#the bloody blue thread au

[traumatogo]

The Bloody Blue Thread

|• Prologue |

When Martin and Chris were only children, they both had a great curiosity about animals that set them apart from their peers.

From a young age, they were captivated by the diverse creatures that inhabited their world. They spent countless hours exploring the small lakes with their mom and dad, observing the behavior of various animals.

They always loved learning about them, studying their habits, and drawing them with the enthusiasm and creativity.

Their sketches were filled with vibrant colors and imaginative details, each one reflecting their fascination with the animal kingdom.

Chris, The younger brother, He found joy in petting the creatures they encountered and often dreamed, With his little mind of his, what it would be like to talk with them.

On the other hand, The older brother, Martin, while equally fascinated, had a curiosity that was less kind to animals. His curiosity sometimes led him down a darker path. Instead of simply observing and appreciating them, he found himself drawn to a desire to hurt them.

He wanted to understand their limits, often pushing boundaries that left his little brother feeling uneasy and a bit scared of him.

While they shared many delightful moments exploring nature together, the tension grew as Martin's curiosity turned into a longing to test his power over the animals. Chris would often cry and tell their mother when Martin was rude to the animals.

But when one day, Chris found his older brother sitting in a park with a dead bird in his hand, his heart sank. The vibrant childlike view of the world in the eyes of a child, usually alive with laughter and bright colors, faded into a blur.

His older brother, Someone he looked up to, Was holding a bleeding, Decapitated bird. Martin's normally bright seaweed blue eyes looked solemn and distant, his expression lost in thought. The young boy felt a wave of nausea wash over him, and tears began to well in his eyes, Running with his little legs to their mother.

Sobbing for their mother, his instinct was to flee from the scene as if running away could somehow erase the image of that fragile creature now lifeless in his brother's grip. Chris never did have the stomach to see dead animals. To him, life represented joy and happiness , and death was foreign and frightening to the child, shrouded in mystery.

He remembered all the times they had chased butterflies in the yard or watched ants march industriously along the sidewalk after Martin got home from school, Playing with racoons despite their parents scolding them, But now knowing his older brother purposefully took the bird's life, It scared him.

As Chris turned to leave, the soft crunch of grass beneath his small feet felt like a weight pressing down on him. He didn't look back, but he could sense the gravity of the moment lingering in the air, Scared, His small bright brown eyes watered over with tears. 

All he wanted was to feel his mother’s comforting embrace, to have her explain what had happened, to somehow make sense of the world that now felt so overwhelming.

At that moment, The young Chris wished with all his might that everything would return to normal, that they would be back home, safely nestled in their routine, the sun shining brightly as if nothing had changed. Martin talking about his day at school, And Chris who would show his big brother the art he drew with mom.

In the depths of his soul, he clung to the hope that one day he would understand, When he was older, like a cool adult, like Mom.

"Chris, Honey, what happened..?"

Linda spoke, Noticing her baby, gently picked up the shaken little 4-year-old, Holding him up as she wiped his tears.

Chris, the poor, shaking boy in his mom's hands, babbled anxiously, his voice barely above a whisper as he tried to explain everything that had transpired.

His small frame trembled, not just from fear, but from the weight of the horror he had witnessed.

He could feel his heart racing, the frantic rhythm echoing in his ears, as he looked up into his mother’s face as he told her, It morphed from concern to horror and then to anger.

All that Chris could remember of that fateful day was their mom grounding Martin, and dragging the boys back home as the sky turned grey. Each step felt heavy as if the world was closing in on them. It wasn't just the scolding that lingered in the air; As their mother sat Martin down at a table, her eyes blazing with concern, Chris, who hid behind the door, could hear everything. 

She wasn't yelling, but the way her voice shook betrayed her frustration, making it even scarier. Her words cut through the air like glass, sharp and precise, He could tell Martin was crying.

And then, just like that, The next day, Martin was gone. It was a normal morning when Linda woke up to wake up Martin for school, Only to find a empty bed where Martin usually slept. The stillness in the house felt unsettling; the quiet was deafening. As she made her way to the dining room, a knot began to form in her stomach.

Thoughts raced in the mother’s mind—Did Martin run away?? Had he walked out after she talked to him, or was he lost somewhere, too ashamed to face them after everything that had happened?

Frantically searching through Martin’s room, Linda noticed his favorite blue striped shirt was missing along with a small backpack that he typically used for school. Panic set in deeper, and she called out for Chris to see if he was gone as well, luckily, finding him in his room playing with his toys. 

The absence of Martin felt like a gaping hole in their lives. Linda quickly called the police, Frustrated that they kept asking questions and not helping her to find her son.

As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, its rays seemed to mock her worry, illuminating the reality of the situation she was struggling to accept.

Martin had run away, and Linda's heart sank further with each passing minute.

The warmth of the setting sun became a bitter reminder of how quickly things could change, how the laughter of yesterday had dissolved into panic and despair.

What if Martin was out there all alone, feeling abandoned, or worse, regretting his choice to leave? 

With each tick of the clock, Linda's determination and fear only grew.

She couldn’t just sit there! . Gathering the 4-year-old Chris tightly in her arms, she whispered to him, Comforting both herself and Chris

“Well find him, I promise"

WELL! That was a silly Prologue, Not that bad, My hands hurt 😔

I really hope you guys like it!

(Sorry if there is any grammatical errors!)

Prologue complete! 💙🪡

[goodlucktai]

15. "This is going to hurt, okay?" with leo for your zombie apocalypse au (maybe leo losing his arm??)

dialogue prompts

15. “This is going to hurt, okay?”

x

When the initial outbreak hit New York City like a bomb, Splinter was adamant that they bunker down in the Hidden City until the world was safe again. One almost-apocalypse was enough for him, thank you. This second one could be someone else’s problem.

Frankly, Donatello could see the merit in that. For those initial frightening forty-eight hours he was all but glued to the TV. A handful of staff and one anchor had remained barricaded in the Channel 6 news room, broadcasting what information they could until the station ultimately went dark like all the others. And what they had to share was grim. 

Whistleblowers had been quick to throw CEO Theo Audrey’s pharmaceutical subsidiary under the bus as the catalyst, claiming the corporation was in the business of bioweapons. Whether or not that was true, it gave the world a name for the violently aggressive infected: Auds. 

Raphael argued that they had the ability to help people, which meant they had the responsibility to. He was more careful with the word ‘hero’ than he used to be, careful in general with what he said around impressionable little brothers who wanted to live up to whatever idea he had in his head that they should be. But it was obvious to all of them what he thought was the right thing to do. 

They had all looked at Leo then, their fearless leader. He was still growing into the role, but he had always been the voice of common sense that kept their heads above water.

Leo didn’t say anything right away, his mind racing ahead as he chased the thread of each argument to its end. He could account for inevitabilities and pitfalls and curveballs as easily as if it was all one big game of chess. 

And finally he came to the decision he could live with, and said, “Raph’s right. We have to help who we can. But we’ll be safe, papa.”

That was three months ago. The world is still ending, and no cure is in sight, and Donatello doesn’t want to think about how those without portal magic are surviving when they have no choice but to venture out for food or water or medicine.

Sometimes he thinks Splinter was right. Other times he thinks about all the people who are still alive only because of his brothers’ inherent goodness and he can’t imagine having done anything else. 

Today, the portal that brings the patrol team home is orange, not blue. Donnie’s heart is in his throat even before he processes the screaming. 

“POPS!” Raph’s voice tears through the lair. He hasn’t sounded that frightened since those seconds before the Technodrome exploded in the sky. “Donnie, April—somebody!” 

Donnie bursts out of the tunnel into the terminal that makes up their living room and all the air leaves his lungs at once. 

Raph’s hands are bloody, and Mikey is crying, and Leo is writhing in their big brother’s hold. The once-bright yellow hoodie Mikey had been wearing that morning is stained an ugly rust color and pressed hard against Leo’s right arm.

“Shh, hey, it’s okay, we’re home,” Raph murmurs, none of the panic on his face making it into his trembling voice. “Raph’s gotta show Don. This is gonna hurt, okay?” He peels away the hoodie, fighting Leo’s grip on his own arm to do it. Leo chirps in distress, and it’s horrible, and Raph all but trips over himself to soothe, “I know, baby, hold on. Hold on.” 

He finally reveals a gruesome, gaping tear in the flesh above Leo’s elbow. The edges are shaped like teeth.

“No,” Donnie says. 

“We found a few families trapped in an apartment building. One of them had a little girl and she—” Mikey manages to choke out. “She started crying. It was so loud. The Odds swarmed the level we were on in seconds.”

No, is all he can think. No no no.

What apocalypse? The world is ending right here. The world is in Raph’s arms, bleeding and gasping and dying. 

“Move,” Draxum says, as good as appearing out of thin air. Donnie’s situational awareness is apparently nonexistent right now but he still hears it when Splinter dashes into the room a second later, if only because of the wounded sound his father makes. 

Draxum places his hands on Leo’s wounded arm just above the bite and they begin to glow. Donnie loses the strength in his legs before he completes the last couple steps between himself and his brothers, so he just crawls the rest of the way. He takes his twin’s hand and pretends there is nothing that could force him to ever let go. 

“From what we have seen, the infection turns a new host in a manner of minutes,” Draxum says, expression fierce with focus. “How long did it take you to get him home?”

“Um,” Mikey says, scrambling to grab hold of something other than grief and fear the way he would rifle chaotically through the mess of sticker paper and sketchbooks on his desk for the right color copic or drawing pen. Blinking hard and rubbing away fresh tears on his sleeve, their youngest finds the courage to do anything besides just wail and scream the way they all would like to and says, “It wasn’t right away. My portals aren’t instant like L—like Lee’s are. I have to, um, draw the sigils in my mind the way you taught me.”

“Four minutes,” Raph offers. “And twenty-one seconds,” he adds a beat later. “Raph was counting.”

He leans down and presses his cheek to Leo’s forehead. He isn’t saying goodbye, but he’s holding close just in case. He’s giving Leo something sweet to go out on if he has to go. He’s crying, too, a steady, silent drip.

Splinter strokes Leo’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. Donnie isn’t brave enough to look at him. He can’t look at anyone. 

There is no other way for this to end. There isn’t a cure. Any bite or scratch is an instant death sentence. Then Donnie’s twin would become something else, a violent, hungry shell of someone once good and loved, and they would have to deal with that. They would have to see it, the ugly wretchedness of it, and never make peace with it for as long as they lived. 

And yet— 

“He should have turned by now,” April says from just behind Donnie. Her voice is shaking, and she looks like she wants to collapse where she’s standing, but she still manages to claw something shaped like hope out of the worst moment of their lives. “That’s what you’re saying.”

“That’s what I’m saying. This virus is human in nature—mortal. There is a reason the Hidden City is unaffected. Yokai are creatures of magic. In much the same way I could not catch the flu from you, O’Neil, we cannot be infected by Odds. You Hamato call yourselves mutants, but you are yokai. At least in part.”

“And you wouldn’t have thought to mention something like this sooner?” Splinter hisses, something close to hate in his voice. 

“How would you have liked me to test it, Lou?” Draxum bites back. 

“Shut up,” April says. “What does that mean, Barry?”

“It means the virus has been isolated at the site of the infection,” Draxum says. “It will not remain that way for long. It will spread, very slowly, and eventually take him. This pain that he is in will not wane until he is gone. We must act before it is too late.”

Donatello’s mind is as quick as Leonardo’s, even though they are constantly racing down different avenues. He understands what Draxum has not yet said. What exactly he’s proposing. 

They have to remove the site of the infection.

“I can’t do that,” he blurts, too loud.

“Someone must,” Draxum replies, not pulling any punches. “If you want it to be me, then it will be me.”

“What are you talking about?” Mikey says. “Dee?”

Donnie can’t speak. He presses his forehead to the corner of Leo’s that isn’t crammed fitfully against Raph’s shoulder. 

It’s a terrible risk. Amateur amputations are the stuff of nightmares. And it might not even work. There’s no precedent. There’s just a one in a million chance and a family desperate enough to take it.

“Leo,” he whispers. “Hey. Nardo. Please. I can’t just. I need you to—I need you to tell me it’s okay. Lee. I need you to tell me what to do.” 

