. coolly, he continued "You have that stupid fake kindness about you, you don't want to hurt my feelings, and I hate pressing you to tell me your honest thoughts. I feel like at this point you treat me like a fucking toddler, you encourage and say sugary things to please me… you constantly lie to me to make me happy, and as much as this is caring, it bothers me" 

Your lips sewed themselves. 

"But I found a way. I memorize everything about you every single day, I came to know you more and more. isn't this sweet, My lovely eye candy? I get to understand you better! Now I know just too well about you! Now I'm the only one who can understand you" 

Four eyes widened, two out of pure shock, others out of an unfamiliar emotion, something that sounded like a pink Mania.

"And to answer your question, I realized why I love looking at you sleeping… I couldn't put my finger on it for a year, but the more I see the more I fathom it: you're most vulnerable when you're asleep… all appealing and appetizing and too pure to commit the crime of lying so glibly and beautifully… slumber has just a nice touch on your face, You're truly adorable when you're asleep" 

Thinking has no time to course within your brain. The head of his brush was smudged back in a crimson mix of colors, taking a clot of red and sullying the white canvas, just above the head of your painting. 

"Let's see how honest I can make you"

All red, a human Masterpiece of his.

[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.

[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

[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."

[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!"

[letsquestjess]

Farewell Flowers

Summary: Did Phee really think Tech would just leave without some form of goodbye?

Word count: 637

Warnings: None.

-- -- -- -- --

A wedge of light cut down the ramp and illuminated the last brother to board the craft. Lowering his datapad, he climbed the steps.

The hatch hissed shut and swept away the silvery bloom from the landing platform, and in a flurry of stalks and twigs, they were gone. Phee kept her eyes on the Marauder until it faded into the hazy midnight sky, swallowed by moon-drenched clouds and winking stars.

“I hope they join us again soon,” Shep said, rising from his seat on the barrier guarding the stooped tree. The night-cooled gusts disturbed the leaves, and the low boughs groaned. “They fit in well and seemed to enjoy the peace. After all they have endured, it would be my honour to welcome them here permanently if they wished to find a new home.” 

“Let’s just make sure they get back here in one piece, huh, Shep?” Phee replied. 

“Of course.”

The mayor of the island followed her lead as they strolled down the stone stairway and into the meandering streets of Pabu. Strings of lanterns dangled between businesses and chimed in the mild breeze, their mellow glow twirling and spinning on the patterned slabs. 

“How has Lyana taken their departure?” Phee asked. “She got on well with Omega.” 

“I can see those two being partners in crime,” Shep laughed heartily, clasping his hands behind his back. He filled his lungs with the salty sea air and exhaled a wistful sigh. “Lyana was upset, but I assured her they’d return soon. She’s decided she wants to make a moon-yo doll for Omega as a gift, so I will be on carpenter duty for a few days.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it.”

“If it makes my little girl happy, I’d make her a million moon-yo dolls.” In the corner of his vision, he spotted Phee looking out over the ocean, her eyes drifting up to the caged lights and a faint smile curling her lips. Memories sparkled in her features, hopeful and blushing. Like a flutter of sea foam caressing the shore, the bubbles burst and she cleared her throat. “Perhaps we could organise a feast when they return,” he suggested. “A big one that everyone could join. With music and dancing. A celebration.”

“What would we be celebrating?” Phee questioned, her voice laced with intrigue.

“Friendship,” Shep replied. “Community. Family. Everything we strive to nurture here.”

Phee paused at the door of her home on Pabu. “As long as there’s plenty of food and a lot of laughs, it’ll be a hit.” She thanked him for accompanying her and said good night, heading into her hushed apartment and flipping on the wall lights. The bulbs murmured until they woke from their sleep and welcomed her with a warm shimmer. 

As the shadows retreated from the dining space, she slowed and took in the bowl of flowers sitting in the middle of the table. She brushed her fingertips over the vivid purple and cobalt petals and unfolded the note nestled in the leaves.

Dear Phee, 

It has been some time since my brothers and I have been allowed some peace, and I wanted to thank you for sharing Pabu with us. Our stay here may have been brief, but it has provided us with much to contemplate. 

I noticed you enjoyed being around these particular flowers and I hope you like them. 

Until we see each other again,

Tech (Brown Eyes)

Tears threatened to fall from her lashes and she hastily wiped them away, refusing to let her shaking hands or her teeming regret of words unspoken overcome her. The stars above only knew how her life had been strewn with uncertainty, but this time would be different. She would wait with patience, and when Tech returned, she would tell him exactly how she felt. 

[slippinmickeys]

Three Part Harmony (6/?)

Rhonda Fitzsimmons had lived north of the Mason-Dixon Line for nigh on forty years and she still wasn’t used to the cold. It was early, but the stars were just winking on, and a wet chill clung to everything. She parked three spots away from the dumpster and gave two rubs of her thumb over the cross that hung from her rear view mirror before hefting herself out of the Datsun hatchback and into the indigo evening. Beyond the rise of the mountains to the west, a cloud rolled over the moon.

Fred gave her a long wordless look when she shuffled in through the back door and into the steamy warmth of the kitchen, his meaty hands sunk into the thick foam of the dish sink. She nodded at him before clocking in and then ducked into the hallway toward the Ladies’ just to get out from under his scrutiny. Fred never said much except curse words, and then only when it got busy, and there had been a long-standing rumor amongst the diner’s staff that his parents were closely related. Rhonda didn’t give rumors much credence, but there was obviously some kind of intellectual disability at play, and while she was always kind to him even when he wasn’t kind to her, she tended to avoid him when she could.

She shrugged off her coat and grabbed her lipstick and her apron from her purse and headed into the bathroom, checking the stalls for feet before flipping the door’s sticky lock. Behind a false wall that was more clever than every other feature of the old diner, sat the shallow employee lockers where she stashed her purse and coat. Only she and Shandrika kept locks on their spaces, and she flipped the numbers round with practiced ease and pulled open her locker. Rhonda’s was closest to the cubbies where the men kept an industrial sized can of cornstarch to protect their ballsacks from chafing and there was usually a powdery mess on the floor in front of the lockers. All the waitresses complained when they had to sweep it up, but Mikey would snark back “Taint my problem,” before launching into a fit of hysterics, and sometimes it was just less hassle to sweep it up without a word. Tonight the floor was clean. She breathed in and slid the wall shut, a moment of peace before she started her workday.

Rhonda generally preferred the breakfast shift to the dinner, being more chipper and less cynical early in the day, but tonight was her last shift before a few days off and she was looking forward to the break. She had plans to head into the mountains to stay in the sagging old cabin that had once belonged to her uncle, tucked into a valley between two granite hills and surrounded by a fragrant old-growth cedar grove. She’d done the cabin up nicely the last few years; put up frilly white curtains and hung drunkards path quilts from the walls, fought a decades long war against mildew in the bathroom, which she had finally, finally won. She had a thick romance novel in her purse and a bag of groceries staying cool in her trunk. She would head up as soon as her last table left.

Rhonda sighed as she shuffled up to the wet countertop, the bathroom smelling of reservoir water and industrial cleaner, the dry tang of cheap paper towels. Maybe piss. Five or so hours and a long weekend would be hers.

Tilting toward her reflection, she smeared a new layer of cherry red lipstick over her thin, somewhat chapped lips and pressed them together, giving herself a smile. The mirror was hazy with grease from the deep fryer and flecked with the chalky residue of dried water flung from the hand of someone in a hurry. She fingered a smudge of color from her eye tooth and squinted at her reflection.

Her hair looked nice; blonde and curled just so around her face, the roots starting to come in gray, which she could get away with for another week or two. She never left the house without her face on, and her green eyes popped from beneath thick lashes clumped darkly with mascara. Jimmy, the line cook that worked breakfasts, always called her Tammy Faye for the way she did her color, but he stole appreciative glances at her caboose more often than he didn’t, and at her age she forgave him the remarks just for making her feel attractive. Her bosom was high with a little help from the brassiere collection from down at the JC Penney in Hershel and her waist still nipped in nicely, helped by the extra cinch she gave her apron. She fluffed out her hair once and winked at herself, faking cheerfulness in hopes of overcoming life’s redundant malaise: fake it til you make it. Five more hours. It would do.

