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Forty Nine, Gone Girl
Her white eyes could've been crystalized meth from a dying fairy's dream. Scott, he says pain makes you human? So, why was Luna not calming down? Also, how she had even remembered that in a time like this, was beyond me . . . Her claws were three inches deep into the skin of her palms, and nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just her own blood. No calming down. Her feet burned, they were wrapped in white (dirty) converses. Her souls burned. She was sweating from every possible orifice, she could've drowned in it. Gross. Matted hair tattooed to her neck. Jaw locked, razor blade teeth hidden like gold nuggets. But none of that matter, she was fucking starving.
The lack of eating human souls had been good recently, but, apparently, nothing lasts forever. Obviously.
Three thirty, ish, in the morning, and Luna was climbing out of Stiles' window— Gone with the wind. Gone Girl.
Snatching a teenage boy away from his girlfriend, which she was yelling at him for cheating didn't seem like too bad of a pick . . . But, then again, Luna couldn't even process how she ended up at the party? Or how she knocked the boy out? And dragged him all the way out towards the woods? Or how the girlfriend just stood shocked as her boyfriend was dragged away by a really pretty girl who looked slightly scary?
And here's the worst part. Luna had her phone on her, tucked away in the pocket of her (Stiles') hoodie— and as Stiles woke up alone, he panicked. And so he tracked the girls phone, because she wasn't answering calls or text. And Luna had been taken once already . . . Stiles couldn't have that again. And Luna, she was in the next town over from Beacon Hills. And Stiles thought this was a bad dream. He wished it was. But nope, as he found Luna's passed out form next to a dead (devoured) boy he knew it wasn't a dream. Fuck.
A small grunt slipped past the boys raw bitten lips as he placed the girl into the passenger seat of his jeep. As softly as her could. His whiskey eyes lingered on the girls face, they took time skimming over her blood ridden features. His fingertips gently swiped her hair from her sweat, damp covered face. He pulled on the sleeve of his long sleeve, rubbing at the red velvet blood around her mouth. A frown painted his lips, it seemed permanent. His heart ached and he thought . . . Would he have to do this his whole life? Try and build past a dead end?
The rule was no secrets between Stiles & Luna, didn't mean they couldn't keep them from anyone else. No one needed to know about Luna's sudden killing in the next door town, but shit, did she look and feel alive again. It terrified Stiles.
And now, breaking Lydia Martin out of Eichen House? Yeah, I know, a death mission with heart eyes. Luna couldn't decide whether the McCall Pack was fucking stupid or geniuses. But— regardless, they were back. As a whole, and they needed their last player. Because they couldn't win fights without each other, they were best friends, a family. Cheesy.