He feels it almost instantly, the click and connect of a mind meld. Leo’s mind flows into Donnie’s as effortlessly as it has every time they’ve done this before, the mischievous wind of his ninpo breezing through Donnie’s lightning storm like the skies they belong to are one and the same. 

There isn’t a conversation. Leo’s thoughts are muddled, fever-bright and confused, not at all like the shape they take when the wickedly clever slider is feeling like himself. But Donnie hears him anyway. 

He understands just from this instant of togetherness that Leo doesn’t want to leave them. He wants to stay where they are. He would do anything to stay. 

Donnie parts from him with a gasp. His siblings watch him avidly, tears streaming down their faces unchecked. Leo looks tiny in Raph’s arms. There’s already so little of him, and now they are going to whittle him down even more. 

But the helpless screaming fear is no longer the loudest thing in Donnie’s head. It’s drowned out by the deafening rumble of a storm, that faraway sky that flashes with purple lightning and playful gales of blue. Nothing could be louder than the two of them when they have something to prove. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, one hand on his twin’s plastron over the spot where that fearless, unyielding heart beats for them. “Hear me? I’m taking this arm, but I’ll give you back a better one.” 

The air goes out of the room as all of his siblings and his father suck in a breath and hold it. Raph’s grip on Leo tightens, as if he needs just one more second in a world where this doesn’t have to happen, where there’s another way. 

Then he lifts his mismatched eyes and there’s only trust there when he looks at Donnie. Mikey’s hand grips the wrist of the one Donnie has on Leo. April puts her arm around Mikey.

They’re all here. They’re all going to stay right here.  

[romcomeon]

「 ꨄ︎ 」 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 .ᐟ

⁀➴ in death, we never part

⋮ NOTE DETAILS — solomon x gn!mc. zombie!solomon au. early halloween special. cw: blood, biting, signs of decay. wc ≈ 1.7K .ᐟ

⋮ SINCERELY, ME — featuring our beloved immortal sorcerer... or is he?

It is human nature to keep dark, bloody secrets.

That sickeningly sweet smell of decadent flesh, carefully paired with a bright savory drizzle of blood and barrage of soft tissue — all perfectly packaged into an impeccable main course near complete from being served atop a dinner table.

You were torture; Solomon could no longer resist.

Locked away in the safe confines of his room, his nails scratching the underside of his hardwood desk. Traces of luminous liquid splatter on the floor in spontaneous droplets, syncs of 'pitter-patter' as the pool casts a mirror-like shine with arrays of blazing candlelight illuminating the study. For speckles and shards of broken glass have scattered across the table.

The sorcerer pants, his head hung low as he tries to catch his breath. What little remained of his beating heart and working lungs, idly coming to a halt with every 'tick' of the grandfather clock mounted against blood-stained carpet walls.

It was a day he dreaded most. The day his self-restraining elixir loosens from its knot along the woven thread.

With a simple nudge then slip of his hand, the bright diamond-shaped vile smashes itself on the table's surface. His last hope, oozing in a small puddle, rendering the potion useless.

Curses muttered beneath shaky breaths: that vile was airtight for a reason. "Drat." Solomon's voice cracked, with each gasp of air growing more frantic than the last.

His hand lifts itself up and tangles within platinum locks, feeling his hair grow thinner with each pulling stroke. Whisked in the air was the growing aroma of oxidized flesh, tickling his nostrils, causing his mouth to salivate.

No.

The heavens forbid he turns into the cadaver buried all those centuries ago. Every twitch of gray eyes whose irises slowly turn translucent, every prick of blood trailing from the corner of his lips, every sign of life losing itself from his fingertips.

You feel the wooden door crash against its frame, locking you with the sorcerer. A fellow human, you thought.

"A fellow human," you hoped still. You could only stand in horror, watching as the familiar figure morphs itself in tainted galore, with every following tick leaving the other gnawing at the high black collar for his turtleneck.

For one second he was his usual cunning self, entertaining your simple choice of visiting Purgatory Hall.

Despite the warm welcome, you've noticed how his usual light skin had gotten paler, almost gray and dry. How the bags under his eyes grew more prominent. How with every chance he took a stealing glance, his breath hitches; lens scanning you with underlying intent.

"Have you been sleeping?" you asked, placing the cup of a nauseating mixture of spices on the table.

Solomon raises a brow. "Hm?"

You simply cocked your head, pointing at the glaring dark circles on his face. "Your eyes. You look dead as hell," you said.

"Ah," he followed with a soft chuckle. "It's from spell research. Not to worry."

You hummed in discontent —that wasn't the answer you wanted. "You always say that," you pouted, resting your chin on your hand, with your elbow supported by the plush blue armrest. "What are even you researching anyway?"

He sighed, taking a sip of his concoction. "It's rather important," he says in rehearsed diction, before staring back at you with that lingering gaze once more.

Seems like you could never get a proper answer, only averting your eyes so as to not shiver from his blatant choice of action. Had it not been obvious? You think he wasn't able to catch himself this time. Sure you recalled the moments of his longing stare, but those were different. Those were momentary glimpses that he'd use to tease you when given the incentive.

These were different.

Those weren't the only oddities you've noticed. Along the cuffs was an ombre of muddled blue, with veins bulging from its underside. Before you were able to point it out, Solomon excuses himself, tugging his sleeve to cover the marks.

You blurted out in concern, "where are you going?"

Solomon clears his throat, his expression, once blank and unassuming, quickly shifts to a reassuring smile. "Nothing, just something... urgent."

You see the latter's face turn bitter, seconds before he coughs into the palm of his hand.

With a shake of his head, he wipes whatever residue remained, closing his eyes as he gives you one final look. Solomon spoke through gritted teeth.

"Stay here."

Before you were able to interject, the sorcerer strides off to his room.

You hear the 'tap' of leather shoes against tiles grow quicker, yet fainter, the further he goes away. You were left sitting there, on the couch, with two cups and a teapot. As the echoes mellow down to an eerie silence, you felt something shiver down your spine.

The warm atmosphere shifted to an unnerving heat, with chills adding up as the flames burning within the living room lamps started to muffle out.

Luke and Simeon didn't seem to be here, and Raphael had been called back to the Celestial Realm upon Michael's request.

You took one final scan across the room: shelves open and hanging, plants wilted and dying, lights beyond blinding — the room beyond empty.

That caused you to get up, immediately inspecting the armchair in search for any more clues. Squinting your eyes, you knelt down on one knee, finger tracing over the brown dried up residue, slashes and mists that have long since passed.

The liquid trailed off to the underside of one of the pillows. You hesitate for a moment, your peripheral view scanning for any peering eyes.

Now that you've assessed that the coast was clear, you gently picked up the large cushion, angling along one of the many blazing lights to take a proper view of what you suspected was underneath.

You shrieked, causing the cushion to fly off and hit the light turquoise walls. Reflective fabric, with subtle hints of gold.

The brash ring of shattered glass bounces along the walls, hitting your ear without warning. You flinched again before making any further assessment, causing you to slowly turn your head towards the now dark, barren hallway; with a luminescent crimson glow beneath the doorframe.

The end of the cold marble hall marked the end of it all.

That was moments ago, before you started wishing to have moved cowardly, escaping this haunted wasteland before luring yourself in a weathered cage.

Inhale. Exhale.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Your eyes shut tight, your feet twisting and turning you to face back.

In moments if your timing is just right, you'd swiftly open the door by the handle and dash long the halls. It didn't matter how long the run would be. You had to leave.

One step, and his erratic suffocation stops.

The eerie tension palpable in the air got thicker, cutting through the fog and reforming with ease. Your lips quivered, whispers growing louder with each dropping note. "What did you do to them?"

There was no response. You were only greeted by the unburied silence.

Two steps, and you hear the floor creak.

It was subtle, though you feel the walls inch closer, cornering you from him. Whatever he was. Be damned, whatever monstrosity extinguished the light of humanity.

His motions felt precise and calculated, yet wild and uncontrolled. Your ears could pick up the soles of his shoes grazing against the floor, as if he’s dragging through a limping stance. It’s inconsistent, almost as if the little spark surviving in his core tries to reignite and rule over his carcass.

The tiny sounds stop, but continue again with every branch his conscience falls.

Solomon mumbled incoherent phrases, his voice slurred but retained his clear and concise diction. Like a fork to a plate, his prolonging the roll of the ‘r’s or ‘ch’ of ‘ts’ only further cemented the anguish.

Three steps, and his hands found your body.

Solomon pulls himself closer, limbs dangling as his hands would only cling tightly onto any grasp of loose fabric. You feel a gush of cold air hitting against your neck, with his revellent embrace sinking you into his ashen body. His lips graze over your lower neck down towards your shoulder. Solomon lowered his gazing, taking a whiff of your intoxicatingly delectable scent.

He shook in delight, cocking up his head to whisper in your ear.

“Starlight…” 

Bloodshot speech with a croak of each syllable, but something was different. Solomon chuckled — that all too bastardous sneer you came to know and admire. The shift in tone and pitch had his timbre stabilize, as if you could picture his coy smile atop the barren pale face whom ghosts your every whim.

“Moni..?” you asked, your voice nearly squeaks.

“Oh, starlight,” Solomon hummed, thumb gliding along your chin in expertise. “You shouldn’t see me like this. Gifted to live forever but, at what cost?”

He lifts your chin up, while his other hand pushes back locks of hair that guarded your neck. 

Solomon sighed, “keeps your eyes away. I'll handle the rest....” 

"You shouldn't have seen this," he grunted, almost annoyed.

You gulped, yet obliged with his words. Eye remained shut, feeling him inch closer. “What are you doing?” 

Solomon shushes you, giving your neck one final kiss. It was like that for a few moments, gentle praises while the reek of a living corpse circulates your thoughts.

“Would you hate me if I did this?” Solomon asked. That question came when you feel the lining of his teeth press on your skin, digging deeper like a tease, yet horrific with how it pained even in the dullest touch.

Your demeanor faltered, your foot lifting to take the final step. “If I?”

Burked by the absence of common ground, yet arguably, he’s human still. Only proven by a simple answer, after Solomon playfully nips at the tougher parts of your cartridge.

“We’ve dealt with other atrocities before. Certainly, I can accept the offer of being…” Solomon trailed off.

A final cheer was the last you could hear.

— would you take the fourth step?

check out my masterlist! | divider by cafekitsune

[villain-byteniwoha]

ships i like and why i ship them: a small, affectionate rant before bed

zhongchi: probably the first ship i ever interacted with. i may have started playing genshin for them. I specifically remember reading modern, non canon au fics on ao3 when i was still low AR and did not have liyue unlocked yet just to enjoy content of them without spoiling the story too much. those were good times

love the betrayal, the reciprocated manipulations, their individual bloody pasts and their juxtaposing love for humanity/family. the marriage chopsticks. god, the amount of threads I've read explaining those... and ofc you can't forget the official art with them by the harbor with the gingko leaves falling cinematically. i think that's the art that drew me to them lol

there's also something so deliciously tragic about a near-immortal being who's fated to succumb to erosion in due time, falling in love with a mortal man who's always within death's cold embrace. not to mention the subtext of their themes and principles. geo and hydro, stability and turbulence, land and sea, they crystallize when they meet in the middle, etc etc

kaeluc: another pairing I enjoyed the absolute shit out of, way back when I wasn't even playing the game yet. I remember learning about them while I was deep in my mxtx phase, specifically tgcf, and I'm pretty sure I dipped my toes in after I learned that they used to be sworn brothers. keywords here being used to. hook, line, and sinker. before I knew it, I was also reading fanfics about them, but only modern, non canon au ones because genshin terms made no sense to me and i didn't want spoilers. then I played the game. and then—we get Kaeya for free. I mained the shit out of that man for months.

and then. I fully entered the fandom, only to be immediately slapped in the face with the mistranslation issue.

and I get it, honestly, if you like ragbros good for you, I'm happy for you, but me personally, I will scorn hyv until the day I fucking die because had they not messed this up? kaeluc would've have been so powerful. KAELUC WOULD HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING POWERFUL

how could they not be? they're childhood friends but they're also forbidden romance coded, and rivals/enemies coded, but they're also soulmates. they don't just know each other, they're two halves of a whole, they know each other.

and the themes, don't even get me started on their themes. fire and ice, red and blue... paimon's line about them being similar (i.e. kaeya's a shady mf who fights in the day/diluc's a bright fire in the night) is one of the most romantic lines ever. they're sun and moon but only because they complete each other. also, lamp grass and calla lily? that's them as flowers, but they're the other person's ascension material like hello???????? fucking wild.

and ofc this kaeluc section can't end without me mentioning arundolyn and rostam. for those who don't know or have read/heard of those names but never really dug deep into it, arundolyn and rostam were knights of favonius around the same time as the cataclysm, and you can read about them in artifact sets such as brave heart, defender's will; and partially from the elegy bow

the reason they're here is because there are too many damn parallels between them and kaeluc to just be a coincidence.

arundolyn was a claymore user (see: ferrous shadow), he was the "lion of light,"; he was naturally gifted in strength but still trained hard and would later become the grand master of the knights; he'd push rostam to drink wine and tell him to have a little fun; he gives up his title and weapon after rostam dies

on the flip side, rostam was the swordsman who created the art of favonius bladework (see: favonius sword), his title was, "wolf pup,"; when he and arundolyn played as children, he was the stand-in for the champion knight of aristocracy; he "ruled the shadows," by protecting mond with ways the knights did not approve; rostam dies in an expedition to expunge the evils poured forth from the cataclysm...