She toyed with the pens in her apron pocket as she pushed through the restroom door, the clink of cutlery on china increasing in volume along with the soft murmur of voices as she approached the dining room. Rhonda could hear Mikey giving Clarice a hard time about putting an empty coffee carafe on a hot burner, and exchanged a look with Shandrika, both of them rolling their eyes at the line cooks’s hot temper — she could see the coffee filter full of fresh ground beans Clarice had had ready to brew on the countertop beyond Mikey’s line of sight.

“Cram it, Mikey, she’s making a fresh pot!” Rhonda hollered through the window as she ducked behind the counter, and the cook gave her the finger but let the matter rest. Clarice, a tiny, young waif of a thing without a defensive bone in her body, gave Rhonda a look of thanks.

“You about to clock out, Clare?” Rhonda asked, making sure she had her own order pad in her pocket.

“Yep,” Clarice answered, flipping the coffee maker on and wiping her hands on her own apron, streaks of what looked like blueberry jelly all down the front. “Watch yourself today, Mikey’s on a tear.”

“Mikey’s always on a tear. What’ve we got?”

They turned to face the dining room in tandem. “Table six just finished up,” Clarice said, nodding toward the table’s lone diner. “He’s all paid.” She nodded to her left. “Jerry’s on his fourth cuppa and just waiting to hold court with you,” the young woman went on, gesturing at a regular sitting at the bar who loved to flirt with Rhonda but never tipped. “And,” she said, pointing toward the back corner, “a two and a half top just sat down at twelve.”

Rhonda followed her line of sight and watched as a tall man with a full beard attempted to lower a wriggling almost-toddler into one of the diner’s sticky high chairs, while his wife – small as Clarice, with dark hair, bright roots, and an ice-blue gaze, looked on tensely.

The trio appeared tired, stretched thin. Rhonda observed them for a long moment before turning back to Clarice.

“Okay,” she finally said, clapping her hands together. “I got it from here. Enjoy your night.”

Clarice wasted no more time and reached back to untie her apron, waving at Rhonda and Shandrika as she ducked into the kitchen to clock out.

“You’re lookin’ purty today, Rhonda,” Jerry piped up from the bar, immediately setting in on getting her attention.

“And you’re looking over caffeinated,” she drawled in his direction, her old southern accent tugging on the vowels. She picked up a couple of menus and a paper kids placemat, barely giving him a look.

“I got a hearty constitution is all,” he grinned at her. “I could prove it to you Saturday night.”

“My answer’s the same as always, Jerry.”

“Maybe next week?”

“Maybe next week.”

Rhonda stepped from under the counter and cleared table six before heading over to twelve.

She brightened her face as she approached, smiling at the baby who had finally condescended to sit in the high chair. The tray in front of the boy looked crumby, so she pulled out the towel she kept tucked into her apron strings and wiped it down. The boy’s mother looked up at her gratefully.

“Welcome,” Rhonda said with forced cheer, sliding menus in front of the two adults and the paper in front of the child, who grabbed at it before she could let go. “Something to drink?”

Out in the parking lot a truck peeled out onto the street with an obnoxiously loud rev of the engine, which was punctuated by the sharp crack of backfire. All three customers in front of her jumped.

She gave them a sympathetic look. “Chuckleheads think they’re so cool with their big ole trucks. But I always think the bigger the truck, the smaller the nuts,” she said, winking. The man gave her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Anyways. Drinks?”

“Hot tea, please,” the man’s wife said, though on second inspection, Rhonda noticed that neither adult wore a ring. She nodded and looked at the man. He was good looking under all that hair, with eyes the color of a city utility box. He had big hands, long fingers, small bruises over several knuckles. Rhonda looked at the woman, who showed no signs of assault, her skin smooth and flawless in the way of old Hollywood starlets.

“Sprite, for me,” the man said.

“Slice okay?” she asked, and he nodded. Rhonda looked at the baby and then back at the two adults. Both of them appeared a little dazed, like they had suddenly found themselves at a restaurant with a baby and didn’t know what to do. It was a bit odd being that the boy was very obviously their child, with the same coloring and eyes as the woman and the same eye shape as the man. She took pity on them. “How about an apple juice for the little guy here?”

“Appa ju?” the little boy said, and Rhonda was instantly charmed by the apple-cheeked tot.

“Please,” said the woman.

“You got a sippy cup I can fill?”

The woman looked embarrassed by the question, and Rhonda bustled cheerfully right through it, endeavoring for some reason, to put them at ease. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got you covered.”

She winked at them and trundled off, tossing through the miscellaneous box of dishware under the counter for the sippy she’d seen there the week before. She filled it with apple juice and a splash of water and brought it back to the table.

“Here you go, little man,” she said, then looked at the mother. “You keep that cup,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get rid of it for months.” Some family had left it behind last spring and it had been through the sterilization wash two or three times since. She could see this little family was going through something, and it felt good to help.

In the window of the diner facing the parking lot hung a cardboard skeleton, joints held together by tiny brass brads, the diner’s sole concession to the upcoming holiday. Rhonda used to love Halloween, used to love dressing up and handing out candy, used to love celebrating, period, but she’d fallen out of practice. She felt galvanized as she walked back toward the counter to grab the other two drinks, eager to do what she could for them.

A six-top came in about a minute later, giving her just enough time to get the family’s order before she was running around getting coffees, sodas, a side of ranch for some chips brought in from outside. While she ran around, she watched the couple and their child, saw the overt glances everytime the bell above the door rang. When they weren’t looking over their shoulders, they were watching their son fondly, playing peek-a-boo, fetching things he dropped and wiping them off on their pants. As for the little boy, he seemed delighted by the attention, and began a game of dropping things on purpose — a spoon, a napkin, the plastic salt shaker — each one punctuated by an adorable little “Uh oh!” that happened so often he began saying uh-oh before he even dropped the object. Rhonda was both charmed and concerned.

Finally, when Mikey rang the bell and called out that the table twelve order was up, she grabbed their food and advanced slowly, overhearing them talking as she approached with the three hot plates — the tail end of a hushed conversation.

“We shouldn’t have come here,” the woman said.

“We need to eat. He needed to get out of the car.”

“What we need is a game plan. Where are we even going to sleep?”

“We can only solve one problem at a time, Scully.” A pause. “I’m just hoping the guys down at Abbott’s don’t look for me too hard when I don’t show up for my shift tonight.”

“I hadn’t even-“ the woman cut herself off when she noticed Rhonda get close and the table got uncomfortably quiet as she placed the plates of food in front of them.

“Tuna melt,” she said, setting down a plate in front of the woman. “Reuben,” for the man. “And pancakes for the little prince.” The two adults thanked her and she hovered at the table for a moment, about to offer to cut the little boy’s pancakes for him, or refill their waters or literally anything she could do to help. The man and woman exchanged a look. She could sense turmoil and something else bubbling under the surface.

Rhonda remembered that look from her own parents, now long dead.

It had been so long ago. John and Ruth Fitzsimmons stood up for integration at school board meetings, offered to escort black children safely home, and the bigots in their hometown didn’t like that, not one bit. Rhonda remembered the charred remains of a cross in their yard, the way her mother worried the pearls at her neck, the way her daddy closed the door to the kitchen on Rhonda’s sleepy inquiry. There were fierce whispers behind that door, phone calls that went click when you picked up, the same anxious look traded across a table.

These people were afraid.

“Anything else I can get you?” she asked a little aimlessly.

“I think we’re good,” the man said.

As she turned away, Rhonda watched as the woman reached across and ran her fingers through the baby’s wispy ducktail, her eyes softening with love. The man watched the woman, his gaze a mirror of hers.

Rhonda made a decision, right then.

She checked on her six-top and asked Shandrika to keep an eye on her tables for a minute and then ran out to her car. She pulled out a local map and circled the location of her uncle’s cabin on it. Next to the circle, she wrote the word SAFE , which she underlined three times. As she wrote, she knew she was escorting herself into a story already embroiled in a world of hurt. A long shot, she knew, but if the young family took her up on her offer of help, she could kiss the long weekend goodbye. She briefly lamented the loss; an hours-long soak in the cabin’s narrow claw-footed tub, two glasses of merlot in her belly and the ribald tale of a pretty young miss forced to share the last room of a country inn with a brooding but muscular marquess. And there’s only one bed! she thought ruefully. She nevertheless tucked the map into a worn American Express bill book in her apron pocket, making sure their check was nestled alongside it. She breezed determinedly back into the dining room a minute later, carrying the scent of the outdoors on her clothes.

