#army lightning because

[chuuowos]

I'm not dead but I haven't been drawing so here's TD doodles

[skitarii-boi]

i have made all the chaos undivided classes for the chaos side in sm2 pvp vashtor followers with colours i would have chosen if i collected chaos and since the new update added lense colouring, and that made me decide to redo a bit and give the colours to the assault/nightlord im gonna share them now :D

[redbean-nom]

arise, daughters of dathomir

Other versions:

Without the magic (probably my 2nd favorite version)

With all the magic

Simple/unshaded version

[murderandjambalaya]

GIGI. GIGI HOW??

"But if he's worth the risk of going under...

...Why not make it a game?"

[mercvry-glow]

Stop making this hurt

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

summary. jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

warnings. pitt fest incident, guns/shootings, hospital setting, blood and gore, reader gets hurt, death (not reader), medical inaccuracies and not show accurate but i tried my best, jack and robby are stressed af, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. finally my first pitt fest fic, hopefully this is angsty enough for ya'll and pleases all of my anons who asked for this! I love all of you, thank you for almost 300 followers and as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3600+

You knew it was a long shot trying to convince Jack to come with you to Pitt-Fest.

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

And as much as you loved your husband, you weren’t going to fight him on this one.

“Go have fun,” he’d told you that morning, standing in the doorway in his usual worn t-shirt and sweats, a coffee mug in one hand and the other wrapped around your waist. “Text me when you get there. And text me again when you leave. And maybe don’t lose your phone this time?”

You’d rolled your eyes, kissed him once, then twice — and promised to behave.

Truly, it was better for him to spend his one of his days off actually resting, not galavanting around the venue with you and your friends, half-drunk on overpriced cider and yelling about pierogi trucks.

So you let yourself enjoy it. The chaos, the music, the warm breeze coming off the river. You danced with your friends in the middle of the concert to some college band playing covers too fast. You tasted six different kinds of barbecue and took a picture with a guy dressed like a giant bottle of Heinz ketchup. And every couple hours, your phone buzzed with a little check-in from Jack — usually short, always a little dry since he wasn’t a big texter.

JACKY [1:14 PM] You hydrated today or just vibes?

JACKY [3:06 PM] Hope the pierogi truck is worth the foot traffic.

JACKY [4:11 PM] Home if you need me. 

You were smiling at that last one about to respond around 5pm, standing in line for boozy lemon slushies with Emma and a few others, when it happened.

At first, it was just a sound — one that didn’t register immediately. A sharp crack in the distance. Then another. Then screaming.

The crowd surged before your brain caught up. Someone dropped their drink. Someone else shoved you sideways. Your phone slipped out of your hand and hit the pavement.

“Is that—” Emma started to say, eyes wide.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Run.”

You didn’t know where the shots had come from. You didn’t stop to look. You just moved — through the panicked chaos, toward the edge of the crowd, ducking behind a food truck with a group of strangers just as another round cracked the air like lightning.

Your chest was tight. Ears ringing. People were yelling. Crying. Calling for help. And your phone—your phone was still on the street.

Jack.

You couldn’t call him.

But he’d know. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

And however a mile away, as police scanners lit up and trauma alerts pinged on hospital radios, Jack was already on his feet — keys in hand, work boots half tied—and heart racing faster than he’d felt since he returned to US soil.

He didn’t wait for a callback. Didn’t care that he wasn’t on the schedule. He grabbed his badge and his trauma bag and was in the truck before the next dispatcher finished her second sentence.

Because something had happened at Pitt-Fest.

And you were there.

It really sounded like a firecracker at first — maybe someone messing around near the alley that ran behind the Pitt-Fest booths. But then came the second, then the third. Screaming followed.

You turned your head just in time to see another wave of people running. And then—

“EMMA!!”

She was beside you one second, and the next, she was down.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just dropped to your knees, catching her head before it hit the pavement, your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hey, hey—Em—look at me,” you said, your voice louder than you realized. “Where were you hit?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, blood already soaking through her shirt and fingers.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “Okay. Okay, pressure. Emmy, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You barely noticed the searing pain until your legs buckled and you were on your side. A sharp, ripping sensation tore through your ribs like glass.