I'll let you connect the dots there. I just also wanna point out, as a final note, that in the favonius sword's description, it says, "the childhood friend and spiritual counterpart of Arundolyn, the Lion of Light, whose name was Rostam, the Wolf Pup." ok. yeah. moving on

xiaoven: i very quickly realized after reading the genshin webtoon that venti was gonna be one of, if not my most favorite character. and i was curious as to who the people wanted to pair him with. keep in mind, this was around 2.0~2.2 I believe, so when I searched them up, the only canon backing I could find was the music scene

and boy, was that scene enough because holy shit, the brain rot these two gave me??? of a god who embodies freedom, and the last remaining yaksha chained to his duty????? they were so thematically opposed and beautiful, it wasn't hard to fall in love with them

by the time 3.0 came rolling in, I've already stopped playing, but that didn't mean i wasn't aware of how we were well fed by canon. from the trailer to venti full on attending the lantern rite and sitting down with the liyue gang; it was one of those interactions that transcended everything

and of course, OF COURSE, they also canonically addressed the fact that venti's music soothes xiao's soul. that's intimate. that's deep. that's so fucking romantic and nice and beautiful in the most tragic way...

also, we can't forget the depictions of god and servant here. the holy themes, the worship. the promise of immortality and foreverness, but also the threat of it. i just think xiao doomed with karmic debt and venti vowed to divine erosion is such a soulmate connection, and I'm also delusional

that's all for now but there's so much more...

[droewyn]

RedSpidey plot bunny, free to a good home

Because I'm not confident enough in my BatFam to write them, but this lives in my head rent-free, and I'd love to read it.

Peter Parker / Tim Drake crossover by way of the multiverse.

"Lost objects" soulmate AU. In this AU, anything that you lose winds up in the possession of your soulmate. You can't game the system by throwing things away on purpose; it has to actually be lost.

Six months after the events of No Way Home, Peter Parker is going through the motions. "Peter Parker" himself barely exists anymore; he's faked his own credentials -- not particularly difficult after the Blip -- but those carefully forged ID papers are really all that's left of him. Peter Parker is the nonentity who delivers photos to Jameson. He's the bane of his landlord's existence. The rest of the time, he's Spider-Man.

Peter Three said that he'd eventually stopped pulling his punches. Peter One has stopped ducking them. Oh, he dodges the flung busses, the vaporizing energy rays, and the mutagen grenades. He's not suicidal. Not... not really. He takes the big threats seriously; the city can't afford for him not to. But the street-level thugs and muggers really can't do too much to hurt him, even if they're armed. He'll heal. He always heals. And while they last, those cuts and bruises (and occasional gunshot wounds) remind him that he's real, that he's not just a ghost, haunting New York, possessing his own superhero identity. The pain is a reminder that he's not dead. Which is important. Probably.

He's long since stopped wondering about his soulmate. He still keeps the random objects that he finds, storing them safely in a shoebox under his bed, but it's mostly out of habit. Whoever keeps misplacing the coffeeshop punch-cards, the occasional roll of film, the weird-looking charging cables and bits of disassembled tech, and that one really tacky, bat-shaped throwing star that probably came from the same mall kiosk that sold knockoff Lord of the Rings swords... whoever that person is, they are better off far, far away from Peter. From Spider-Man.

It's been a particularly bad night. He's bruised. He's bloody. He hasn't bothered to look at the camera's memory yet, but he's pretty sure that there won't be anything usable on it. His third eviction notice has been taped to his door, and the contents of his refrigerator should be classified as a bioweapon. He's just. So tired. He barely manages to peel the mask off before flopping into bed, the fabric still clutched between his fingers.

And when he wakes up again, he's in a bedroom larger than his entire apartment, in a bed softer than a cloud (and quite possibly also larger than his entire apartment), and the only thing more astonishing than the thread count of the sheets he's tangled in is the sleeping face of the pretty, black-haired boy roughly his own age, whose nose is eight inches from his own.

Blue eyes blink open, going from sleepy to alert in an instant. The boy's feet kick out, and ow, did they have to connect with the kidney that was still recovering from the stab wound? He finds himself literally booted out of bed, blinking dazedly at a ceiling that doesn't have any water damage at all, and it's only his Peter T... spider sense that gets him to move in time to avoid the staff that slams into the carpet where his head had just been.

Who the hell sleeps with a weapon within reach? A quick thwip, and a practiced jerk of his wrist, and the staff sticks harmlessly to the wall. (It's not a double-standard, okay? Just because he's been sleeping in his costume more often than not lately doesn't make it intentional, just... efficient.)

The black-haired boy also enjoys efficiency. He's firing question after question at Peter, even as he chases him around the room. Who is he working for? What does he want? How did he get inside the bedroom? Something about the main character of Persona 5? Peter's not sure about that one. They're all excellent questions, and ones he'd also like to know the answers to. But he can hear other heartbeats nearby, other voices, running footsteps. He's about to be outnumbered. He also just woke up, hasn't had a chance to pee yet, and his mouth tastes disgusting.

He goes out the window and keeps going, until he gets to a city that definitely isn't New York, and he's managed to lose all of the weirdly competent rich people.

It doesn't take him long to realize that he's in another universe. He's also pretty sure this one isn't his fault; he's stayed as far away from Dr. Strange as he has everyone else from his former life, and he hasn't had any big villains in a while. Not that it really matters; he's back to square one again, only this time, all he has is the suit on his back, a phone that won't connect to anything, and a handful of spare web fluid cartridges tucked into his pocket.

He needs to find a way home. He needs to figure out what happened, and how and why, and fix it. Doesn't he? He doesn't exist here, and okay, he barely existed back home, but that's where he's meant to be. Isn't it? Where every familiar landmark is a bad memory, and "I Believe Mysterio" shirts are commonplace. Where he's just as likely to be cursed at as thanked, and no matter what he does, nothing ever seems to get any better. Not for him, or for anyone else.

He's hungry. He's more alone than he's ever been in his life. He finds a place to squat for the night, and falls into an uneasy sleep.

He wakes up in the black-haired boy's bed again.

[hopepaigeturner]

Villainous Benophie: Part 5

Inspired by @orangepeelshortbreadcookies; BRILLIANT Villainous Viscount AU (read on AO3 here). So all creds go to her!

And while she has done a beautiful fic about Benophie in this universe, Thieves of Dusk (100% RECOMMEND A READ. Read on AO3 here). But we’ve been chatting about my own ideas for Benophie. So, with her blessing here’s the next part of my version.

WARNING: References to assault.

Part 4 Here.

There is a slight ringing in Benedict’s ears the entire time Sophie speaks—it hadn’t stopped since seeing the terror in her eye upon moving away.

And as she tells the story, the full tapestry, all the little threads he has garnered over the weeks slip into place.

The scars around her body, a result of her stepmother’s little tortures.

The calculating gaze, a result of analysing every interaction, every route, every room, to ensure the safest route—the years of miscalculations too horrific to remember.

The way she flinched at loud noises or how she kept every loud emotion quiet. All markers of her haunted childhood.

Each detail makes the ringing in Benedict’s ear louder, as if an alarm bell for something swelling, rising deep within…

And then she tells him of Lord Hotham.

How two years ago Araminta had pulled Sophie away from cleaning shoes to announce her engagement to him. An engagement, she later found out, that was orchestrated to pay back the debts Araminta now owed.

And Sophie knows how to read people so as soon as she met this Lord she knew. He is not old but arrogant and so drunk on his own entitlement that he wields his power like a sword. A sword he has already wielded against her by taking whatever he wants from her under the pretence of being his fiancée and it is only Sophie’s dexterous conversation and even more dexterous hiding that she staved him off for so long.

Until the night they announced the engagement to the ton. A night where he took things a step too far, far too far from the way Sophie shakes. But it was the final straw that led her to flee with a meagre bag of belonging still in the dress sewn to symbolise that union.

When Benedict asks, his voice as restrained as an enemy in one of Benedict’s rope knots, what that exact act entailed. And it is the haunted look in the eyes of his fierce Sophie that causes the waves to crash.

The anger rolls over him, consumes him just as a cloud consumes the moon. He can almost hear the sound of bone crunching under force, and smell the tang of blood as it coats his fist. For this man he will get his hands as bloody as Colin does when in the ring.

The hair on his neck stand up, the ringing becomes a call to arms.

“Ben!”

His fist flexes as his mind whirls. At a push it would take him twenty minutes to get to Mayfair.

“Ben.”

He ignores the sliver of moonlight and instead thinks of that whimpering Lord begging for mercy. Far far worse than what he made Sophie…

“Ben, please!”

Moonlight cuts through the cloud and he breathes. Slowly he returns back to the room to find Sophie; s hands cupping his face.

“Please,” she whispers, and the brokenness of that command assuages him for a moment.

“I will kill him, I will beat him black and blue.”

“You cannot.”

“I can, and I will.”

“He is a Lord, Benedict,” Sophie tries to reason. “If you touch him he could have you locked up, sent away or or…” the tears start welling in her eyes again, “please I cannot lose you, do not make me lose you too.”

No one has been concerned for his welfare for a very long time, perhaps that is why he feels winded, thus enabling Sophie to speak.

“And I do not want you to hurt him. I do not want to think of him ever again, I do not want him poisoning the life I am building.”

Benedict grinds his teeth.

“He hurt you.” He speaks out as if each word is a punch. “I need to hurt him.”

“I need you here.” He looks back at her and the fierce look in her eye. “What is more important me or vengeance? Who is more important, me or him?”

Benedict knows that conclusion, even though it startles him.

“You.” He kisses Sophie hand. “I choose you.”

Sophie lets out a shaky breath and he notices her body relax. He holds her closer, makes sure she looks in his eye.

“If that man ever comes near you then I will kill him. Yet I will let this matter rest for you. I ask only one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Let me discuss this with Antony—not the details,” he adds at seing Sophie’s fear, “just that there is a man who might wish to harm you. My brother knows ways of handling these things…setting up precautions. Will you let me ask for his protection? The protection I promised you?”

Sophie wrestles with the thought but finally nods.

They get a cab back to the club because Sophie looks as delicate as cut glass. She does not say a word until Benedict delivers her to the door to his family’s chambers.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for stopping, Ben.”

The nickname strikes something within him.

“I will always stop,” he says the words ringing deep through him. “I will always listen to you.”

“Hmm, careful Bridgerton, you do not know the power you give me,” she replies with the ghost of her usual smirk. Benedict kisses her hand.

“I have no fear because I know you will not abuse it.” For he sees the lack of guile in her eyes. And then he leaves, his mind roiling with the nights events only softened by the image of Sophie’s blushing face.

[the-haunted-prince-au]

I've been debating this for a good half an hour now and I think it's time to reveal a new character...

Once In A Blue Moon...