Later, when the man motioned for the bill, she slid the book toward him with a significant look, tapping it twice before she walked away. The woman rose behind her, scooping up the boy to take him for a diaper change. As she and the boy disappeared into the back, the bell above the diner’s door dinged, and two men walked in, looking as out of place as anything. They were dressed in dark clothes and had slick haircuts, wore sunglasses. City folk, not that Rhonda particularly cared about that, but it was the sort of thing that stuck out around here.

Shandrika narrowed her eyes at the men the second the door was closed, and that’s when Rhonda really studied them. Shandrika was probably the best judge of character she’d ever met; she had a sixth sense about people, and even if they initially impressed, eventually their true colors would show, and Shandrika always knew – knew the minute she laid eyes on them. Shandrika kept her gaze on the men and then gruffed a quiet “huh,” under her breath, and that was it. Rhonda didn’t need to know more.

She chanced a look at the table where the father still sat, and he was leaning back casually in the booth, appearing as relaxed as you please, inspecting his fingernails as though he didn’t have a care in the world while simultaneously watching the duo up front like a hawk. Rhonda watched as his nostrils flared and a creeping, uncomfortable feeling slowly blossomed in her gut.

She made for the two men, grabbing two menus and plastering on her friendliest smile.

“Good evenin’ y’all,” she said cheerfully and loud, letting her accent drip into all the cracks of her speech like melted butter. “I got the perfect table right here.” She stopped abruptly at table three which was quite obviously the worst table in the house – a two-top bunched up against a pillar that held one of the building support beams. The benefit of the table – the only benefit really – was that it sat one of the men so that he was facing directly away from the small families’ table, and the other’s view was blocked by the aforementioned pillar. She couldn’t have told you why she felt it was absolutely imperative that these men not see the family of three at table twelve, but she felt it in her bones.

The men looked around the restaurant with interest, and when their eyes came to the father sitting solo at his table, the high chair hidden by the booth in front of him, the man yawned and cracked his neck like he was a night worker just getting off his shift and the two newcomers gazes floated right on by him.

“Get you fellas something to drink?”

The man with his back to table twelve ignored her, but the other gentleman looked up at her and smiled widely — too widely — and it transformed his face into something just this side of ghastly.

“Coffee for both of us,” he said without removing his sunglasses. “And uh,” here, he gestured toward the pie case on the countertop, “is the lemon meringue as good as it looks?”

“Best in the state,” she lied with a smile of her own.

“I’d love a slice,” he said, and leaned back, ending the conversation.

Rhonda nodded and headed for twelve, sweeping up the bill book to see if she needed to run a credit card. The map was no longer there, it had been replaced by three twenty dollar bills for a twenty-five dollar tab.

“Keep it,” the man said, and she slid it into her apron, pulling out her towel to wipe down the table. As she leaned forward to get at the back of the table, she whispered, “There’s a door out the back by the bathrooms.”

“Thank you,” the man said under his breath after a brief pause. He collected the family’s small assemblage of items and rose as Rhonda moved back behind the diner’s counter to get the pie and coffee for the two men. As the bushy haired father made his way toward the back of the diner, Rhonda watched as the two men became interested in him. When the quiet one leaned forward to get a better look, Rhonda saw a gun tucked into a holster as his coat bowed open and she instantly grabbed Shandrika’s arm as she walked by carrying a pot of coffee.

“Ricka,” she said, her tone of voice making the other waitress tense under her hand. “Table three needs two coffees. Jet black.”

Shandrika’s eyes sharpened and her nostrils flared – ‘jet black’ was a code they had all joked about that meant a table was a problem (usually poor tippers or rude customers) and the diner’s waitresses should feel free to use whatever rough justice she deemed Shandrika nodded and straightened her spine. “I gotchu, Ron,” she said, and made her way to the men. As Rhonda reached into the pie case and pulled out a piece of lemon meringue, three things happened simultaneously: one of the men at the table loudly asked Shandrika whether they’d seen anybody come into the diner with a young baby, which grabbed the attention of Jerry, who craned his neck around to look at the two men and then at the father who ducked into the back toward the bathrooms. And Shandrika, bless her, took the opportunity to ‘accidentally’ spill coffee into the lap of the man who had asked. The spill produced the desired effect and the darkly dressed men both jumped back a bit at their table and their attention was pulled from the father.

Jerry, however, glanced at the scene but then honed back in on the diner’s back hallway, watching it like a hunter gazing out of a tree stand. Rhonda was fairly certain the man had collected his family and opted to exit the diner through the back, but was sure Jerry had noticed too, and she could see the intrigue wash over his face. She looked at the pie in her hand, meringue piled atop it in great cloudy puffs and dropped it in front of Jerry with a clatter that made his head whip back around. He looked from the pie to Rhonda and back again, eventually saying “I didn’t order this.”

“‘S on the the house,” Rhonda said, leaning over the counter so her bosom was crowded up closer to her chin. Over at table three, Shandrika was fussing over the man she’d spilled on, handing him a towel and pulling a bunch of napkins from the table top dispenser, carrying on sweetly, and apologizing.

Rhonda looked back at Jerry, who was smiling now, his attention firmly back in front of him, probably figuring he was finally getting somewhere with Rhonda and had pie to boot.

“Hey, really?” he said. Behind him, Rhonda watched as the family from table twelve piled into a black Pontiac and pulled out of the lot unnoticed.

“Yeah, really,” she said, distracted, relieved.

Days later, when she saw their faces on the TV news and Jerry brought up that wasn’t that the table that ate at the diner a few nights ago? she convinced him it wasn’t and went on a date with him to distract him and she never said a word, not one word, even with everything that came after.

[callunavulgari]

Year-In-Fic | 2022

This is... very late. I almost didn’t do it at all. But you know what, I like my traditions, even if it takes me two months to claw myself free of the pit of despair long enough to do it.

How many fics did you write this year? What was your total wordcount?

In 2022 I wrote 18 fics, for a total of 62,476 words. About 30k less than I did in 2021, which is disappointing, but not surprising. Between mental health tripwires and planning a wedding (harder than it sounds, do not recommend, do yourself a favor and elope) last year was the pits.

Fic Roundup!

what for d'you yearn? | The Witcher | Yennefer/Jaskier/Geralt | 5,481 words | Yennefer fucks Jaskier the third week that she is at Kaer Morhen.

the spring will come with the floods | Harry Potter | Drarry | 1,677 words | On a dreary day in early June, Harry Potter gets stuck in Draco’s wards.

tear you apart | The Untamed | SXX | 6,656 words | “Awful lot of effort,” Xue Yang says. “To save someone you’ve never met before. Don’t you get something out of it?”

find hope in the hopeless | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 861 words |  Billy closes his eyes on Starcourt Mall, Max a hazy silhouette above him, haloed in light.

like holy days | Stranger Things | Harringrove | 2001 words | He looks up at Steve from under his lashes, tongue between his teeth, and cocks his head. “We good, King Steve?”

this is a life | The Untamed | SXX | 9500 words |  “Well,” Xiao Xingchen says brightly. “You’re welcome to join us for a little while. We’re heading to Oregon, so we can basically take you as far as you want as long as it’s on the way.”

my kingdom for your graces | The Untamed | SXX | 2,616 words |  In the kitchen, Xiao Xingchen is cutting Xue Yang a slice of olive oil cake, the top of her head just barely visible over the fruit bowl perched on the dividing counter between kitchen and living room.

don’t feed it, it will come back | Stranger Things | Eddie/Steve | 861 words | Steve Harrington spins Eddie Munson back to life on a Saturday.

when the autumn moon is bright | Teen Wolf | Derek/Stiles | 2207 words | “Hello Derek,” he gasps, eyes sparking with delight.

no wealth, no ruin | PJO | Nico, Gen | 770 words | Nico di Angelo takes his last breath in broad daylight, the sun gleaming at him through the trees overhead.