Shot. 

You had been shot too.

Someone was shouting. A vendor nearby had flipped a table and was screaming for people to duck. A stranger—a kid, maybe barely twenty not much younger than you—ran toward you both through the chaos, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? I have a truck—”

“Help us—please!” you said, trying to sit up, trying not to black out. “I’m a doctor—ER. Trauma. She needs a hospital now.”

He nodded, panicked, glancing at the blood now pooling on the concrete. “We’re like five blocks from PTMC—I’ll drive!”

You helped haul Emma up with shaking arms, biting back a cry when your chest screamed in protest. She groaned as you dragged her toward the curb, her weight nearly toppling you.

The kid had his pickup pulled up half on the sidewalk within seconds.

“Put her in the bed!” you ordered. “It’ll be faster to lift her in!”

Someone else joined—another panicked bystande —helping you hoist Emma into the truck bed as gently and as quickly as possible. You climbed in after her, teeth gritted, your once cute outfit sticky with blood.

“Go!” you screamed as the tailgate slammed shut behind you.

The engine roared and the truck peeled off, tires screeching. You barely held on, your legs braced against the wheel well, one arm clamped across Emma’s wound, the other pressing against your own side to slow the bleeding.

“You’re okay,” you told her, voice tight, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “Emma, you’re gonna make it. You’re not fucking dying at Pitt-Fest! I won’t let you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and you cursed under your breath, checking her pulse. 

Thready. Too fast.

You knew you had minutes. Maybe less.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Jack was at the Pitt. On shift or not, he was always there when it mattered.

He had no idea you were on your way. Or that you were bleeding out in the back of a stranger’s truck, racing through downtown Pittsburgh.

But if you made it… if you could just hold on a little longer…

You’d see him again.

The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart with every pothole it hit on Carson Street. The shocks weren’t built for this kind of weight or speed, and the stranger behind the wheel didn’t care. He’d barely said a word since he’d skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos. Now, you could barely hold your head up.

Emma was curled in on herself across from you, clutching the side of the truck bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her glitter jacket was soaked through—Msot of it hers, some of it not—and her ponytail had come loose, curls hanging limp against her face.

You turned your head toward her, everything in you aching.

“Em,” you rasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Emma, look at me.”

She did, finally. Her lip was split, her eyes glassy. She was holding her side with one hand, the other shaking where it pressed against her stomach. Blood oozed through her fingers.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know.” You reached out, hand slick and trembling. You were starting to feel lightheaded, the pain in your side sharp and spreading, warm and wet and endless. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. We’re almost there.”

She nodded—but then her gaze dropped to your side, and her eyes widened. “Babe… you're—”

“Don’t look at me.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe, Em. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. The blood loss was getting worse. Your top was drenched. The bullet had torn low, near your hip, and every bump in the road sent fresh agony lancing through your whole body. You tried to apply pressure but your arm wouldn’t stop shaking.

The guy driving honked again, swerving around a city bus. Ahead, PTMC’s trauma bay came into view, the red trauma flags flapping against the gray building. Almost there. Almost safe.

Then Emma made a sound that shattered you.

It was small. Wet. A choking breath followed by nothing.

You lurched forward, dragging yourself toward her with everything you had left. 

“Emma—Emmy. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Her head lolled. Her eyes were still open, just barely. “I’m really cold,” she whispered.

“No, baby. No, you’re not.” You gathered her into your lap, tried to shield her with what strength you had left. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

The truck hit the curb at full speed, rocking the bed. The brakes screamed as it slid sideways, stopping half a second before it would’ve crashed into the wall of the trauma bay. And then hands—at least half a dozen of them—were yanking open the tailgate.

Chaos.

“Two critical GSWs in the back—Jesus, they’re both going out!”

“She’s losing consciousness!”

“Someone help me get her—”

“She’s coding!”

You heard all of it like you were underwater. You were vaguely aware of someone pulling Emma from your limp arms. Someone else catching you as your head dropped back, limp, blood seeping down your spine.

A nurse’s voice rang out as she tried to open your airway.

“Who is she—anyone got a name?!”

No one answered.