Vannesa was exhausted. She'd been trying to exorcise this spirit for weeks now and nothing was working! There was only one method left in the book and it's description had been scribbled out leaving only a singular incantation spell. She sighed "this is for My Prince..." she began to say the spell "once in a blue moon a soul is woven, A deal made, a lesson spoken, for what is a puppet without its strings, but a bloody corpse in the night, rise o corpse puppet and lend me your strings, for I am the one who will do your bidding!" Red mist began to spill from the book enveloping the room in a blood red fog. Vannesa shielded her eyes hoping whatever this fog was it wasn't cursed. And then the saw them.

A strange entity presumably a spirit floated amongst a blood red sky with stars hanging from threads as a giant blue moon hung behind them. "Are you the spirit possessing My Prince?" She asked "no silly you summoned me!" They spoke with a strange whispery dark voice. "I'm the MoonThreader pleasure to make your aquatince young queen" "wait how did you know I-" "I know lots of things like the fact your little Prince is having some trouble!" "Yes that's why I summoned you! Fix it now!" "Alright I can't fix it instantly but I can help you fix it all I need is access to your strings!" "My what?" "Your mind, your soul, your very essence I call them strings" "you want into my mind?" "Yes it's it's only way I can teach you and lend you my power. Say let's make a deal on it you let my into your head and I'll teach you how to exorcise that pesky ghoul" the spirit held their thread wrapped hand out "do we have a deal?" Vannesa instantly shook their hand and the pocket dimension collapsed back into her mothers library. And she noticed a small red thread wrapped around her finger. "That must be the mark of the deal!" She began to cackle "your games are over foul spirit! I will have My Prince back!" Meanwhile way beyond the sky in a place known only as the horizon MoonThreader placed down a small doll that looked just like Vannesa next to that doll were 2 more one of The Prince and of The Snatcher. The Snatcher doll had a hole in its chest(?) And had been placed inside of a crystallized container and the Prince doll had a small flaming blue heart stitched to its chest by red strings. The MoonThreader looked at the dolls and smiled. "Now i think it's time we have some REAL fun!"

@return-of-the-queen-au

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Eye for an Eye

Silco and Vi have a chat in Stillwater.

From 'heron blue,' an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and political schemings. Full story on AO3

She sees fire. She sees red. Red on his clothes, on his hands; in his mangled, inhuman iris; on the silvered edge of his poisoned tongue.

"Vander's prodigy." She hasn't heard the sickly gravel of that voice in six years. It ripples beneath her skin, and sits there. Etches the drawling cadence of every vowel into her bones. "I regret that we've yet had the ability to speak." 

A tilt of his head. Through the bars, doused in shadow, his mismatched stare sharpens. "I'd have made the journey sooner," he rumbles on, "but, you see—the time would be a waste, for a dead girl." His good eye narrows, a scathing flash of blue radium. "And yet."

Vi breathes in quick, harsh. She swallows it down.

He looks like a creature the Pilt chewed off and spit back out: a sinewed blot of shadow, bones and flesh, wrapped in leather and silk-weaved linen. There's an animal under his skin—a tidewater predator watching from the shallows, silent and still. Waiting.

She scuffs the sweat from her temple. Feigns indifference. "Who the hell are you?"

His brow perks. "Don't you remember?" His hands shift behind his back, held laxly there, as though folded around a knife. "Surely the walls haven't rotted your head that easily."

"I remember," Vi snarls, baring her teeth. "Like hell I'd forget." And she'd tried. Kindreds above and below, she'd tried to wipe her mind of that night, a lifetime over. Spite coils under her tongue. "But, y'know—don't really care about the name of some rat in the street. Might have to remind me, there."

She can't tell under the dim light whether the crook of his mouth is a sneer or a smile. It passes too quickly for her to care.

"Well. You've Vander's tongue as much as his damned fists, don't you?"

Her nails carve into her palms, hard enough to draw blood. She paces across the back of the cell, glaring. 

Don't you dare say his name. Don't you dare—

Silco stands still as stone, two steps from the red line that chips over the cement floor. Silver glints in his hand. He's slipped a gilded cigarette case from the breast pocket of his coat. His thin, willowed fingers pluck one roll out, snap the case shut, and flick open the hinge of its lighter. The crackling hush of the drag he takes rattles over the stones: fills the air with a dry, ambered spice. 

It's not like Vander's pipe: cheap, heady, citrus and cinnamon. It reeks of expense. It's the same peppery smoke that sits on his clothes, bittersweet and earthen, laced with juniper berry and cedar. It hisses out from his lungs, a blue thread unspooled, clouding about him in a thin haze. His dead eye leers through it.

"Come here, girl," he says, and takes a step forward. Under the ripple of the light, he's taller than she took him for; taller than she remembers, cowered on those rickety grates behind a wall of other bodies. His right eye—a frigid, dirtied blue, like the underside of a glacier—cuts to her tattered boots, and climbs. "Let me look at you."

The words gut into her, vilely. She wheels on him. Her fist slams into the bars, hard enough to make an ugly, chorusing echo through the steel. "Bastard."

"Charmed."

He stands on that thin red line, puffing away on his cigarette, and stares at her, as though trying to make sense of a riddle in a paper, or picking through the nuances of an artist's strokes. Her fingers snare hard on the bars, hard enough to stain her bloodied knuckles white. She glares right back at him. Pristine coat, lithe hands; scratched up, grayed out face; swept-back hair, flecked with silver; steel-tipped boots. There's a knife handle under his belt. A knife handle nearly in arm's reach.

"You couldn't have been more than fourteen, then," he mutters. The words carry a taint of wonder, in their remembrance. It plunges, swiftly, to distaste. "Tearing through my men, like a tank through the trenches." He scoffs. Now, he is sneering: the scarred line of his lip baring crooked teeth, his cigarette pinched between his fingers. "What good are you, left to waste away under these Piltie scum?"

"I didn't ask to be here—"

"Oh, no. You asked for revolution." His eyes spear into hers, an unwavering burn. "You were denied."

Blood ticks between her fingers, scalding on the cell bars. Those words itch into her; find the festering resentment she's left abandoned, over months and years shackled within these walls, and gnaw at it. 

"You sold Vander out," she says, heat broiling just beneath the words. "You stabbed him. I saw it. You killed him—"

"Vander sold himself out, girl," and he is walking, with the slow, prowling lope of a wolf; the fluid circling of a shark in the deep. "Laid his throat under the enforcers' boots, like a mutt on a leash. I paid my dues—nine years of it—while he sat back and cowered." He strides over the red line, and stops, inches from her battered fists. "He owed me a debt," he says, plainly. His cigarette skims the grayed blot of dead flesh that stretches over his cheek. "Eye for an eye; tooth for a tooth."

Her hands shake. She sees the flames, eating up the cannery with the roar of a living thing. Hears the bellows of their arguing, split apart in fritzing static and neon-blue. "What did you do with my sister?" 

He ticks the ash from his cigarette. It falls to a swirl of embers at his feet. "You, however," Silco prattles on, blithely ignoring her. His fingers wave through the air, with the nonchalance of a royal: a razor-edged flit of smoke and cinder. "Now—what I wouldn't have given to see you storm this wretched city, yourself. You still could, if you only had the gall." His heels sweep over the concrete: th-thump, th-thumping: fall still at one end of the cell. His eyes flit curiously across its hinges. "These bars, girl—tell me: have they strengthened you? Or leashed you, as well?"

She doesn't have time for this. You talk too much.

"What did you do with my sister—?"

"Jinx?"

A cold pit plunges through her stomach, and twists.

Because you're a jinx! Mylo was right!

"She's alive," he says slowly, the rasp of his low, scratched-out throat worlds away. The look on his face is unreadable: deceptively blank: scathing. "Safe," he adds, with a lilt of his head. "Though—as I'd been led to believe—you're good as dead, to her."

Vi pulls in a tight, heavy breath. "Her name is Powder." 

"Her name is her own. She chose it." The dagger of his teal eye thins: hunts for something under her shaking bones, something she can't see. "From what I gather," he mulls, "it was your parting gift." 

Slices in.

[stargazeraldroth]

McDonald's AU from what I can remember:

Nightmare: The manager of the location and the most toxic motherfucker you will ever meet. Do not ask to see the manager, you will go home crying because he will not have any mercy. He's also extremely biased and bossy.

Dream: The star employee and he always gets the Employee of the Month reward. He's a genuinely good worker, but holy shit is Nightmare biased. He'd probably sneak you an extra nugget... and sneaks a bunch of nuggets and fries during his shifts.

Ink: The mascot of this specific location. Everyone likes Ink, he's too adorable to not like him. He's trying his best but he has some of the most unpredictable luck ever. He either ends up giving you extra ice cream with perfect swirls or he blows up the ice cream machine just by looking at it, there's no in-between. One time he almost got crushed by it because he pulled on the lever too hard.

Error: He either doesn't show up at all, shows up at the end of his shift, or shows up and half-asses the entire job. He only bothers showing up sometimes because of Ink, who is the whole reason he applied there in the first place. He likes arguing with Nightmare just to argue and to give the others something else to focus on for the day.

Killer: He would fight customers in the McDonald's parking lot for complaining about small errors, such as there being one less napkin or getting paper straws instead of plastic ones. He will give you a bloody nose and he will laugh in your face about it. He encourages Dust's behavior.

Dust: If you get food poisoning from this location or your order is completely fucked up, like you somehow get a Whopper when you ordered a McChicken, it is this man's fault. He is full to the brim with contempt for the world and he's taking it out on the McDonald's customers. He would tell you the ice cream machine is broken just so he wouldn't have to get you one. He encourages Killer's behavior and records the fights.

Horror: He's absolutely disgusted by this kind of food, but man, he really needed a job. He's one of the only sane ones here and he's trying to keep everyone under wraps. He has a water spray bottle designated for Killer and Dust. He's the one who saved Ink from being crushed by the damn ice cream machine.

Cross: Literally on the last thread of his sanity in this awful place. He's had it with everyone- Killer, Dust, Error, ESPECIALLY Nightmare. The only ones he gets along with are Ink, Dream, and Blue. He's on the verge of quitting his job and letting Dream be his sugar daddy. Do you know how many times he's vented to Epic about the stress of this job?

Blue: The only normal worker here. That's it, that's Blue. He's probably also on the verge of insanity, but does a better job hiding it.

[averlym]

Parr reading to the queens? 💚

[me-uglypretty]

the killing & the pinning

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha finds herself enjoying the company of death, both literally and physically.

Warning: 18+ (G), au, serial killer!natasha, grim reaper!reader, blood, killing, dead bodies, violence, mention of knife, smut, bottom natasha, pet names, r being a top, minor mention of scythe used for sex | 3755 Words

| spooky week ‘22 masterlist | Notify | Masterlist |

Amid the summer’s harsh warmth of 2016, fallen leaf crunches under worn out boots and the victory grin on Natasha’s face after committing her first murder. The sun’s glimmer felt refreshing after seizing her first opportunity into the rush of a serial killer with a charming smile and eyes flickers of every excellent qualities.

Natasha Romanoff was born in Russia, but her family moved to Ohio when she was twelve. Adapting to her new life wasn’t easy with the cultural and language barrier. Her auburn hair easily drawing attention from left and right, even when she dyed it blue. But if given the chance to leave her new home, she would politely decline with a reassuring smile that was sure to melt hearts.

From her perfect grades, awarding ballet skills, and manners that went beyond capturing hearts of boys her age to elderly gushing about her politeness. Natasha’s overall personality wasn’t hard to love or adore, she was often kind and deem as the golden child—either secretly or openly from those around her and her own parents, despite having a younger sister trying to reach the same level of admiration.

She once heard her neighbours complains, forefinger pointed at his reckless children with a new lesson leading to their expanded annoyance, “Learn something from Natasha! Good grades, good at sports, and she doesn’t disobey her parents! Everyone loves her…and she graduated university!” and she walked away before greeting another pair of parents admiring her.

They merely entered the church when her name was showered with such beautiful petals. She wondered if the god they preached felt jealous of her, so easily engulf of sweet words and gestures without a second doubt.

It’s shocking and unbelievable how time drastically changes people.