don’t look under the bed | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane | 3528 words | When Ryan Bergara was younger, he had an imaginary friend named Shane.

if the sun comes up | Stranger Things | Eddie/Steve | 1695 words |  “Oh baby, don’t do that,” Eddie says, transferring Steve’s wrists to one hand so that he can use the other to catch Steve by the throat and shake him like a rag doll until Steve’s dizzy and reeling, nausea thick on his tongue.

mirror, mirror, what’s behind you? | LoZ | Link/Dark Link | 1441 words | There is a mirror in the furthest corner of Hyrule Palace that is guarded day and night.

listen to your heart bleed | TMA | Martin/Jon | 1467 words | “Hello Jon,” Martin tells the floating figure that used to be his boyfriend, crossing the room to take a seat in the chair a few feet to the left of Jon’s dangling feet.

leave your life open (somebody hears you) | Stranger Things | Billy/Steve/Eddie | 6,444 words | The first time that Steve sees Billy after Starcourt, he thinks that he’s hallucinating.

who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead? | Stranger Things | Billy/Steve/Eddie | 4,831 words | local witch and his revenant boyfriend resurrect mutual crush.

the tide will take, the sea will rise | The Untamed | SongXueXiao | 7106 words | Xue Yang dies on a Tuesday. The following morning, he wakes up.

Rest Stop | LoZ: Majora’s Mask | Gen, Link & Romani, Link & Tatl | 3,334 words | “You have a magic ocarina that rewinds time. You can take a break.“

Best story I wrote this year:

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest.

Weirdly enough, I think it was find hope in the hopeless, which was a very short atmospheric one-shot that I spun together in the hours leading up to the premiere of the new season of Stranger Things. I wrote it while Nick was playing through the ashtray maze level of Control, and was just stupidly charmed by Billy getting a softer death - something to kind of lull him to sleep. A death still, sure, but something tender. Wanted. I ended up making myself weep a little, because when it comes down to it I am still sad about the tragedy that is Billy Hargrove.

Okay, NOW your most popular story.

It looks like my most popular fic was what for d’you yearn, coming in at 611 kudos, followed by when the autumn moon is bright, which is sitting at 355. The runner ups are ghost sex the fic, fish sex the fic, and a very short Drarry one-shot, because I was feeling them last Spring.

Story of mine most underappreciated by the universe, in my opinion:

I think probably listen to your heart bleed, which was the canon-divergent coda that I wrote for The Magnus Archives during dark month. Basically, Jon becomes the Eye and they continue on with a different sort of sad, quiet apocalypse. 

Most fun story to write:

Can I say the story with all the fish sex? Because tear you apart was a horny mess that was a total blast to write. I honestly didn’t expect it to get too much attention, because I was very up front with my tags about its particular brand of kink, but hey. Monster fuckers unite and all that.

Story that could have been better?

I really, really wish that I’d had more time to craft who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead? into something better. I wrote a ton of it in the aftermath of the season, but ended up getting stuck somewhere and didn’t really finish it until dark month, and then it was just a rush to the finish. I wish I’d taken the time to properly drag it out, and maybe even gotten around to the boning. But October was coming to an end, and if I didn’t post it then, I never would have, so I made due.

Story I wrote to fix things:

God, I think most of these are fix-it fics. Some of them are porny ones, some are sad introspective ones, and others are just plain old fashioned fix it. I think that  leave your life open (somebody hears you) was the closest I got to a true fix it fic, a fic where Steve sees (2) dead people and Eddie and Billy get some kind of catharsis in fucking the small town jock in the afterlife. I don’t know, it was fun to write and I was grieving Eddie.

Longest completed fic this year:

this is a life was nearly 10k. Written for the MXTX exchange, it was basically 10k of will they or won’t they with the added bonus of road trips and chaos gremlin Xue Yang. I enjoyed writing it!

Fandom you enjoyed writing for most this year:

Honestly? Probably Stranger Things. The Untamed bits were great, but I’m still so weak for Billy and Steve, and the added bonus of Eddie made it all the sweeter.

Favorite character you wrote this year:

Oh, definitely Yennefer. Don’t get me wrong, I love Xue Yang and Steve and Billy, but Yennefer was a JOY to write.

Most memorable comment(s) this year:

I mean they were all great, but my recipient’s comment on this is a life was this long rambling stream of consciousness as they were reading the fic and it was really so fantastic and made me so incredibly happy. I also got a couple of really gorgeous thoughtful comments on both old Teen Wolf and old PJO fics, which are always a treat.

Fics you wanted to write but didn’t:

God, a ton. I don’t even know. I have a graveyard of abandoned thoughts at this point.

Oddest story:

Fish sex!

Hardest story to do:

I had some minor trouble with the tide will take, the sea will rise but over all, the fics didn’t fight me too much this year. I also had some issues with the ghosty Stranger Things fic later on in the year.

Easiest story to write?

Probably my kingdom for your graces, the super horny cis swap fic that I did just for an excuse for femme!Xue Yang to get absolutely railed in a dress. Though there were quite a few other ones that came super easy to me.

Most mining of your own history in one story:

I mean, not to be tmi, but I too have been railed over the side of a couch after having recently eaten cake, but somehow I don’t think that counts? I know in  listen to your heart bleed I had Martin reading Coraline to Jon, and that was around the time that I was reading it to Nick. That counts, right?

Themes, or absence thereof:

Vampires and monsterfucking, mostly.

Where did you publish/archive your stories?

Ao3, as per usual. I didn’t crosspost too much this year.

Story I haven’t yet written, but intend to:

I’m honestly pretty stuck when it comes to writing right now. I haven’t felt the drive and when I do it’s really fleeting and gone before I can properly square up. Most recently I have felt the urge to write a very brief ust filled one-shot of Jericho and Sam Lloyd from the Diviners, because there’s this moment in Lair of Dreams that makes me want it and I am the only person in existence who has even thought about it. I’ve also felt the urge to write more Aloy, but idk.

Sexiest moment (excerpt):

The fifth time that she fucks Jaskier, she does it in broad daylight. There’s buttery warm winter sunlight spilling in through the keep’s windows, and the corridor is deserted, everyone else out in the courtyard under the pretense of helping Ciri through her forms when really all they want to do is hassle Geralt about it, and—Well, Jaskier is there.

She lets him hitch her leg up around his hip and fuck her there in the hallway, right up against the stone wall next to the door to Geralt’s room. It’s hard and fast and hot, her hair coming undone from its braid as Jaskier works his hand into it, and she is right on the cusp, her mouth open against Jaskier’s shoulderblade when she catches a hint of movement down the corridor.

She turns her head, curious, still floating on a hazy cloud of pleasure, and meets Geralt's eyes over Jaskier’s shoulder.

She makes a noise unlike her—a low whine that she muffles into the side of Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier hasn’t noticed yet. He’s close to coming, his thrusts growing erratic as he presses sweet murmurs into the curve of her throat, and Yennefer is— she’s always been selfish. She’s chased her own ambition, her own pleasure, for decades, pursued her own ideals at the cost of others. She isn’t the sort to regret it, not usually, but Geralt has always been a sore spot for her, a particular bruise that she enjoys prodding at whenever she thinks she's getting over him.

She keeps her eyes on Geralt as she urges Jaskier to fuck her harder, faster. Geralt’s face is slack, soft with something—surprise? Want? And if it is want, which of them is he busy wanting? Yennefer’s never come right out and asked Jaskier if he and Geralt ever fucked, but she’s clever enough to read between the lines. Jaskier is transparent in heartbreak, and if he and Geralt truly hadn’t fucked in the intervening years, then Yennefer is willing to bet that it wasn’t for a lack of desire.

When Jaskier comes, he makes a wounded sound into the curve of her throat, his entire body hitching into hers. She bites her lip, eyes growing heavy-lidded with pleasure as he reaches between them without missing a beat and thumbs between her legs until she follows him over, eyelids fluttering closed as she comes.

.