Inside the trauma bay, Jack was elbow-deep in yet another chest wound, barking orders, adrenaline humming through his veins. He didn’t hear the commotion at the ambulance bay over the noise of suction and a flatline monitor. Didn’t look up when the bay doors slammed open again.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t know that somewhere down the hall, two trauma rooms were opening side by side—one for your best friend who wouldn’t make it, and one for you, his wife, who just might.

Not yet.

But he would.

He always did.

Now rushing inside to the hub, “Her BP’s eighty systolic and dropping—she’s hemorrhaging fast.”

“Pulse is thready. Pupils sluggish.”

“Get Dr. Robby in here, now!”

The trauma bay was already spinning into motion when Michael stepped through the sliding doors, hand dragging down over his messy brown hair. He was halfway into his  new trauma gown as he crossed the room.

“What’ve we got?”

“GSW to the lower abdomen. Entry left, possible exit—can’t tell through the bleeding. She was brought in non-EMS, unknown downtime.”

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression.

“…Is that—?”

“Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

“Alright. Let’s move. I need two large-bore IVs, type and cross, four units O-neg hanging yesterday, and someone page trauma surgery—now.”

A nurse slid a face shield over his head as he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Pressure dressing’s soaked through.”

“She’s crashing, Dr. Robby.”

Michael leaned in over your body, catching the faintest movement of your chest. He knew your voice, your laugh, the way you snapped off one-liners at Jack and him in the hall. And right now, none of that mattered. You were just another patient bleeding out on his table. And he was going to keep you alive.

“Hang another liter. Let’s get a FAST scan going—we need to find that bleed.”

A tech slid gel across your abdomen. The screen flared to life, the grainy black-and-white image revealing what they were dreading.

“She’s bleeding into her abdomen,” someone said.

“No kidding,” Robby muttered. Then louder: “Alright. We don’t have time. Prep her straight for the OR. I want her there five minutes ago.”

He pressed down on the wound with both hands, hard. Princess to his left winced.

“She should seee Jack,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.”

He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers.

“You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered once, lips barely parted. A sound escaped, too soft to decipher as Mikey leaned closer. 

Not as a doctor now, but as a close friend. 

“What was that?”

Your mouth twitched. “Tell… Jack…”

But then your body jolted under his hands—heart monitor screaming into v-fib.

“Code!” someone shouted.

“Start compressions!” Robinavitch was already moving, calling for paddles. “One of you get Abbot!”

“But he’s still in Pink—”

“I don’t care if he’s in surgery or nott,” he snapped. “Tell him it’s his wife. Tell him she’s coding.”

Across the hospital floor, Jack looked up—something in his chest going cold before he even knew why.

The Pink Zone was chaos, and Red was a shit show. 

Jack had blood smeared to his elbows and the kind of tension in his jaw that only came from running full tilt on no sleep. His short, curls—streaked at the temples with silver—were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and quick, were laser-focused on the wound in front of him.

“Clamp—now,” he barked, voice low and lethal.

The security guard on the table had been fine for the minute, eventually turning critical. Shrapnel to the chest. He’d already coded once in triage. Jack had cracked him open right there on the gurney, and there was no room in his world for anything else.

Until—

“Dr. Abbot!”

He didn’t look up. “Hold pressure!.”

“Jack!”

That voice. Too familiar.

He finally looked.

One of the new night shift  interns stood just inside the trauma bay doors, Jacob’s own scrubs stained and his expression wrecked. And he never looked wrecked.

Jack straightened, adrenaline still coursing, brow furrowed. “What?”

Jacob’s mouth opened—but nothing came out at first. He took a breath. Another. Then:

“She’s here. Your wife.”

The words didn’t land right at first. Jack blinked, frowning, like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“She what?”

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Came in the fourth or fifth wave from Pitt-Fest,” the young man said, voice tight. “They stabilized her. She was hypotensive on arrival. Tachy. Someone named Emma was with her—they were in the back of a civilian truck.”

The name Emma barely registered.

Jack’s pulse went sideways.

“She coded once—Robby sent her to the OR.”

“No,” Jack said, too fast, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t even—she said she’d text me when—she wasn’t—”

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too loud. His fingers curled into fists, shaking beneath his gloves.