Natasha huffs, wisp of auburn hair tickles her moisty forehead while hauling the lifeless boy that seems eager to smear blood on the once spotless floor. But out of everything that could rendered someone disgusted like the pool of blood one part of the floor or the obvious slice of skin gushing with blood, Natasha felt most uneasy when her darken eyes meets the sight of a naked body. Not even the knife stuck between his chest made her sick.

The bloody path on the floor leads from where she successfully heard his final cries to where she now stands, trying transfer his body. Part of her felt disappointment in herself from sheer careless in executing her plan. Thought, each step of her favourable gruesome activity was laced with do’s and don’t’s which are exactly what she noted to ensure the next murder is better.

Natasha grumbles under her breath with curses that sounds sweeter in her mother tongue. Her hands grip the mop’s wooden stick, frustration was slowly seeping into her enjoyment. The mop’s grey threads were soaked darker substance, red bleeding through and mocking her avoidable mess. If only her direct anger didn’t drag her into reacting instantly before listening to her sense of clarity.

But it’s over and done.

The dead body, Brady or Bruce, a name that wasn’t significant. Only that he was an obstacle. He played the role of the perfect man, religious since his youth and passing his years of lessons to his children. He was forty something and a complete creep. It was almost impressing seeing his calm demeanour under the god’s oath, then witnessing his sleazy hands guiding intoxicated girls into the bar’s restroom. Several drinks, whispers of sweet nothings, and the lack of judgement on their side.

And he most definitely winked at her by the bar’s entrance. That was his first and final strike.

He became the next victim in her list of those murdered over their negative traits. One of which was her roommate of two months during her first year of university. That woman was in her thirties and insisted on sharing Natasha’s food. Whatever fruits or prepped food according to Natasha’s strict diet was often eaten without consent and she hated it.

Bye-bye Michelle, and hello to her satisfied hunger. Alongside with her stocked fridge.

Now, Bruce’s lifeless body was lying in Natasha’s unnamed apartment in the rundown part of New York. It took her a lengthy time to obtain the perfect location after she decided to leave her beloved hometown. There was more of life beyond her small town that she years to discover. University was her first step then the next was completely adulthood with an even consistent career.

“And there’s another both. Oh, nice, the man you complained about the last time.”

Natasha’s round lips curves, her previous frustration melted at the voice seeping through her consciousness. The sound that tightens her chest for the mere seconds before exploding, pulsing at every trudge of her legs and her hands clammy. She shifts her gaze to the voice pulling her closer and meets the sight of you form hovering by the opened window.

Completely dressed in black from head to toe, broad shoulder holding a flowy cloak, and standing taller than her, almost towering over her. The obvious glimmer of red pulses through your round eyes and the scythe being held your hand. Teeth sharp when you speak and the taunting smirk that doesn’t fade till you completely disappear from her sight.

The first time Natasha met you was forever imprinted in her memory. It was a cheerful day she committed her first murder and the start of an endless encounter. Natasha remembers every detail of the eventful day, from the pleasurable fear in her victim’s eyes to meeting yours after the last seconds of life faded. She would had proudly gushed about meeting the you as the Grim Reaper, but of course, it remains a secret.

Natasha’s eighteen-birthday was the first time she realised how she craves to hear helpless bodies begging for mercy. A sight she long to witness on repeat. The awful man was screaming his forties away at every jarring stab on his body, a euphoric sound for her. It wasn’t weird or scary, but something she felt pleasant about. Her first murder wasn’t meaningless either.

Mr Stark tried running over her sister’s dog twice. Each met with her dangerous glare and his grimy face. He was a blabbermouth too. He tried convincing her parents that she was sneaking out her room to participate in unholy activities.

But she conveniently saw him jerking off. Specifically, ten minutes after catching her kissing Wanda Maximoff. The priest’s daughter and her then, supposedly forever, girlfriend.

On that graceful night, Natasha met you—the legendary Grim Reaper intertwining into the life of an unknown the killer.

Natasha was surprised at first, seeing someone watching her from the corner of her mother’s home office and the obvious polished blade glints under the harsh light. She was mesmerised as her eye’s trails pass the sharp object to the structure of your face, a mysterious persona. An undying hunger was awakened from within after that day.

You weren’t known to most, but you had the softest smile on your face as your gaze drops on the lifelessly body, “A little disorganized for your first murder.”

Laughter erupts, sounding carefree and at ease after Natasha’s scrambled to pull out the hidden knife in her boots and pointing it towards the stranger. Tension sizzles in the air, Natasha was sure her first and hopefully, her last murder would had been executed without any kind of interruption or mistakes. It was an act of vengeance for her sister and his big mouth. A death for things that was incredibly wrong.

After her first time, Natasha laid in bed without anyone else’s knowledge of her gruesome truth. The crime committed just hours ago. Her mind flashing with images of blood tainted on her hands, the fear in his eyes and lips quiver as if she would reconsider his actions, the knife sliding through his skin and his muffled screams. The satisfaction garnered from knowing someone received their well-earned death made her feel better.

And the mysterious stranger, you were watching her clean the mess made while offering words of assistance. Mostly unhelpful, but a teasing tone at your every touch of voice that made her cheeks warm.

Then, the introduction that her left her mouth gape—your mysterious self and so effortlessly beautiful, a collector of souls, known as Death, soul harvester, a fulfilling sight—and your name that wasn’t known.

Your response to her bewildered expression was your chilling step closer, the air made Natasha shudder and your cold hand slithers out from beneath your dark cloak. The same hand grasps Natasha’s jaw then softly pushing her jaw up to complete shut her mouth, “Don’t wanna catch death flies.”

Natasha’s urges only amplify. She wondered if another round of cries and a bloody mess would grant her the appearance of Death. Will you grace Natasha with your presence again or were you simply a fragment of her imagination and if that was it, she might really be losing her mind.

A week later, Natasha committed her second kill and you appeared with a flattering smirk.

The unlikely friendship manifested after every encounter of unimaginable death. It was after her seventh that Natasha found peace within her inner battle. Those hours spent killing people and the solace she found wasn’t her unwinding herself from stress but embracing her true passion. Accepting her desire to see you again. There wasn’t another way of meeting Death, if not committing murder.

Killing, murdering, unliving someone in the most gruesome way. That was her source of self-indulgence and the direct connection to you.

Conversations were brief, mostly surrounding Natasha’s recent kill. Gradually, conversations evolve into your questions about her life that wasn’t revolving dead bodies. Casual conversations became your thing with her, but still, you were nothing more than an acquaintance.

Why was she attached to a mystical creature? Why was every act of murder accompanied with aching anticipating for you?

Slowly, after throwing her frustration at her fourth kill, a woman who tried cutting her line at the grocery store then proceeding to flaunt her money which was a direct descended of stolen money— that she finally realise how she was incredibly fucked up and she was harbouring feelings for the Grim Reaper.

The unusual amount of time she had spent rehearsing conversations then trying to start said conversation wasn’t normal nor was it easy with you. Death or simply you weren’t someone who speaks as much. Natasha’s fear of messing up her words creeps her confidence and the fear of ruining her honoured title as Death’s favourite killer.

Your favourite serial killer.

Natasha Romanoff had successfully committed a total of thirty-seven kills, seventeen were committed within the span of one week. It wasn’t her brightest moment. You waver your presence at some visits till you started visiting her most often and longer which made Natasha excessively happy, not only from the sheer liking of killing but the chance of seeing you.

But the murders weren’t only committed with the purpose of seeing you.

“This was a bit messy. Don’t you think?” you asked, sauntering into the room and crossing your arms, gazing down at the lifeless body wrapped in an old carpet then your eyes wanders to the blood stains on the floor.

The smirk on your lips extends to your cheeks, wickedly scary and Natasha felt her legs trembles for the sheer seconds of your eyes meeting hers.

You snap your fingers, regaining Natasha’s attention from her daze state. The killer, the name so profound, snaps from her thoughts and takes a step back when she realises your proximity. Her tongue tied, throat burning of words she dares not utter and her gaze momentarily falls on your round lips.

“You’re making my job way harder than it has to be, Natasha…” your voice emits a certain coldness of death which instigate a shiver on Natasha’s skin. Hint of silver glint from your teeth beneath a malicious smirk, tongue darting across smooth lips. “And you’re such a good girl, aren’t you?”

Natasha doesn’t favour commands from those assuming they had some sort of authority over her, not even parent’s righteous or the overcrowding teachers flinging their advice at her innocent face. There’s always an alternative response in those moments with a faultless performance.

But the current thumping of heart’s desire, good girl—prodding into Natasha’s mind, swiftly nudging her head as she nodded obediently and the corners of her lips curves, drawing a smile on her face while your distinguishable smirk blurs in her vision to reveal an astonishing smile.

The skilful killer whose body count was so distinct from what was assumed of her, realises something on that dusky night.

She loves your smile and she worship the intimate exchange over splattered blood.

An abrupt thump on the ground stirs Natasha’s drifting mind as the surge of opaque mist envelopes her surroundings. Absolute darkness buries her vision, hands reaching for something, but not the slightest fear crawls at her skin.

Then, a hushed sound emerges to her left and seconds after, another wisp of icy air blows at her right cheek.

“Such a good girl.”

Natasha sucks a deep breath, feeling slender fingers at the nape of her neck before flickers of light invades her sight—and those familiar eyes of yours, an endless abyss and a taunting smile, merely an inch away from her.

“You don’t have to stand on a mountain of bodies for my attention,” your voice echoes through her mind, “Just tell me what you want and…” and your eyebrows furrowed, giving an impression that you know of those flowing thoughts behind starving eyes.

Natasha’s breath escapes as gasps when your feverish lips contacted hers. It jolts something within her soul, the terror screams of her victims couldn’t compare as she submits, lips parting slightly as unfamiliar velvety tongue slips into her mouth.

You’re mine, Natasha.

She doesn’t utter a word. The silent hums of lips meeting were enough of an acceptance. Natasha felt like a virgin, so clumsy and inexperienced, savouring the distinctive taste in her mouth, how hands were daringly crossing bridges of which she would had cut their hands off—but these hands, so cold, so rough and yet, emits a placid feeling that she craves.

She doesn’t know how long lips melted against each other or when her body falls on a bed of grey clouds, flicker of red somewhere in the room she couldn’t care to know. Natasha hasn’t thought of life ahead, she hasn’t encounter anything as satisfying than the thirst inside to kill then she found herself consumed by the persistence of Death; your mystical self, adoring darkness from your core to the lifts of your lips, mocking her and teasing, relentlessly tugging her heart into a dangerous zone.

“You are an astounding human,” you whispered, luring Natasha from her daze to realise her position. Your thighs straddle her waist, holding her down as your dark cloak pools on her lower half. “I had never met someone so corrupted and so eager to please.”

It was absurd how easily she surrendered, “Please…” she was writhing beneath you. Natasha doesn’t understand why she was begging for mercy. Fear of her life merely exist, but the aching inside that seeks a healing touch, heart begging for more than your lips risky endeavour on her skin.

She feels the surge of energy setting her insides with a fire and her mouth gasping as your hand enclose around her throat and the other trails a path down her abdomen. The twist of hips, pelvis hitting at each thrust, body savouring ever messy touch and moans echoes around.

The cloak shielding your body slowly peels slightly, glimpse of nude skin and Natasha’s mouth waters to unveil more as her greedy hand reach over, pulling the offending material as it falls lower.

“Oh god,” Natasha whimpered, her eyes distracted by firm breast mercilessly shifting at every thrust. “You’re beautiful,” she observes the scene for a lustful moment before feeling a gust of wind on her skin, almost naked if not covered by matching coloured lingerie.

“Almost feel like you were waiting for this, were you?” you teased, forefinger drawing a line between Natasha’s slit, scoffing when the famed killer whimpers for more. “You’re so helpless under me. Was this what they felt?”

Surprised was an understatement at your influence on her body. The clothes seemingly disappearing in air and her mind spiralling in immoral thoughts, craving for you to completely remove your dark cloak.

The ambience of the room or what space she couldn’t decipher, launches herself into an arouse state as her wide-eyes watch your head declines from her clear sight to finding your head between her thighs, fingers digging into her warm skin, nails leaving crescent dents as she sucks a deep breath.

