#sunmad.

[punkzombie]

@sunmad

[ TXT ] : do you need comfort, to vent, or a solution?

[ sms txt: Miri ] : depends [ sms txt: Miri ] : whats ur solution?

[velven1th]

9.  DANCE :  for one muse to ask the other to dance at a party.

The music was a low thrum beneath the laughter and clinking glasses, something smoky and slow winding through the air like perfume. Luc had been watching from the edge of the room as half-shadow, half-spectator, nursing a glass of something old and expensive more out of habit than desire.

His gaze flicked to her before she even approached. Miriam. A bloom of motion in the blur of the party, eyes bright with intent, like she'd already made a decision and was just waiting for him to catch up.

When she reached him, he didn’t speak at first. Just tilted his head, like he was reading something behind her eyes. Something unspoken and burning quietly.

And then: “Careful,” he said softly, setting the glass down with a gentle clink and straightening to his full height. “Ask the wrong man to dance, and he might never sit down again.”

But there was no real warning in it. Just that usual flicker of mischief beneath his tone. That dark-eyed gleam that said he was already hers for the moment—she just had to reach.

He held out his hand, fingers curling in subtle invitation. “Go on, then,” he murmured, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ask me properly.”

Not because he needed her to. Because he liked the sound of it.

[likeorpheus]

The bar’s a hole in the wall with a jukebox that doesn’t shut up, and Francis loves it for exactly that. Some forgotten stretch of East LA where the streets stink of old engine oil and cigarettes, and the neon signs hang sideways like they’re too tired to glow proper. Inside, the air is thick—smoke curling up like ghosts from cheap incense and cheaper weed, mingling with the tang of spilled mezcal and old sweat. The crowd’s a mess of glitter, denim, and bad decisions. Gutter punks clink bottles with leather dykes. A girl in torn tights dances alone under the broken disco ball. No one's watching, but everyone sees.

Francis leans against the scratched-up edge of the pool table, their long black coat draped open just enough to catch a flicker of bare collarbone and mesh. Their dark curls are damp from the heat, pulled half-up with a glittery barrette they stole from somewhere. Their mouth—full, glossy, painted pitch black—curls as they aim their cue lazily, hips slanted, wrist loose.

They miss, of course. They’re too drunk to give a damn.

“Fuck,” they say, soft and slow, the word a purr more than a curse. They stand up straight, wiping their hands on the inside of their coat, eyes already drifting toward the other side of the table. Their gaze lands on Miriam—always Miriam, lean and low-lit, all sharp eyes and good bones—and Francis lets a grin bloom. Reckless and dripping with sugar. They notice her glass.

“Buy you another?” Francis asks, tipping their chin toward the empty glass Miriam’s been nursing. Their voice is satin—low, slurred, laced with something dangerous and warm. “Or we could share something filthy. Up to you.”

starter for @sunmad

[fedgod]

The motel is rotting. Claire can smell it before she even reaches the door—old cigarettes, cheap disinfectant, the telltale tang of body fluids left too long in the open air. It's the kind of place that doesn’t belong to time, only to the residue of human suffering. Highway-side and crumbling, pressed against a narrow stretch of blacktop like a forgotten scab.

She steps lightly. The walkway creaks beneath her boots, one fluorescent light overhead buzzing like a gnat in heat. Room 208 looms at the far end, its door crooked on the hinges, a faded "no smoking" sign peeling off the glass. The air is thick with summer heat, oppressive even in the dusk.

She doesn't know Miriam. Not really. They've brushed past each other in stranger places—names whispered in other people’s mouths. Claire is here because something pulled her. Something not entirely her own.

The knock is polite. It doesn’t belong here. Inside, something shifts. A cough. A rustle. And then—

Claire hears her voice through the thin wood, rasping, velvet-tattered:

❝ Secrets that I keep? Oh, they’d keep you from sleep. ❞ @sunmad

Claire exhales, slow through her nose. She presses a palm to the door, then pushes it open.

The smell hits her first. Damp linen. The rust of blood gone brown in the carpet. Cold French fries in a greasy paper bag, the corner of which collapses under her toe. Her lip curls slightly, but she doesn’t retreat. She’s stepped into worse. Slept in worse. Killed in worse.

Miriam is a shape on the bed—sharp elbows and sunken collarbones beneath threadbare blankets, her hair wild, her skin sallow with fever. She looks like a ghost trying to re-enter her body. Claire’s eyes scan the room with quiet calculation: a full ashtray, an untouched bottle of cough syrup, a bucket by the bedside.

She doesn't speak right away. Her presence is heavy, uninvited, but she lets it settle—like a fog entering a room and refusing to be cleared.

She takes one step inside. Then another.

She doesn’t sit. She doesn’t explain why she’s here.

She studies Miriam the way a doctor might study a wound—not with pity, but fascination, and maybe the faintest undercurrent of recognition.

There’s something here Claire understands. Illness that chooses you. That becomes your twin. She recognizes the sheen of a woman who can’t stop spilling.

And god, how Claire loves something uncontained.

Her voice, when it comes, is low. Curled in a soft, dangerous cadence like a blade hidden in silk.

❝ …show me your secrets. ❞

But she means you look like me.

[punkzombie]

@sunmad asked:

"I'm - I'm calling an ambulance -"

Kerry wipes at his face, smearing blood across his cheek like war paint, and squints into the headlights disappearing down the street. West L.A. is quiet in the way only a big city can be at night—muted and sprawling, humming with distant sirens and the occasional rush of a car speeding where it shouldn’t. The air smells faintly of exhaust and the ocean, and the streetlights flicker overhead. He’s slouched against a lamppost, his hair almost luminescent in the glow—so blond it’s practically white, but stained red now from the streak of blood that came dripping from his nose.