“Dr. Abbot,” Someone said, stepping closer. “She’s still alive. They got her back. But you can’t leave right now. We need you here.”

Jack didn’t move.

“She asked for you,” Jacobs added quietly.

That broke something open.

Jack’s hazel eyes—usually unreadable—flashed wide. For half a second, pure panic. He turned, looking toward the hall that led to the elevators, toward OR.

But he couldn’t go. He knew it. The man on the table in front of him was dying.

And his wife… his wife was being cut open upstairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut once, breathing like it physically hurt. When he opened them, they were steely again. Grounded by sheer force of will.

“Tell Robinavitch to get me when she’s out,” Jack said. His voice was barely steady. “And tell him if she crashes again—he calls me. Immediately.”

“I will,” Jacob promised.

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned back to his patient like his spine was made of iron. Like his heart wasn’t bleeding under his ribs.

But his hands trembled—just once—before they found the scalpel again.

And he didn’t say another word about it, because what was there to say you could be gone before he even got to see you. 

Eventually the world returned in fragments.

A slow, stuttering beep. The soft rustle of hospital sheets. The sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Everything hurt—but not sharply. Not like it had. Now it was dull and heavy, like your body was made of stone, barely yours.

You blinked against the overhead light. It took effort. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand.

A shape moved beside you.

Jack.

He was hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight. His short, silvery curls were flattened on one side, sticking up in the back like he hadn’t moved in hours. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor, red-rimmed, dark and distant.

Your heart monitor ticked just a little faster. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, already at your side.

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hi.”

Jack let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and reached for your hand. His touch was careful, reverent. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“Me too,” you rasped.

He gave you a sip of water, helping steady the cup as you drank. When you pulled back, your throat still felt raw—but the words came anyway.

“Emma?”

Jack’s face changed.

The crack in his expression wasn’t obvious, but you’d seen it before—on the battlefiel, in different red zone code blues, in the quiet moments after a loss. He didn’t answer right away.

You already knew.

“…She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “They couldn’t even try. She was gone in the truck.”

Your breath hitched.

“She was getting married,” you whispered, tears already brimming. “She was twenty-eight, Jack...”

“I know.”

“She was going to try out for th-that promotion. She just bought her wedding dress last week—she wanted to show you, and—and she was finally gonna ask David to move in with—”

Jack didn’t try to stop your rambling grief. He just leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he said again, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “She died in my arms...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he murmured, guilt and grief bleeding into his voice. “I was a couple zones over. We were shoulder to shoulder with victims. I didn’t know until after they took you up to surge.”

You blinked fast. “Were you there when I came in?”

“Robby got you stable. Barely. Everyone just said it was bad. Said  one of ours went down.” His voice caught. 

“Jack.”

“I couldn’t go up,” he whispered. “They were still bringing bodies in. And you were already in surgery. I had to keep working.”

Your vision blurred again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you’re the one that got shot.” His hazel eyes were fierce now, even through the exhaustion. “You did everything you could. You kept Emma safe as long as you could. And you lived. That’s all that matters right now.”

You didn’t feel like it should be enough. Not with her gone, and the fate of the rest of your friends unknown. But the way Jack looked at you—like the entire world had stopped spinning until your heart started beating again—it made the pain settle differently.

He reached up and brushed your hair back, his touch gentle. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Since the first shots rang out at Pitt-Fest, you let yourself feel the weight of everything that had happened. 

Your fingers twitched under his, slow and aching, but deliberate. Jack noticed immediately, shifting to cradle your hand in both of his, as if he could anchor you there by touch alone.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Thank you for staying with me…”

Jack’s eyes closed, lashes trembling. His head bowed as his grip on your hand tightened, pulling it gently to his chest.

“I’d stay a thousand times,” he murmured. “I’d go through hell a thousand times if it meant getting you back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest—because you believed him. There was no part of Jack Abbot that ever did anything halfway, least of all when it came to you.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “In that truck. I-I knew Emma  was gone and—I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything hurt. I didn’t know if you’d even know…”

Jack leaned forward again, resting his forehead against your hands, breathing you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I know now,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve got you.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the way his body trembled just slightly with the force of holding himself together.