Your cold tongue licks a stripe over her heated core. Realisation creeps in of her complete naked state and the eagerness for her body to uncover more as your mouth thrust into throbbing core. Natasha’s mind clouding with euphoria, aimlessly moaning at ever nudge over her swollen clit and when cold tongue slips into her opening, and her hands falls on the head breaching her common sense.

“Fuck, please don’t stop, don’t stop,” she whined, begging and plunging her entire self into a prodding desire.

The humming from your mouth stirs her body, cold mouth wrapping around her clit as a finger replaces the emptiness in her hole then pulling out and back in, another finger provoking a pleasurable loud moan from her mouth.

“You taste so good,” you praised, soft and grumbled like as your mouth continues their action, and Natasha’s thighs shakes from the sheer sounds of you. Muscles tightening as she closes around your fingers and immersing herself into the pure sensation of warmth invading her stomach, skin sweaty and sticky and your teasing chuckle at her helpless state.

Death. Death. Death. Echoes a defenceless sound in her mind, clouded by the image of your bare breast, the head between her warm legs, taunting smiles and eyes striking her heart to the core, shelving every other thought in replace with one; you.

“You’re such a good girl, uh?”

Obedient too.

Natasha hears your voice occupying painting the walls of her mind and amused as her mouth mumbles of incoherent words. You swiftly lifted her body, shifting position to lay down as Natasha is left straddling you, and your hands guides hers to the breast she was waiting to drag her tongue over. Rough hands press over hers, your pointed eyes urging for her to please you—someone so powerful, commanding her to do something that she swore to perfect.

If she could kill by her own rules, then she would easily master the needs of you.

And she did, trying to dominate the body beneath her, but she was mostly led by every sound of satisfaction from your mouth.

When her tongue wraps around your harden nipple while the other fed with attention from her fingers. Death, so bizarre to fall from her mouth, pants and praises from yours, even when she gulps, completely mesmerised by the sounds pulled from her touch. It wasn’t the sound of useless bodies begging for their life that sets her off, it’s this.

It’s you.

“Don’t stop,” your muffled voice shudders Natasha shoulder with a peculiarly coldness grazing her skin and her head turns to see the scythe’s blade almost clashing with her jaw. “Down…” you ordered, using the extensive hook to nudge her shoulder downwards.

Natasha wordlessly obeyed, nudging her body where she was led to face your glistering core and her own pulses, eagerly anticipating the next rule of orders as her mouth waters for the sleek that coats your thighs. Head lifts for the mere second to see flashes of red behind your dark eyes and your taunting smirk as the silver blade glints close to her cheek.

“Good girls don’t make messes,” your warned with a quirk of your eyebrows, the scythe’s sharp blade grazes Natasha’s cheek. The touch made the latter gasp, feeling a slight pinch on her skin and the trickle of crimson trailing down her face. Your icy hands wipe the red on her cheeks and smiling softly at her tolerance to be used.

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t think that she’s another woman with a gruesome secret or ponders of how her hands waved at elderly couple and guided them across the street, the same hands which she spends hours trying to rid of bloodstains. She simply doesn’t think at that significant moment as her tongue dives without hesitation, dawning her new sense of life by your moans filling the space in her head.

If someone asked of her life’s biggest achievement, she wouldn’t utter of those bloody bodies but would proudly exclaim of tasting life between the threats of death—your thighs clasping around her head, fingers tangled and tugging at her hair, murmurs of command that sets a fire to her lungs, how she felt the sharp blade hovering so dangerously over her back—and they wouldn’t know.

Natasha met the Grim Reaper before she desires for death, then meeting you again and realising the extend of death. Countless of hours spend while a lifeless body accompanies you and her then the hours spend as bodies embrace the other’s need, as she huffs and grunts, moaning and cursing at the pure euphoria erupting from within, and hearing the equally pleased sound from you.

And when morning wakes her in an empty bed, the smell of sex stirs her insides with a hunger.

Bloodstains her hand and underneath her nails, exactly an hour after.

Death gives her chills, and your taunting smile greets her first. Carelessly did she merge her body into yours, the blood stains your skin and hers. Where moans echoes in her mind, an addiction to only satiety with your touch, while scythe trails a line down her body, the end parting her folds and the discovery of a miraculous pleasure as her mouth gape, absorbing your thrust and the sinful words that seeps so sweetly down her throat.

Falling into death’s arms wasn’t a killer’s dream, but Natasha wouldn’t dare wish for anything else when you were there, luring her into your sinful arms and the words spewing from your mouth that seems to thread with her thoughts. Not a mountain of bodies could stop her from reaching the high you had forever embedded on her body.

[mosquito-queen]

ronance greek au 

athanasia (nancy) is a priestess of athena, she has a particular connection with some of the kids that come by the temple and often saves her offerings to feed them. ofc max is one of these kids that shows up out of the blue (we just moved here), and she especially likes to follow nancy around while she’s working, “you mean, you get to perform the sacrifices? can i help?”

nancy grows more fond of the girl, but fate always seemed close behind max. of course max befriends the group of kids with a demigod in their midsts and nancy can’t help but pray a little harder to athena for the girl’s protection. the group of kids manage to offend the fates and the keres descend upon max, they only manage to rip half her soul before el fights them off

bloodied and battered, max falls into a deep sleep and cannot be waked by mortal means. nancy is asked to perform her funeral rites and she refuses, “no, she isn’t dead yet. i’ll get her back.”

she prays again to athena, asking for guidance, for anything, to retrieve the half of max’s soul from the underworld. she searches the temple’s libraries well into the first light of dawn, until she comes across an ancient script that she hasn’t seen before, but she can’t read it

enter robin (a nickname she earned at birth from one of brothers). she is the youngest of five older brothers, she sneaks into their school lessons to learn as much as she can. she’s fluent in several languages and helps her father with his job as a merchant. she’s planning on going with him to a neighboring town when she starts getting weird dreams

she goes on the trip with her father, but is distracted by an owl that is uncharacteristically out during the day, she follows it to a temple, so engrossed that she stumbles into the temple’s priestess (who is very grumpy because has not slept more than 6 hours in three days)

after some introductions and rambling apologies, robin stoops to pick up the scroll that fell to the ground, she squints at it before nancy can snatch it back, “athena has a sword?” “wait, what? you can read that?” “i can read phoencian, persian, and akkadian. this though? minoan? no.” nancy’s face starts to fall and something in robin says ‘do not disappoint her’ so she rushes quickly, “but hey! i’ve got a really good knack with this kind of stuff. and i knew the sword part, look i can figure this out. i can, i ca-” 

and robin does figure it out. she makes up an excuse to stay longer at the temple, combing through the other pages stuffed away in the library, “it’s something about athena’s sword having the power to cut down the keres and thanatos,” she pauses, a seriousness on her face that looks out of place, “nancy, why do you want to know about killing death?”

so they go and find athena’s sword and fall in love a little bit on the way, and nancy talks about max, and she blames herself, and she blames the gods, and she has such a deep sorrow in the pit of her stomach but robin can’t help but see how beautiful she is, “We’ll get her back, I promise.”

and they get the sword with some trials and tribulations, nancy wields it as they go the long way to the underworld. “she’ll be in the river styx, not yet passed over, she should stand out with only half a soul.” and they have to slink through the cover of shadows, nancy squeezing tight to robin’s hand, “you can do this” because robin has never been sure-footed to save her life (but she’s not saving her life. she’s saving max’s and in a way nancy’s)

and when nancy sees the copper tint of max’s hair in the river, she doesn’t think and plunges in. she sees her fading soul and the sword clatters to the bank of the river. the hands of the dead hungrily digging into the threads of her cloak as she pushes her towards max. the hands are dragging her down though, the water now at her shoulders as she grabs the limp, faded form of max, scooping her towards her chest.

suddenly the hands are gone, and nancy is able to stand, picking max up with her as she turns to head back to the banks, the water back at her waist. and it’s robin there, with the sword, cutting the greedy dead away from nancy and max. it’s robin, so clumsy, so unsure, never holding a sword in her life, had freed her. shock freezes nancy (it wasn’t the sword athena had sent, it was robin), and robin is nodding her head reassuringly, “go” is a chorus that keeps spilling from her mouth, “nancy, go!” and they are stumbling out of the river, stumbling back into the dark, and away from the underworld, the shrill call of the keres growing louder with each footfall.

[wifiwuxians]

art trade with the lovely @yustinamishka , what a joy it is to draw these babies 

[id: a chibi of song lan, xiao xingchen and a-qing from a yi city ghosts AU. song la, who is a fierce corpse, is mending the robes of a ghostly xiao xingchen, who has a blindfold over his eye sockets with bloodied streaks coming from underneath. the bottom of his robes consists of clouds of smoke. a-qing, who also has little streaks of blood coming from her eyes, is taking a nap in his lap. two spiders are helping song lan mend the robes, with one on his shoulder holding the thread. they are all perched atop a coffin. little blue wisps float around them. the scene is happy, with songxiao smiling at each other. xiao xingchen’s hand is in song lan’s lap, and song lan is gently holding xiao xingchen’s arm. xiao xingchen’s other hand is atop the sleeping a-qing’s head. /end id]

[moo-blogging]

Hi~Love your late night thoughts 💕would you be able to do a story in modern AU where Levi is a gangster member and he met the doctor/nurse female reader at the hospital while bringing his injured self in?

Hello stranger ~ Thank you so much for reading my thoughts, I am super happy you love them. And thank you so so much for requesting, I love your idea!! Sorry it took me some time to write because words aren't flowing :(

1 ModernAU Levi x Nurse female reader coming up! Enjoy :)

Late night thoughts #56:

A bloodied man stumbled through the double doors and collapsed on the floor. Gasps overtook the bustling Emergency Room as people jumped away from the man. All eyes were on him. Nobody breathed.

'Where is the fucking doctor...' the man groaned. The amount of blood on him had struck fear in the people in the room, even the experienced medics hesitated.

Inhaling deeply, the security guard plucked up his courage and approached the man. 'Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?' he asked. But as soon as he saw the tattoo on the back of his palm, he gasped and moved away.

A two headed snake coiled around his index and middle finger, the symbol of the infamous mob. Now the pieces had finally come together, and nobody wanted to get involved into this mess involving gangsters.

'Well? Are you going to let me die here? In a fucking hospital?' the man coughed blood as he glared at the security guard. The 6 feet 5 guard stared back at him helplessly. Helping him might be costly.

You were too busy to notice the man by the door, but the whispers in the Emergency Room became too loud to ignore. 'What is it?' you asked the nurse standing closest to you.

'A gang member just came in, blood and all. He's on the floor now but nobody wants to take him.' The nurse tilted her head towards the direction of the doors.

'We are a hospital, we treat everyone.' You scribbled the heart rate and oxygen level of your patient onto the report.

'Not if they can't pay. We get paid by their bills.' The nurse said flatly. 'Besides, this one looks like trouble.'

'Well, that's why we have to make sure they live to pay their bills,' you dropped the report into the pouch by the bed, 'he looks like he's dying now' and you jogged towards the man.

The injured man was struggling to push himself up. You knelt by his side, your knee soaked in his blood, and asked 'can you pay your medical bills?'

Spitting a mouthful of blood, he glared at you with his spiteful grey-ish blue eyes. 'With cash.'

'Good, I have a bed for you. Let me help you up,' You threw his arm over your shoulders and firmly grabbed him waist, supporting him as your pulled him through the watchful crowd to the last bed at the end of the alley. The man groaned as he tried to limped at your pace, but you were not slowing down. You knew time was essential right now. And he had lost a lot of time on the floor.

'My name is y/n and I am your nurse. What's your name?' You asked him as you sat him down on the bed. You dragged the curtains for privacy.

Hesitating, he said 'Levi.'

'Ok, Levi, do you want to share what brought you here?' You pulled the equipment cart from the next bed and picked out a pair of scissors. 'I need to cut your clothes.' You announced.

Looking away, Levi swallowed and nodded. You quickly cut off his blood soaked T-shirt and dropped it onto the floor with a wet slap. You studied his body, lean and muscled, but also dotted with scars and fresh cuts. You found several deep cuts across his torso and arms. But a huge cut on his right shoulder grabbed your attention, a clear sign of stabbing.