“Please,” Xue Yang gasps into the cushions. She never knows exactly what she’s asking for, but she asks anyway, because they somehow always do. Somewhere above her, Xiao Xingchen laughs, and then her hand is cupping Xue Yang’s chin, bringing it up and out of the cushions. The sweatpants are gone, leaving Xiao Xingchen bare from the waist down, and as Xue Yang watches, hungry, Xiao Xingchen’s legs part and she draws Xue Yang towards her.

Xue Yang likes bringing Xiao Xingchen off like this, with just her mouth, likes it better than using a toy or her fingers. Xiao Xingchen is hot against her, dripping for her, and Xue Yang loves this part, loves getting messy, so she loses herself in it, licking and sucking at Xiao Xingchen’s folds, her clit, her hole. All the while, Song Lan keeps fucking her through it, his thrusts never once slowing.

“You’re so good for us, a-Yang,” Xiao Xingchen tells her, fingers tightening in Xue Yang’s hair, and something in Xue Yang goes pliant, boneless and sated.

Song Lan fucks her through Xiao Xingchen’s first orgasm, through her second, through the third, until Xue Yang is red-faced and gasping, her chin slick, dizzy from a lack of oxygen.

“Please,” Xue Yang tells him through her teeth, after Xiao Xingchen’s finally pushed her gently away, leaving Xue Yang’s cheek pillowed on her thigh. Song Lan grunts, and, leaning over her, finally—finally—splays his hand out across her throat and squeezes hard, just the once.

Xue Yang’s entire world goes blank, white hot, stars exploding behind her eyelids as she comes hard, convulsing around him. She shudders, toes curling in the carpet, and lets out a throaty groan, going boneless all at once. She’s only half paying attention afterwards, floating in a haze of bliss. She’s aware of little things, Xiao Xingchen’s hand smoothing back her hair, the patter of an evening storm against the windows, and the distant realization that Song Lan is still fucking her, his hand clenched so tight around her hip that she knows there will be bruises tomorrow. Outside, the sun is going down. Xue Yang drifts for a while and wonders what kind of night this will be—if Song Lan will finish, smooth down her skirt, and send her on her way, or if it will be one of those nights, when they tug her up to bed and have her another six ways between them before plying her with pizza, still fucked out and sprawled across the sheets. She likes those nights best, because it soothes the cracked open thing in her chest that’s started making noises whenever she has to leave them afterwards.

Xue Yang surfaces all at once when Song Lan gets a fist in the back of her skirt and yanks it up even higher, until the fabric is bunched up between her shoulder blades. She makes a thin reedy sound when he shifts, going impossibly deeper as he stretches out along her back and closes his teeth around the column of her throat. He licks it afterwards, as if in apology, and then asks in a rough voice, “Where do you want it?”

The first time that he’d asked her that, she’d laughed. She’d been fresh off a shift and still stank of sweat and spoiled cream and espresso, and it was just so abruptly ludicrous, like she’d walked straight onto the set of a low budget porno. Now though, it sets off fireworks inside of her, and she gasps, clenching her eyes shut, and in a raw voice, whispers, “Inside. Inside, please.”

Crackiest moment (excerpt):

Steve keeps seeing them. Most of the time, they can’t really stop to chat without making Steve seem like a crazy person. He sees them the same way that he saw Billy those first few months—in passing.

He sees them passing the video store at least once a week, jackets bunched up around their shoulders as if they actually need them to ward off the coming chill of autumn. Steve doesn’t know where they’re going, but Eddie never fails to stop and make faces through the window—devil horns, tongue out and wiggling, crossed eyes. Once, he actually moons Steve, pale butt cheeks pressed to the spotless glass, and Steve promptly  inhales his gum and breaks into a coughing fit while old Mrs Conley watches on, unblinking and unamused.

He spends the next ten minutes apologizing profusely as she wipes spittle from her glasses, plying her with free malt balls so she won’t rat on him to Keith, and by the time he’s done, Eddie and Billy are long gone.

.

“Oh hey,” Eddie says, blinking. “Did you see what Billy taught me?”

He gestures, indicating the new outfit and Steve laughs, his eyes coming back again to that wide sliver of belly, the trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button. He blinks, eyes darting back up to Eddie’s.

“I did,” he says. “It’s some outfit. That usually what you wear to the pool?”

Eddie snorts. “The pool was never exactly my scene, if you know what I mean. Pretty sure all those soccer moms would see me lit up like the beacons of Gondor and run the other way screaming.”

Next to him, Billy snorts. “Trust me, Munson. There were worse things at the local watering hole than your pasty ass.”

“Yeah, uh huh,” Eddie says agreeably, nodding along. “Sure there were.”

Billy rolls his eyes, giving Eddie a look, eyes narrowed. “Quit fishing for compliments. Just count your fucking blessings that you’re not Keith.”

Eddie sucks in a breath through his teeth, making a face. “Did he wear a lot of sunscreen? I’ll bet he wore a lot of sunscreen.”

“Hey,” Steve protests. “There is nothing wrong with sunscreen. It's good for you. I’ll bet that you’d burn like a peach without it.”

“Yeah, but Keith wouldn’t rub it in, would he? Guarantee you he was up there looking like Casper.” He frowns, looking suddenly concerned. “Actually, hey. Billy. Do ghosts burn?”

Billy groans, pulling his sunglasses back up onto his nose. “I really couldn’t tell you. I never have, but I didn’t burn when I was alive, so not sure that tells you much.”

“Hm,” Eddie murmurs, frowning like he’s trying to work out a puzzle. “Guess that’ll be an experiment for another time. Ghost physics are bullshit.”

The sun is starting to droop in the sky, the horizon turning red and gold, slivers of violet streaking through it. Steve watches the sun set with sleepy eyes, listening with half an ear as Eddie and Billy bicker in the background. The distant scream of cicadas mixes with the hum of the AC unit, and already, there are fireflies emerging from their slumber, lighting up the backyard around them.

Steve is so fucking tired. He just wants to sleep.

.

In the end, Billy is the one who talks him into it. He’s sitting on a pool lounger, his feet dangling over one of those god awful cracks that run all through town like he’s determined to soak in some hellfire, when he turns to Steve, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and says, “I think you should resurrect Munson.”

Steve blinks back at him. “What?”

Billy shrugs, busying himself with plucking his lemonade off the cement. The glass is sweating. He spends a long time slurping loudly through the straw, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes, before he pulls away with a smack of his lips and elaborates.

“Resurrection is your specialty, baby,” he says, nudging the glasses down his nose so he can hold Steve’s gaze over them, eyes burning blue. “I think you should add another dead girl to your collection.”

And then he smiles winningly, his teeth white and shiny, and winks.

Favorite dialogue (excerpt):

“You know that he wants you, right?” Xue Yang asks, his voice hot in Song Lan’s ear. He gives Song Lan another slow stroke, kissing the space behind his ear when Song Lan groans. “He does. He wants you so badly. This whole time, I thought that the only reason you weren’t fucking was because you had company, but to find out that you’ve never even—?”

He breaks off with a groan, stroking Song Lan harder, faster.

“Let’s see if he joins us,” Xue Yang hisses, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to the column of Song Lan’s throat. “I think he will.”

“He won’t—” Song Lan starts to say, reeling, dizzy with it, and Xue Yang laughs again, biting this time.

“He will,” Xue Yang breathes. “Won’t you, Xingchen?”

Song Lan inhales sharply when the bed dips, and he gives a hard shudder, bucking into Xue Yang’s grip, unable to help himself. From behind him, he hears Xiao Xingchen make a small noise, something soft and greedy all at once, and suddenly, Song Lan needs to see—

He turns, shoving Xue Yang’s hand away long enough to roll onto his other side.

There’s a smug smirk on Xue Yang’s face, his hair mussed from sleep, pillow creases across one side of his face. He’s visibly hard in his boxers, sheets pushed down to his thighs. And behind him, Xiao Xingchen is perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes bright, interested. He’s damp from the shower, hair curling in damp tendrils over his clavicles, and his pink lips are parted—on a word? A name?

Xue Yang laughs again, rolling onto his back to peer up at Xiao Xingchen, amusement on his face as he raises the hand that was just on Song Lan’s dick towards Xiao Xingchen.

“Want a taste?” Xue Yang asks with a wicked smile, and Song Lan flushes when he realizes that there’s a streak of pre-come on Xue Yang’s hand, smeared along the sharp curve of his wrist, the bend of his thumb.