Miriam’s voice cuts through the haze, panicked.

Kerry glances at her and then down at his arm, which is bent at an angle it shouldn’t be. He grits his teeth, braces it against his knee, and with a sickening pop, shoves it back into place. The sound is spectacular and the pain isn't so tolerable. But he doesn't yelp, he doesn't flinch. Maybe he's used to that sort of pain. He shakes his arm out out experimentally, wincing as the joint snaps back into something resembling functionality.

“Don’t bother,” He says, his English accent deep and hoarse but casual, like this is just another Tuesday night. “It’s fine. Happens all the time.” He flashes her a smile, all teeth, the kind that would almost look charming if he didn’t look like he’d just clawed his way out of a grave.

“People can be bloody animals out here.” He gestures vaguely down the street, where the offending vehicle is long gone. Hit-and-runs. He had seen some pretty bad one's in his time. Unfortunately for him, he could survive a car.

“Some people really don’t know how to share the road, huh?” He laughs, immediately regretting it as it sends a sharp pain through his ribs. He leans back against the lamppost, grimacing. He immediately goes palming around for his cigarette case. “Come on, the night's still young.”

[velven1th]

🌃 Kiss the receiver while quietly stargazing.

There it was again... that look. Not love. Not quite. Something older, stranger, more dangerous in its innocence. Miriam looked at him like she had spent her whole life being fed false gods and bloodstained miracles, and now here he was in the dark with stars caught in his eyes and shadows kneeling at his feet, and she did not know what to call him except holy.

Luc let out a slow breath through his nose, the ghost of a smile curling at one corner of his mouth. “That expression,” he murmured, voice low enough to be mistaken for the night itself. “You do so make a creature nervous.” But she didn’t retreat. That, more than anything, fascinated him.

Most people, when faced with the sound of his voice in a moment like that, remembered themselves. Remembered fear. Remembered the thousand subtle warnings stitched into him. Miriam only looked softer. Sadder, perhaps. More certain, which was its own kind of madness. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered there with the quiet awe of someone standing before an altar, deciding whether to pray or ruin herself.

Luc watched the decision happen in real time. Then she kissed him. Not boldly. Not hungrily. Reverently. It was the sort of kiss that belonged to candle smoke and bent knees and trembling hands clasped so tightly they ached. Barely there at first, just the brush of her mouth against his, so delicate it might have been imagined if not for the way it set something old and sharp moving under Luc’s ribs. She kissed him like one might kiss the hem of a saint’s robe, or the mouth of a relic unearthed from sacred ground. Like she expected warmth, and terror, and salvation all at once.

Luc stayed still for the first heartbeat of it. Then the second.

He could have broken the spell easily. A tilt of his head, a sardonic remark, a laugh against her lips sharp enough to remind her what he was and what he was not. He had undone far sturdier things for less. But Miriam’s kiss was not asking anything of him. That was the problem. It was not greedy. It did not try to own. It only offered. A devotion so naked it bordered on violence. His eyes slipped closed.

When he kissed her back, it was slow, terribly slow in the way dusk consumes a room. One hand lifted from his stomach to touch her, fingers finding the side of her neck with deceptive care, feeling the wild little pulse there. Human. Frightened. Faithful in all the wrong ways. He deepened the kiss by degrees, not to overwhelm but to answer, and the sound Miriam made was so soft it nearly disappeared into the dark.

There. That.

Luc felt it the way he felt shifts in weather, in fate, in the fragile architecture of a soul. The way she melted toward him was not desire alone. It was surrender dressed in wonder. As if being chosen by him, even for this, especially for this... meant something celestial had finally turned its face toward her. It should have repulsed him, perhaps, being mistaken for something divine by a girl raised on false prophets and holy nightmares.

Instead, it made him ache. Because Luc knew gods. Knew what they demanded. Knew how worship hollowed the worshipper first. His thumb moved once, lightly, just beneath her ear. A grounding touch. Or a claiming one. Even he was not sure.

When the kiss parted, Miriam did not go far. Her forehead hovered near his, breath unsteady, eyes half-lidded and bright with that same unbearable look as if he had reached into the ruin of her and briefly made it beautiful. Luc opened his eyes to find her staring at him like the stars above had all come down wrong and settled in his skin instead.

Dangerous girl, he thought, not for the first time. Not because she bit. Not because she threatened. Because she looked at monsters and made them feel, however briefly, like miracles. Luc’s smile this time was faint and strange and almost sad. His hand remained at her throat, loose enough to reassure, present enough to remind. “Miriam,” he said softly, and her name in his mouth sounded older than either of them. Not a warning. Not quite.

More like a confession he would never willingly make. Above them, the stars kept burning indifferent and far away. But Miriam looked at him as if heaven had lowered itself close enough to touch.

[velven1th]

how does it look? be honest.

Luc leans in, too close by anyone else’s standard, shadows tilting toward her as though they want the first look before he does. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, measured, wanting to ease any concern with a comforting lilt.

“It looks worse than it feels, I imagine.” A faint twitch of a smile, humor bleeding into honesty. “Ugly. Angry. Like it’s still trying to argue with you.” His eyes flick up to hers then, softer, like he’s making sure she hears the rest. “But it’s clean. You’ll heal. I’ve seen worse left behind on stone walls.”

A pause. He exhales, thumb brushing along the unbroken skin nearby but never daring the wound itself. And then, as slow as can be, he presses his lips against the mark on her skin. Devout, as he shuts his eyes. "Would you like me to patch it up?"

[punkzombie]

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