'Your pants have to go too,' you suspected more injuries on his legs as the bedsheet turned red beneath him. Levi remained silent as you cut his slacks. You found more cuts on his outer thighs, but not as serious as the one on his shoulder. 'Blood lost,' you mumbled to yourself. You grabbed a bottle of disinfectant, a tray of cotton balls, needles and thread from the equipment cart and started to patch Levi up immediately.

Soaking the cotton balls with pungent disinfectant, you worked on the wound on his shoulder first. Bright fresh blood oozed out from the cut, flowing through Levi's fingers as he pressed on the wound, trying in vain to stop the blood. 'Hands off,' you removed his hand as more blood flowed out. Staring into his eyes, you told him 'this will sting' and you pressed the soaked cotton onto his wound.

Levi flinched, a cry escaped between his gritted teeth. Wiping off the blood on his skin, you could see the hole clearly. You started to sew his wound up. He looked away as your needles pierced through on his skin.

'You are pale from the blood lost,' you told him as you see the contrast of your complexion and his.

'I am pale like this,' he mumbled. Moving his eyes, he stole a glance at you. Your brows were slightly frowning in focus as you moved the tweezers smoothly on his skin. You hair was tied into a tight bun behind your head, strands of hair sticked out in all direction.

'Maybe you should audition as the next vampire for Twilight, at least that doesn't require you to bleed,' you had put 17 stitches on him but still the wound was big.

'Why would you help me?' Levi coughed, 'aren't you afraid of me?' He finally turned his head to look at you fixated on patching him up. He studied your face, seeing how your lashes curled unevenly, freckles and small pores dotted your forehead and you had a birthmark beneath your ear.

'Because you pay my bills,' you said flatly, not looking away from your hands.

'Is that all you care about? Money?' Levi sounded disappointed. He thought you would say something else.

'Let's be realistic here, our life revolves around money,' You tied a small knot at the end of your stitches. 'And between the two of us, you look like a dying cat.' You lifted your face and stared into his eyes. Frowning, he looked into yours too, pupil dilating slightly. He could see you were genuine. The way you looked at him was... something raw and pure. He swallowed nervously.

'Can I borrow your phone? I think I lost mine. I need someone to bring money to pay your bills,' Levi held his hand out. Signing, you fished your phone from your pocket, unlocked it with a simple password before handing it to him. He took your phone and started dialing. You focused your attention on the smaller cuts around his torso and thighs.

You jumped as something vibrated beneath the sheets of the hospital bed.

'Oh, guess I didn't lose my phone,' Levi pulled a phone with a broken screen from the sheets, showing your phone number on it. 'I can even pay for your dinner. What time are you getting off?' He blurted before he could stop himself. He tried to keep a poker face but his heart was pounding so hard he was sure his whole body was shaking.

Rolling your eyes, you pressed a disinfectant-soaked cotton onto a cut on his torso. Levi flinched and dropped his phone onto the floor. You smirked as you continued patching him up.

[corysmiles]

Chapter 1- Super Villain and Super...Tiny?

Notes: This is the first part of my next multi-chapter au. I have this one mostly planned out so updates should be fairly common! I’ve been super into superhero/villain AU’s so heres my go at it (with some g/t thrown in ofc). Hope you enjoy! :D (Also this was beta-read by grammarly so sorry for any mistakes)

CW: blood, violence, language

Life in the city was scary enough. Ever since Tommy could remember the fear of heroes and villains had been a constant in his mind. Their bloody fights could start anywhere; it was simply a part of life like the world turning or the leaves falling. Whole buildings had been demolished in their wakes, and depending on which villains were there, there were often plenty of casualties. Whenever Tommy was able to sneak through the book store to see the TV plastered above the register the screen usually depicted fires and rubble and injuries unimaginable. 

However, Tommy had really hoped he’d never have to experience it himself.

Screams tore through his ears as people easily twenty times his size rushed past. The store’s workers had long since run to safety so Tommy could stand on the counter to see through to the rest of the mall. There was no fire or rubble or death yet, but he could only assume it was to come. He just hoped whichever hero showed up was nice enough to make sure the building didn’t collapse on him.

As the last of the customers rushed through the store, the alarms blazing above them, Tommy turned his attention to how he would get out. Usually, he would use the book carts the workers bring to the front at the end of the night; however, in their hurry (not that he could blame them) the carts were somewhere else in the winding rows of books. He could try to climb down the nearby cabinets by balancing on their handles, but the last time he'd tried to do that he almost gave himself a concussion. And when you're only a few inches tall getting a doctor to help wasn't really an option.

Tommy huffed as he looked over the side of the desk. The fall was pretty far and while the floor was carpeted he was sure he'd at least break a few bones if he tried to jump. Yet, the blaring of the sirens lighting up the store made his heart race with fear. 

Quickly he opened his fabric pack and dug through the jumbled contents. There were a few pieces of bread and chips, a coin he'd found on the floor, and a long piece of thread from a first aid kit he'd found. With a proud hum, he tore out the thing twine and wrapped it around his forearm until his skin turned blue. As uncomfortable as it was he needed it to stay on, so he wrapped it around a few more times before tying it off.

"Fuck," he hissed, the thread pulling and twisting against his skin.

His hair stuck to his face as he tied the other side of the thread onto the handle of the closest cabinet. The drawers formed a ladder all the way down to the ground, and he would have to use them...he just had to make sure he didn't tumble on the way. Once the thread was thoroughly wrapped around the metal handle he tugged it to make sure it wouldn't fall loose. 

With a deep shaky breath, he stepped down onto the first bar. It was a bit of a stretch since it was a few inches down from his place on the table, but luckily he was able to reach it. 

"Not that bad," Tommy mumbled to himself as he readied himself to take the next step.

He leaned forward off the metal bar to look down at the one below it. It was a bit farther since the drawer wasn't completely closed, but he was still pretty sure he could make it.

His shoes squeaked as he pushed himself forward, but as soon as he hopped down a loud crash rang through the front of the store. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glass windows shatter as a dark figure raced through. He yelped in shock, but the distraction was enough to send him off course. His foot just barely missed the bar and his back slammed against it with an awful crack. The thread around his arm was the only thing keeping him from slamming on the floor and when it finally drew taught he felt like his arm was about to be ripped off. 

"Ah! Fuck!" he yelled as he desperately tried to release his arm. He clawed at the thread with his other hand but it just put more pressure on his arm. 

Tears budded up in the corners of his eyes as the pain made his head feel hazy. He wanted to scream until someone came to save him, but he was smart enough to know that normal people were freaked out by him. The first time he'd been caught by a human in one of the other mall's stores he'd almost been killed with their broom.

He hissed in pain as he reached up to grab onto the thread, still dangling from the cabinet's highest drawer. It relieved some of the pressure, but he worried if he couldn't get out soon his arm would be as good as dead. However, he didn't have much time to figure anything out before another large crash echoed through the store. 

His eyes darted to the middle of the room where bookshelves were usually lined up in neat rows. There, struggling next to a broken bookshelf, were two men. The shorter one he immediately recognized: he'd seen him on TV enough times to know the signature green cloak and half mask adorned by the greatest hero in the city. However, the other man, the one Dream was currently trying to stay on top of, he hadn't seen before. 

He tried to turn his body to see the fight better but was immediately met by the worst scream he'd ever heard. Dream straddled the taller man and pressed his hands down against his throat. Tommy couldn't see very well but it already seemed like there was blood dripping down the man's neck. His scream was guttural and wet as Dream pressed down harder. 

"You really thought you'd get away huh?" Dream asked as he leaned closer to the struggling man's face. The other struggled against the hero's grip and groaned, but he barely budged under Dream's hands.

"What little birdy doesn't wanna talk anymore? You had so much to say the last time," Dream scowled in a way that made Tommy's heart stop. He knew Dream was good, and he was likely watching history, but usually he didn't seem so terrifying on the news.

"Fuck...off," the other man coughed as blood rolled down his cheek.

Dream leaned forward again, pressing down harder, and this time Tommy had to look away. Even though he knew Dream was good, the sight of the villain's blood made him feel sick.

It was only when another loud voice boomed through the store that he looked up again, making his arm cry out in pain. The thread twisted against his skin like a vice and he had to resist shouting. The last thing he wanted was to draw anyone's attention.

"Dream. Get off him," the new man, a villain he did recognize, growled, "Let's have a fair fight, huh?"

The Blade. Tommy stared in awe at the cloaked man with his boar-tusk mask protruding from his face. He'd seen plenty of news stories about the Blade- enough to know he absolutely did not want to be in the same place as him...especially if Dream was there too.

"Not a very fair fight if I let you have your little siren huh?" Dream grinned wildly back at the villain, "Just let me get rid of him real quick, and then we can spar."

The Blade growled and stepped forward, his whole body radiating power in a way that made Tommy's body tense up like he was the one about to be crushed under his sword. 

"Let him go," the Blade said as he drew his sword from his side. The edge of the blade was already covered in a slick sheen of blood that made Tommy feel ill.

Dream laughed, the bottom visible half of his face twisting up into a sly smile, "Or what?"

The Blade didn't even give him a chance before he rushed forward slamming into the hero with a loud thud. In seconds the two were struggling, both trying to get on top of the other. The Blade swung his sword and just barely missed Dream's face before he was shoved to the ground. The Blade jumped to his feet and was immediately met by Dream's dagger. The hero sliced at the villain's chest, but he barely was able to cut through the cloak before the Blade slammed into him with his shoulder.

The whole time Tommy stared wide-eyed at the fight. His arm throbbed and his head felt dizzy from hanging, but he couldn't turn his attention away from the two as they danced back and forth. It would almost be elegant if they weren't both trying to kill each other. 

He was so distracted he didn't even notice that the previously downed villain had started to move until he was only a few steps away from Tommy. Immediately he held his breath, trying to make as little noise as possible even though he was so clearly in the open. The man looked awful the closer he got, his face was bloodied and black like he'd been hit by something and his dark-blue mask was off-kilter and covered with blood. Meanwhile, patches of blue bruises sprouted up around his neck from where Dream had held him down. Tommy hoped he'd never have to experience it, but he assumed being choked by someone with super strength hurt pretty bad. 

Nervously, he watched as the villain scootched closer to the desk until he was able to lean against it. Tommy felt frozen; all the villain would have to do was turn his head a bit, and Tommy would be caught...and if regular people didn't like him, he assumed it would be even worse with a villain.

"Niki," the villain spoke into his wrist, "Need help..."

Tommy assumed it must have been some sort of communication device but he didn't see anything. It was almost like it was part of the dark cloak the villain had draped over his body. Within seconds, a high chirpy voice called back through the villain's cloak asking where he was. The man coughed out blood and gave the mystery woman the name of the shop. 

"Be careful," he said slowly, "Dream's here."

As curious as he was, Tommy's attention was drawn back to the fight in front of them. A loud crash came from the bookshelves as the Blade pushed Dream into them. The wooden posts cracked and splintered under his weight, but Dream didn't even seem affected. Both had a few scratches from where the other got lucky, but neither seemed tired.

"Lay back...I'll...soon," the voice from the villain's cloak crackled.

The villain nodded in exhaustion, but before Tommy could turn his attention back to the main fight the cabinets shook pulling the thread impossibly tight around his arm. He shrieked as the pain became overwhelming and he was sure his arm would tear off. His thoughts glazed over so much he didn't even realize his mistake until his vision cleared.

The villain who had previously been leaning against the cabinets was staring right at him. 

Tommy could see the sparkle of curiosity in his eyes even through his mask. He struggled harder, trying to get free, but every movement just pulled the thread tighter until he couldn't move anymore.

"What the fuck..." the villain grumbled before rubbing his eyes with his gloved fist, "You're...small."

If Tommy wasn't in so much shock he would have laughed at the villain's words. The situation seemed so ridiculous to him. A supervillain saying something so stupid while he looked to be on the brink of death. However, before Tommy could do anything a hand was reaching towards him.

"Hey wait no!" Tommy squealed as a finger poked his chest.

He partly expected the villain to crush him, but he just seemed confused, not violent. 