Xiao Xingchen’s eyes are boring into him, dark and intense, and Song Lan swallows as Xiao Xingchen leans forward and wordlessly seals his mouth around Xue Yang’s wrist.

Song Lan watches, enraptured, as Xiao Xingchen sucks it from Xue Yang’s skin, moving on to suck Xue Yang’s thumb into his mouth when it’s gone from his wrist.

When he pulls back, his lips are red, wet. He turns his head, giving Xue Yang an indulgent smile, and murmurs, “Good boy.”

Xue Yang whimpers, his whole body shivering. As Song Lan watches, he reaches down and palms himself hard, lower lip tucked between his teeth.

“Did you just almost—” Song Lan starts to ask, eyes wide, cutting himself off with a click of his throat when Xue Yang opens his eyes and sends him a poisonous glare.

“Shut up, Zichen,” he hisses, flushing. “We all have hair-triggers.”

.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty,” Eddie murmurs gently, going down to a crouch. Like this, their noses are almost level. Steve can see Billy lurking behind Eddie, looking… something. Confused? Angry? Steve blinks, slow-like, and tips his head until Eddie’s back in his line of vision. Eddie smiles at him. “We lost you there for a bit. You ready for bed?”

Steve smacks his lips, still muzzy, and nods.

Eddie’s grin widens, eyes going inexplicably soft. He turns and calls over his shoulder, “Hey, Hargrove. Help me get his royal highness up to bed, yeah?”

Billy pulls a face, but shockingly does as he’s told with only minor complaint, padding over and getting an arm around Steve’s shoulders.

It’s only as they’re pouring him into bed that Steve thinks to wonder why they can touch him. Eddie is stooped, trying to wrangle the sheets out from under Steve, and Billy is lingering back again now that Steve’s out of his hands, the glow from the hallway haloing him in buttery orange light.

Steve licks his lips, catching Eddie’s wrist as he finally works the sheet out from under him.

Eddie goes still, eyes darting to Steve. They’re wide. Dark. Wet. Pretty eyes. Steve kind of wishes that he’d realized that when Eddie was still alive.

“Hey,” Steve asks, frowning. “Why can you touch me?”

Eddie blinks, his eyes going helplessly to Billy over his shoulder. Billy gives him a jerky little shrug. “I can’t be your afterlife handbook here, Munson. I’ve got no clue.”

Eddie looks back at Steve, his eyes still soft, but there’s something else there now, shifting in their depths. Something thoughtful. Even curious.

“Guess you’re just our little grounding rod, Stevie-boy,” Eddie laughs, ruffling Steve’s hair. When Steve whines at him, he laughs harder.

“Get some sleep, Harrington,” Billy says gruffly from behind him, eyes a gleam of blue in the dark. “Don’t work yourself to death.”

.

Billy grins at him. “Hit me.”

Steve blinks again, harder this time, like that’ll change what the fuck Billy had said. He shakes his head a little, frowning, and says, again, “Wait, what?”

“Okay, fine,” Billy sighs, winding up. “I’ll go first.”

Billy’s always thrown a beautiful punch. He spent his formative years perfecting it after some city-spun leech ripped his throat out in a back alley three blocks from his house. The leech hadn’t expected him to wake up afterwards, and was long gone by the time he had. Billy had coped. He’d learned to protect himself. Learned to be the bigger predator.

So, the punch that he throws at Steve lands perfectly, just under the jaw. Billy watches, damn near giddy, as Steve’s head snaps back, his skull striking the bark behind him hard enough that it cracks, denting inwards in a perfect impression of Steve’s pretty little head.

The punch probably would have taken a normal human’s head clean off, but Steve recovers quickly, jerking his head free of the bark and turning a furious snarl on Billy, his teeth sharp and ready.

“What the hell was that?” he yells, hands clenched into fists at his side.

Billy laughs in his face.

“That was fun,” he says, and hits him again.

This time, Steve gets smart, jerking his head away just in time so that his cheek only takes part of the blow, momentum carrying Billy’s fist forward into the tree instead.

“Are you crazy?” he yells, dodging out of the way when Billy lunges for him again.

“Maybe,” Billy tells him with a sharp cackle, his grin fierce, blood hot. “Want to find out? Come on, Steve. Hit me!”

Steve stops dodging and his face twists, determination and frustration all converging, and he puts his fist up and—

It’s a terrible fucking punch.

Billy snorts, thumbing the blood from his lip.

“That all you got?” he asks, bloody teeth bared, and Steve snarls—

It’s a good fight. Billy’s always liked good fights, ones that he can control, ones that are in his power. He hasn’t been able to cut loose like this since he was turned—a fight like this with a human would be too risky, too easy to kill them on accident. But with Steve? Steve can take his punches. And judging by the manic little grin on Steve’s face, like something deeply primal being sated for the first time in his entire pathetic life, Steve wants to take his punches.

Billy doesn’t know how long they’re at it, but he knows when it ends, his breath going out of him all at once as Steve lets out a furious roar, charging him and getting his arms wrapped around Billy’s waist, bearing him down to the forest floor.

Billy stares up at Steve, suspended above him. He’s heaving for breath that he doesn’t need, sweat on his brow, face flushed red enough that Billy wonders how well he must be eating, with enough blood leftover to flood his cheeks like that—fuck—Billy wants to bite them.

There’s pine needles in his hair, the prickle of them biting through his jacket, and Steve’s body is pressed in tight against his, between his splayed thighs. They’re both hard—Billy can see the moment that Steve realizes that, his cheeks going even redder, his eyes abruptly darkening as he licks his bitten-red lips.

“Yeah, okay,” Billy tells him, arching up against him and gasping open-mouthed when Steve gives a hitching little thrust back. “We can do it this way too.”

“Fuck,” Steve says.

Billy laughs, getting a hold of the back of Steve’s neck and bringing him down. He bites at his mouth, relishing in the little hitch of Steve’s breath, and tells him, voice cocky, “That is the idea.”

Favorite lines (excerpt):

“Billy?” he asks, sounding confused, but not shocked. “What are you doing?”

Oh, Billy thinks, as Steve’s hand closes around his wrist, his eyes concerned. I’m still dying.

“Billy?” he asks again, stepping out of the shower towards Billy, bare-assed and still dripping, hair still thick with lather. “What’s wrong?”

Billy swallows.

Steve Harrington, here, in California.

Steve Harrington, here, in this particular motel. Billy’s shitty little safe haven. He’d split a hastily rolled joint with a hooker in this exact room the morning after he first fucked a boy. She had carefully concealed bruises all up and down her arms and one under her chin to match, but she’d been nice. She hadn’t judged him for crying a little when he’d woken up alone.

And Steve is here, with Billy.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He has a hazy image of Max above him, crying. Blood in his throat, bubbling up and out.

It had hurt, when they tore chunks out of him.

He sniffs.

“Nothing, baby,” he says with a tremulous smile.

When Steve still looks concerned, Billy rolls his eyes, peeling out of his clothes and maneuvering Steve carefully back under the spray. He steps in after him, pretending not to notice the way that the water pooling on the tiles under him runs red.

“It’s okay,” he says, leaning in to seal his mouth over Steve’s pulse point. He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around Steve’s narrow waist. In response, Steve makes a quiet noise of appreciation, arching into Billy’s touch.

This is, Billy figures, a small comfort.

One last gift before the end.

He doesn’t know if he should say thank you or scream obscenities until the end comes.

Steve makes his mind up for him when he lets out a soft noise, something quiet and almost wounded. What Billy wouldn’t have given to take him here himself. He’d probably be a judgy little bitch about it, making faces at the hookers and the bullet holes, but maybe he’d understand too.

To see Steve in Billy’s home, sun and sand and everything else, it’s enough.

.

Draco finds Potter at the widest point of the river, huddled in the hollow of an old oak tree. He’s up to his knees in water, visibly shivering from ward fever, and looks like, at best, death warmed over. As he gets nearer, Draco can begin to make out other key details. Potter’s glasses are broken, for one, the right lens cracked right down the middle, a spiderweb of smaller cracks branching off in all directions. He’s paler than parchment paper, his skin grey-tinged and clammy, and there’s blood leaking from several orifices.