"You're stuck," the man said, "I- give me a second."

The hand pulled away and Tommy slammed his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see what the villain was planning. Even injured he had no idea what he could do. Especially if he knew the Blade...he had to be dangerous. After a few seconds of only hearing the grunting of Dream and the Blade, Tommy felt something tug on the thread. His arm twisted making him yelp again, but he immediately swallowed his tears. Desperately he tried to remember the news story from a couple weeks ago about what to do in case you encountered a villain.

Run if you can

Give them what they want

He tried, but he couldn't remember any of the other steps. Although, he guessed it didn't really matter. It wasn't like he was in a position to get away, so instead, he just waited as the thread was moved around in the villain's hands. 

His eyes squeezed even tighter as the thread was tugged again, but this time instead of wrapping tighter around his arm, the pressure disappeared. His eyes flew open in surprise as he fell, but before he could get far, he landed on something warm. 

It felt so good to have his arm free, he didn't even realize where he was until the warmth underneath him moved. His eyes shot up, and sure enough, the villain was staring back at him. He scrambled back but was stopped by the man's fingers.

The villain coughed, more blood dribbling down his chin, "Wait I...I can-"

The villain made an awful choking sound, and while goosebumps crawled up Tommy's arms he couldn't help but feel bad. But before the villain could stumble through his words a scream echoed across the store. The villain's head shot up as the Blade ran back towards him, his sword coated in new blood.

"Siren, we have to go," the Blade said, "Can you walk?"

The villain, Siren, let out a shaky breath and nodded quickly to the other man. The fingers wrapped around Tommy again, and for a few terrible seconds, he thought Siren was going to take him before he was placed back onto the desk where he had started. The villain nodded at him in what Tommy assumed was supposed to be reassuring before he stumbled over to the Blade. 

"Where's Dream?" Siren asked as he leaned against the Blade's side.

The Blade wrapped his arm around the injured villain, "He's over there- stabbed him pretty good, but he'll be up again soon. Did you call for help?"

Siren nodded and opened his mouth to say something, his eyes darting over to where Tommy was nursing his arm on the desk. Tommy froze as their eyes met. When Siren turned back to the Blade Tommy readied himself to be outed. It wasn't like he could get away, and against the Blade he'd be dead in seconds.

"Yeah...I called," Siren nodded.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but his head lulled against the Blade's shoulder. Tommy stayed tense in case Siren changed his mind, but after some whispering between the two, they stumbled out of the book store. Leaving Tommy alone with Dream injured somewhere else among the stacks of books. 

Carefully, he rested his hand against his injured arm and hissed in pain as the scratched-up skin burned. He'd have to bandage it up once he got to safety, but first, he had to find a new way down. He glanced back over to the drawer handles that had been his downfall the first time and spat at them as if they had purposefully caused him to fall.

He stumbled over to the other side of the drawers where Siren had been sitting and to his surprise, he found that one of the rolling carts had been pulled up to the side. The thought that Siren had done it to help him crossed his mind, but he quickly shooed the thought away as the sounds of Dream's pained groans echoed from across the room. It must have been an accident, there was no way the villain had intended to help him.

Carefully he wrapped his legs around one of the poles on the cart's side. With his good arm he balanced himself, and then like a firefighter down a pole, he slid down to the bottom. When he reached the wheel at the bottom of the cart, he cautiously jumped down to the carpet below.

His feet hit the ground with a dull thud, and even though it wasn't far, pain raced up his arm. Above him, the lights and alarms blared as if Tommy hadn't already come face-to-face with the danger. As he rubbed his hand against his arm trying to relieve some of the pain, he heard shuffling from the other side of the room.

Dream must have gotten up.

As he heard the hero move he quickly raced to the wall where a small hole opened up to the shop's inner workings. It was barely a home, but he made do with what he could get. As he dug through his measly supplies to find bandages he heard an angered shout from the hero before the sound of cracking glass came from the entrance. 

He knew the next day he would have to move, he couldn't stay in a place where he'd been caught...especially by a supervillain, but for the night he decided he deserved to rest. So after he'd properly wrapped up his arm and had some of the little food he'd been able to find before the attack, he wrapped himself in cloth and fell asleep.

[the-illiterate-pirate]

So tired

Here, take this. It's porn. I never got around to editing it

Remember Ninja Cookie Weather? Yeah this is that

Dreams of a Samurai

Warnings: NSFW, Samurai au because I'm a whore, wounds and blood, some fluff, mostly blow jobs, oral, ect ect

His wooden sandals on the front porch alerted you of your husbands arrival back home. You were finishing up your household chores just in time to greet him in the entrance room. What you found scared you to your core.

It wasn't uncommon for Weather Report to come home scarred or bloodied from his work. As a village guard, he had to put his life on the line for the villages people. Something must have happened. Bandits maybe, or wild animals. His shitagi and hakama were shredded, blood ran from a cut over his brow, blinding his left eye. He stumbled over his sandals, and you were at his side just in time to catch him before he crumbled to the floor.

Fortunately, he was still awake, he held on to you as an anchor as his mind faded from thought to thought. You were his last hope, the only place he could get to quick enough. He hated showing you this side of him, but no one else could save him.

You made him speak. What's happened? Was anyone else hurt? Please don't fall asleep.

You deposited him on your shared bedding. His clothes were pulled apart, peeling away the wet robes, turned purple in the places where his red blood mixed with the blue cloth. Slowly, softly, he explained what happened. His voice faded in places where pain threaded into his words the slightest bit. In between his words he had to stop himself from speaking, lest he cry out in pain while you freed his body from their dirty confines. "Ngh... There.. was an ambush, on the outskirts of the village. Kujo and I were together then, luckily we could stop them in time... But– Gh!" The hold he had on yours for comfort turned sour as he writhed in pain on the futon. His work out from keeping quiet had sweat lining down his face, mixing with his blood to sting at his wounds. He gritted his teeth, looking pained for a moment before he could continue. "It....hurts, but it shouldn't be fatal. Please... Can you help me, love?"

You could only sigh. Of course you'd help him, what a silly request. You were already holding him close, kissing at his sun darkened skin, whispering for him to stay calm, and stay still, and that you would help him.

A wet cloth gently danced around his wounds, cleaning him of blood while Weather Report patiently sat and watched you work. The needle work of stitching him closed again was tedious and no doubt painful, but your hands didn't falter and you made quick work of them all.

White gauze was wrapped all around his shoulders and abdomen, contrasting with his tan skin. There was no more blood, thank goodness. Weather decided to not put on any new clothes for now, to let his wounds breathe as he'd say. You added a small kiss to his chin and tried to leave the bed, but your husband wouldn't let you. He sat you down in his lap and curled around you. "Thank you, dear. I think I'd die without you." He kissed your neck softly, massaging your waist, still wary of his fresh wounds. You kissed back, sharing his passion. "You did so well. Do you think your general will promote you, or congratulate you on saving the village?"

"Probably not... But I do think I'll get some points with the other guards. But that isn't going to get me a raise." He sighed. For comfort, you kissed his cheek still wet from your wipe down. "They did give me the rest of the day off though, but that was probably because they think I'd die if I didn't get these wounds patched up... Still, I came straight over to you." He kissed you behind your ear, so soft and caring like. His hands continued to massage your hips like he was warming you up for something.

Of course, which he was. "I knew you'd patch me up good, darling..." You could feel those hands of his trailing lower, looking for the parts in your robes to paw at your skin. "So caring.... So perfect, I love you."

"You've just gotten home, beaten and bloody, and this is what you decide to do?– Ah!" His hand had finally found its way into your clothes. Weather trailed his fingers into your panties, teasing your ass and your slit from behind you, forcing you closer to his chest. His fingers were rough, and long, and thick, such a difference from yours. They felt good as they pressed and teased against your core.

"I want to please you, dear. Think of it as a thank you for saving my life." He sent you a sexy smirk, watching you squirm in his lap. Already you could feel his member hitting your lower stomach, half ready to sheath itself inside of you.

"Oh, no you don't! Try anything like that and your wounds will open back up." You smacked away the intruding hand, he pretended to be hurt but you saw through it all easy.

Weather was still only in his underclothes naked only for the cloth hiding his excitement from the eye, but it was obvious now how he wanted more attention down there. There was an unmistakable shadow over his eyes. He was desperate. And hungry. And horny. There wasn't anyway he'd let you off without letting him off.

You were selfless, you were weak. So, you decided to help him.

You feigned irritation as you climbed down to your knees. But really you were just about as excited as him for this... Having him in your mouth was always a bitter and delicious treat. "I'll do this for you... Just this once. I don't want you hurting yourself over this."

"Aw, I knew you cared about me~" Weather Report teased, showing off his teeth. He excited wiggled his hips around to help your hands pulling down his undergarments, freeing his painful cock. "Though, if I recall right, this won't be the first or the last time you let me indulge in your mouth."

You didn't think about arguing, your lips were busy trailing down, lips massaging the sensitive skin of his shaft, sucking on his length. It didn't take long for it to stand hard at its full length and once it did you quickly slid his cock into your mouth. Like breaking through the front gates of Nirvana, being washed in light and pleasure, Weather took in the soft feeling of your throat taking him whole.

"Fuck..."

You made it back up to swirl your tongue around his thick head, tasting his precum as you did, and went back down to tease his balls with the tip of your wet muscle. You moved on his member with ease, you enjoyed his taste, his musk, all of him. Weather could hear your hums and moans of delight, but they were muffled by the thick length in your throat. His weeping tip pressed into your neck, all but choking you, but you fought against it. You relaxed your throat even more, getting him to slip deeper in you. You reveled in the way his hips twitched a bit once your nose touched the pale pubes at the base of his dick.

You looked up through your lashes to take in the sight.

Your warrior had his head thrown back in ecstasy, unraveling in your mouth. His hand weakly fumbled in your hair, aiding you in your thrusts. Hot sighs left his lips, tumbling over to let you listen in. He'd never let anyone see him like this before. He was a man of the sword, any weakness would be exploited, just as you were doing right now. But at the time, Weather Report didn't care. It felt all too good on his aching body

Small noises still dropped to land pleasantly on your ears. His hands came to wrap around your hair to push you his length deeper down your throat, before he lifted your head back up, then back down, as he fucked your mouth on his long cock. The feeling of his member pressing into the back of your neck forced out your own moans, it felt so good to have him use you like this. So good and yet so wrong. He set a fast but comfortable place that didn't choke you. Your fingers fled down to the v of your thighs, playing with yourself, touching and massaging your clit in your hands. It felt so wrong to touch yourself, but the affirming pitched up moans from your husband took your mind off of it. He watched you thrust your fingers into your hole in tandem with your mouth around his length. Your hips subconscious rocked back into your hand, coating yourself in your own juices. It felt good, but it couldn't compare to him. These fingers didn't press into the right spots the way Weather Report did, and how he could fill you up with his hot, thick cum. Oh, how hungry you were for that. He seemed so close, his breathing coming together quick and high. His beautiful eyes were swiveled shut so you couldn't see the way they danced in his skull.

"N...ngh... Sh, shit.."

Pretty blush and sweat spilled against his sun kissed cheeks as he cursed out to the heavens above. His toes curled and his legs twitched as he neared his sweet release. He pulled you off of him just in time to show you his cum streaming down the side of his length in a rivulet. It bubbled and ran never ending. Watching it made you more thirsty for it as his heavenly voice rang out again, singing your name into the afternoon sun.

You selflessly cleaned up his mess, aiding in more pumps of cum from his bulbous cock head once you licked over his member. You sucked him clean once more but didn't care for clothes. Once you landed a final kiss to his slit, Weather flopped down on to the futon underneath him, spent and naked. His chest spasmed with intakes of air, looking just about ready to conk out.

You snuck in besides him, tossing a fluffy thick blanket over you two and cuddling him close. He threw his hands around you, snuggling deep into your naked breasts, mumbling his thanks once more. You combed through his unruly hair while he teetered on the edge of his dream state. It was refreshing to see such a feared samurai devolve into an affectionate house cat behind closed doors. You kissed the side of his temple and braced for turning in to bed early that afternoon, surely Weather Report wouldn't be letting you go any time soon.