At least he doesn’t seem to be splinched, Draco thinks, his chest giving a twinge as he settles down next to him.

Potter looks up at him, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He looks like he’s barely standing.

“I would have thought that I would have read about it in the Prophet if the Chosen One had gone missing,” Draco remarks mildly, carefully setting a bracing hand on Potter’s shoulder. Even through his robes, Draco can tell that he’s burning up. “Guess I must have thought wrong.”

Potter shivers again, tilting his whole body into Draco’s touch. Alarmed, Draco makes a grab for the other shoulder.

Potter attempts a smile, his teeth red with blood. It’s not a very good smile. More of a grimace, really, made all the more horrifying by the blood. Then he opens his mouth and says, his voice slurred, “Hi, Draco.”

“Oh,” Draco says, catching Potter as his knees go out from under him. “Fuck.”

Potter blinks at him, his mouth a smear of red, and says. “Sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“So you came here?” Draco hisses out waspishly, bundling Potter onto his broom. The broom, unsurprisingly, is not proving very cooperative considering the last time Potter was on it, he’d nearly flown it into a tree. Draco swings a leg over the broom behind him and kicks off the ground, trailing icy droplets behind him. “Why?”

Potter shrugs, his teeth chattering, and nestles closer. “Felt safe.”

Draco swallows hard around the knot suddenly in his throat, and for a moment - just a moment - lets himself close his eyes. He breathes in and out slowly for a while, aware of the wind on his face, the damp in his shoes, the weight of the body in his arms.

Safe, Draco thinks. Now that’s a laugh.

“Well,” Draco says in a voice much too wobbly to be sneering, “That was stupid of you.”

“Mm,” Potter murmurs, already half gone. “Maybe.”

The thing about Potter, Draco thinks later, once Potter is safely deposited into Draco’s bed and has had several potions forcefully poured down his throat, is that he’s too good.

Too trusting.

He’s a right twat about some things, sure. He’s got a horrible taste in Quidditch teams, and beer and, in Draco’s opinion, women. He’s got a surprising mean streak under that savior complex, and is actually funny in a dry, unintentional sort of way. The first time that he’d cracked a joke that made Draco laugh, he’d been up all night overthinking it for a week straight, because - was Potter always funny? Or was his humor like an infection? Did it creep up on you slowly? Or was it just there all along?

Draco didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot about Potter, as it turned out, until… he did.

It started at New Year’s. There was a gala. People, reporters, fireworks.

There was also, unfortunately, firewhiskey.

He remembers only snapshots of the night. Finding Potter lurking in the shadows of the fourth floor was one of them. Licking the sweat from his neck later that evening was another. They’d woken up in what Draco later came to realize was Potter’s flat, their legs tangled together in the sheets.

Never again, they’d vowed, green with nausea as they took turns chucking up acid in the loo.

What a cliché, Draco had thought, safely ensconced in the manor later that day. Best now that it was out of his system.

And then… it happened again.

And again.

And somehow, it just kept right on happening, growing like that river. A trickle to a stream, a stream to a brook, a brook to… whatever was spilling over the banks now.

Fic goals:

Write something - anything - at least once a month. The shortest one-shot or the longest novel. January doesn’t count.

[helpmeimblorboing]

Sneak Peek of a chapter from my story that probably won't make it's way into the final draft of either version - Crimson or Crimson Redux (feat : Tumblr's shitty formatting)

The night air stretches stale and unpleasant, iced with rainwater, as Serenity stumbles out into the hall, pulling out the dark rectangle of his phone as he did, slumping down on one of the couches, the fabric catching roughly against the soft of his skin

The moonlight canted in through the big bay windows, glistening sharp and bright against the ledge outside and pooling shapelessly on the windowsill inside, dripping onto the floor, covering everything in molten silver.

The sight scraped painfully against the already raw and tender walls of Serenity’s heart – a silver cross necklace, strung around his throat, tight enough to strangle, the silver gleam of church candles across the rippling surface of a goblet of holy water, prayers and pleading, pain and pain

His shadows curled up the sides of the bay window with an almost unconscious flex of his power, curling low and dark across the shadow of the bay windows, darkening the flat stone of the windowsill to a pitch blank, swallowing up the moonlight like a greedy, gaping maw

Serenity had always hated color. Throughout his childhood, color had only meant pain – the red of fresh wounds, the scaled cream of a leather-bound Bible, the dark brown of a holy cross, the cracked black on yellowy-white of the words that had sealed his fate centuries before his birth – man shall not lie with man as he does with woman

His fingers drummed idly against the warm metal of his phone’s sides, as his eyes rising to linger on the dark, shadowy image of the night sky beyond the reinforced glass – the pinprick stars, the coin-stamp moon, and behind them all, the silver haze of a great arm, impossibly long and impossibly wide, curling behind them all, a river that could never be crossed

He remembered the scent of fresh-cut grass, the blades tickling his bare back, the sun pouring its smeared gold light across the naked, scarred torso of the boy sitting up beside him, bracing himself with one hand planted firmly in the dirt, even as the other reached for the sky

The visible arm of our galaxy, as observed in a moonless night sky, is known as the River of Heaven. A silver stream bending along the horizon, too far and vast for us to ever swim across.

I’d like to see it someday.

The light pollution of most cities did not allow for stargazing. The average child’s world does not have a glittery, star-sewn ceiling. The less spoken about the fact they were looking up at a daylit sky, the better. But still, that sunny afternoon, the proverbial arm of the galaxy showed itself to them anyway, their eyes following the river of light, stars pouring into the universe’s ocean, reaching for the horizon.

And tonight, with the skies washed clear of smoke and debris by the freak rainstorm that had occurred mere moments prior, the hazy, silver trail of the river of heaven revealed itself to him again, bending along the darkness of domed night sky in a stream of gleaming, sparkling white

Serenity bit idly at the corner of his lips, before looking down at his phone once more, gleaming white light casting a smeared, grainy light across his chin and the tops of his cheeks.

He had never liked texting. It felt wrong, tapping out a message instead of speaking it, so Fang and Riptide were his only Whatsapp contacts, for the sole reason that for the longest time since leaving Fang’s side, he wasn’t sure he would be able to cope with hearing his voice

Fang

12/12/2014

S : I’m sorry

F : I know

01/01/2015

F : Happy New Year

28/01/2015

F : Happy birthday

12/04/2015

S : This cat looks like you

S : [image]

29/06/2015

F : I missyuoi

F : Fcuk you

F : Fuck

S : Are you drunk ?

F : Why did you ?

F : Why ?

S : Can you drink some water for me please ?

S : Fang ?

F : For you

F : anythig

F : miss you

S : You keep your painkillers in the bathroom,

S : behind the mirror

S : Can you go get them for me ?

F : Yeh

S : Put them on your bedside table with a glass of water

F : Done

F : am i good

S : You always are

F : Then hwy dint you stay

S : Go to sleep, Fang

F : nooooo

F : Fcuk yuo

30/06/2015

F : Sorry

S : Don’t be

17/07/2015

S : Happy birthday

F : Thank you

19/07/2015

S : I miss you

28/01/2016

F : Happy birthday

17/07/2016

S : Happy birthday

29/12/2016

S : I’ve met someone

S : [image]

F : He looks

F : Kind

28/01/2017

F : Happy birthday

17/07/2017

S : Happy birthday

28/01/2018

F : Happy birthday

17/07/2018

S : Happy birthday

01/01/2019

S : Happy New Year

And that was it. That was where the messages, stilted and fractured, indicative of the rift that had begun to grow between them over the years, came to an end. Serenity sucks in a breath that sounds oddly strained, as if filtered through a mesh of tears, before starting to tap out a new message, his thumbs feeling odd against the smooth plastic of the screen cover, unwieldy and clumsy

12/09/2019

S : I’m sorry

F : All these years and we’re right back here again

Serenity sucked in a sharp breath, closed his eyes to suppressed the prickling at their corners, before slowly letting it out hiss out through his clenched teeth, and tapping out a response

S : I’m sorry

S : I took him out on date

S : [image]

A long pause stretched between the two message, painful, each passing second scraping oddly across the bones of Serenity’s ribcage, before -

F : I’m glad

F : He’s good for you

F : Better than I was, at least

It was funny, Serenity mused, as his fingers pressed hard into the warm metal of his phone case, how he could still, if he only tried a bit harder, remember the way Fang’s skin curled at the corners of his lips when he smiled. Or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, not the harsh, oily bark he had adopted in later years, but the way he laughed in the beginning, bright and clear and like nothing would ever go wrong ever again

It was like reading a language he was no longer fluent in but still knew how to speak. There was a time he thought he’d know Fang forever, and a time he thought they’d be together forever. Now, however...

S : It was nice

S : What we were, when we were us

S : It was nice, wasn’t it ?

S : However it ended

F : It was

The darkness pooled at his feet, soft and dusty. Overhead, the River of Heaven flowed along its unchangable track, bending acros the horizon in a haze of curling silver. For a long time, he stared at the message, the quiet confirmation, that the love had been there, one time. That it had been there, and it changed nothing. And it saved no one. Because the forces against it were far too great. But it was there, at one time

The scent of blood pooled in his sinuses, sharp and unyielding, a reminder of what had drawn them so far apart, clashing horribly with his sun-soaked memories of grass blades and rustling leaves, the hum of enduring life sounding from all about them, the river of stars winding its way through the sky high above them

For a long moment, his fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to say next. If there even was anything he could say next – anything that would even come close to encapsulating the enormity of the beast stirring in the hollow of his chest, slavering and doglike

And so, he reverted back to the response that seemed easiest, the coward’s way out, to relay the words that swilled in the depths of his throat, pressed down his tongue, heavy as a leaden weight

S : I’m sorry

S : For how we ended

F : So am I

He still remembered the way he had been, right at the beginning. The sloped silhouette of his shoulders, the charcoal smudge of his hair, the lower of his gaze—hazy like scenery from a previous lifetime. A hand held out, a promise spoken into the blood-soaked air of a massacred town – we who are alone in this world must comfort each other

And the eye smile.

That eye smile. The haloed image of Fang with his Cupid’s bow hidden over his teeth, , distant as a shaken dream, pasted on the corkboard of Serenity’s mind front and center. The bulletin never changes. Even with the flyers and the events, the reminders and the announcements—Serenity just sees Fang. A single peeling missing poster clinging on with nothing but a few tacks the wind has yet to blow loose.

Perhaps there would be a day, when he could say Fang’s name, and mean him, and not the ruination he left in his wake. The man who went from dream to reality to memory. But not today. Today, he was a wound in Serenity, among the endless folds of his soul, unstemmable, a tidal wave of acrid, rotten blood

And, Serenity knew, his existence was just as much a gash on Fang, too. A weakspot, a chink in each of their endless layers of armor. And perhaps that was for the best, in a way. One could not live their life untouchable. Life was vulnerability. Life was pain

Fang was a flash of violence that defined the great majority of Serenity’s life, that gave the endless, roiling tides of his self meaning, and purpose, and boundaries. Blood that spilled endlessly, joyfully, across the white chrysanthemum garden of Serenity’s life, turning every flower it touched from the ghost-pale of mourning grief to the red spider lilies of violent wrath

But every tide must eventually run out. Every river has a mouth. Even the River of Heaven ended somewhere.

And even the endless stream of brilliant crimson blood that was Fang, that delectable promise of revenge, of ripping down the heavens that had defiled him and hurt him so... even that grew rotten and sluggish and black eventually

He didn’t know when the rot had started to spread. When Fang shifted away from being his Fang, with the crescented eyes and the lopsided grin, creature of passion and fire , to this cold, sharklike being of spite and hate. Perhaps it never had

Perhaps his Fang was still waiting for him to find him again, under the trappings of pain and misery La Comedienne bound himself in. Maybe it was Serenity who had lost sight of Fang, of the River of Heaven they had wanted to see together

Perhaps they still shared that dream, in secret. Perhaps they still shared the ambition that had bound them together, all those years ago

Perhaps they were, perhaps they had always been, two fish swimming in opposite currents, searching for the same ocean.

But it was useless to cling to the unchanging dead, Serenity knew. And useless to cling to a past that would never return. And so, he gritted his teeth, and shook off the final, stubborn remnants of the hiraeth that had defined his life for five years, and clicked off of Fang’s chat log, opening up another one, newer, fresher, dripping with a love and joy not yet rendered rotten and blackened by the jaws of time

Riptide

R : Tonight was really fun

R : Let’s do it again sometimes

A long moment, and then Serenity released a shaky, strained exhale, pulling up the keyboard, his fingers hovering over it for a few moments, before tapping out a response, each muted click an exorcism of past ghosts

S : Yes

S : Let’s

A moment, and then, in a fit of recklessness, his heart catching in his throat, hammering against the bars of his ribcage, he tacks on

S : I love you

He watches with bated breath as the tick marks beside the three messages appear, first in light grayscale against the tan background, before popping abruptly into a bubble of blue. A loading icon appears beside Riptide’s name, circling for one second, two, before...

R : I love you too

[jaspersummerbummer]

Free Write 8/17/23

I remember sitting by the shimmering waters, watching them dip up and downwards as the wave pushed them around. It’s the type of body of water that you can’t tell connects out into the vastness of the ocean. It appears so small standing beside the docks, behind me a viewing tower. Concrete steps, graffiti painted walls. I remember the way you looked at me, a hollowness behind your eyes that could only recount apathetic annoyance. This was my mistake, because no matter how cliche or cruel your emotions may have become. I fell for your trap. 

Double meanings aside; it was all honey coated foot catcher, bit rough onto my ankles. Twisting and turning only caused the blood to gush from my ankles, splattering my feet in a bruise red hue. The kind that formed on my side, from a fist laced heavily in a night of hearty drinking. Like vikings we fought until the sun came up, fists clattering into my body and me crumbling underneath your authority. Like a patriarch stood tall in front of the bean bag in the corner of my room, you took off your shirt trying to make yourself seem small with hunched shoulders that only extended your worst qualities. In truth you were not that king, no crown atop your head because you lacked such a legacy. This made you insecure. 

You sometimes told me stories of your father, all of which seem impossible to exist concurrently. He was a sailor, taking the occasional stop in from port to drink and sleep with women. You were a creation of a single night of passion and your life seemingly a stuant rejection of this seemed trapped in small town depression. Held in the arms of older men with precious kisses to your forehead. Another tale spun from your web coated fingers was that of the assassin, the least likely of your myths. Your father was a killer for hire, moving throughout the country and picking up money where he could. He fell for your mother after a brief yet passionate evening, sending her occasional letters but wishing to stay away from his son. Out of a perplexing fear that he would follow in his fathers blood soaked boot prints. 

My memory of these events is too hazy to recall sometimes, our rum stained minds treated us to wobbling as if on a deck of a sinking ship. I would watch you walk the plank as we went down, I imagine you would swan dive into the water, smiling the entirety way down. However you would not dive, instead you would likely sit cross legged on the floor complaining about how wet the room had become. How am I supposed to get this water off my shoes? I can’t keep handling these breakdowns. There is no way we are really sinking, this ship was built of too sturdy wood. 

Airport bar, missed flight, California sun. Lover boys entangled under swaying plastic trees. I hope you found love. 

Car radio, gas station stop, you’d look prettier if you smiled. Hair dull and lifeless, bags under the eyes. I knew I couldn't live like this. 

I doubt you understand, not the you of my poetic (in a bad way) recollections. Instead the you who reads with an air of confusion. Believe me that each sentence has meaning to those who were there, or those merely with the gift of my sobbing rants. Screeching and snot bubbles formed for one who had more fun hurting than they ever could helping. If the sun sets the same on the west coast why can I not visualize it? 

The moon is my guide as I walk by the shore. Sand caught in my shoes, ducking under my socks as the itch and ick rises from my feet to my heart. It's simple to imagine you alone, with your CDs littered across the floor and your headphones glued to your ears. Laying on your bed, sheets coming off the corners and a slithering feeling of pained longing, but no tears. There are no tears for men made of stone, who strike when the iron is vulnerable. Worst of all when I dared to write about you it felt like wilted marigolds, because even then I knew what you had against you. Wandering eyes and loose lips, are all of those which sink ships.