“I kept thinking—‘he’s gonna be mad,’” you whispered. “Because I went without you. Because I didn’t duck fast enough. Because I let one of the girls get hit.”

“Stop,” he said, voice firm but thick with emotion. “You don’t need to carry that. Not even for a second.”

You nodded faintly, tears sliding into your hair. “She died, Jack. Emma died. And I couldn’t save her.”

He stayed quiet for a beat, then moved to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, like he could pour every unspoken word straight into your skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll carry that with you. Every single day.” The monitors continued their slow, steady rhythm. Jack stayed at your bedside like he’d never leave it again.

Outside, the world kept spinning—grief, news headlines, recovery, chaos—but inside that quiet room, wrapped in his presence, you finally let yourself rest. Because you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And you knew, in the deepest part of yourself, that Jack would keep holding on enough for the both of you—because that’s the type of man he was. 

mercury-glow 2025

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥, 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after your husband returns from battle in the riverlands, you share a rather passionate moment together.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robb stark x baratheon!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.8K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), smut with fluff, lots of teasing and sweet banter, robb is a chronic yearner, hint of dirty talk, making out, hair pulling, wet robb (he was in the rain), unprotected p in v sex, obligatory stark breeding kink, missionary position + prone bone, scratching, biting, robb is horrendously down bad.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I wrote this because I was rewatching S2 of Game of Thrones and got hot & bothered. End of story. I have a lot of smaller works like this in-progress! I feel like this is not good as my usual stuff but y’know! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Tides of thunder echoed over tempestuous skies, darkened by a deluge, lightning piercing wisps of veiled cloud, akin to slicing steel. Rain fell in gray sheets, bathing the Riverlands in a bitter chill, encampment blanketed by an assailing squall.

For a sennight, the weather had raged, weeping icy tears onto both Stark and Lannister armies.

Murky were the marshlands of the Riverlands, the Green Fork’s banks now laden with silty earth and sunken grass; still, the deluge persisted without any end in sight.

Despite the sour conditions of the outside world, you were fortunate to remain within the sanctuary of your tent, one shared with your husband, Robb Stark. The King in the North valiantly took to the battlefield, blood hot with the surge of war, desiring to sink his fangs into Lannister footsoldiers.

Worry often stirred within your heart, concerned for his wellbeing — it didn’t begin that way. At first conception of your betrothal, you and Robb began as acquaintances, a Baratheon and a Stark, a byproduct of Robert’s longstanding relationship with the late Lord Eddard.

Sometimes, the sting of discomfort lingered; two youths spouting oaths thrust upon them by their forebears. Now, you often prayed for Robb’s safe return, pleading to the Seven that he would be unscathed, his safety paramount.

Without Robb, you had nothing — no allies, no friends, and no family.

Robb had treated you exceedingly well, his gentleness disarming yet gallant when it came to you, his heart honorable yet steeped in vengeance. He had grown fond of you, if not adoring, and you grew rather attached, in turn.

Thunder snarled at your doorstep, an ugly rippling that shook the skies, made them tremble in terror. A shiver passed through you as whistling gales shrieked outside, your tent well-fortified, but the torrential downpour proved to be a relentless beast, drenching any who stood within its path.

With the hour of the wolf upon you, exhaustion had not yet nipped at your heels, nervousness keeping you awake. It became difficult to seek true respite when Robb was away, and you feared that if you closed your eyes, he would slip from your grasp while you slept.

Busying yourself with menial tasks, you took to reading, swathed in his cloak, one given to you nearly a moon ago; a woodland scent clung to thick pelts. A silken nightgown accentuated your frame, hidden beneath wolf’s fur, your bed something of a refuge.

Candlelight flickered, wavering in the midst of the storm’s fury, an orange glow spreading warmth throughout the pavilion’s interior. A sharp clap of thunder made you lurch forward, gooseflesh icing your spine, grip tightening upon your book.

Concern festered violently within your belly, a volatile sensation, one that brought you not a shred of comfort. It made you sick, worrying about Robb to such an unhealthy degree, but you couldn’t help it — war was cruel, as unforgiving as it was callous, culling sheep to the butcher’s block.

As you turned the page, parchment proved to be a rather uninteresting diversion, more vexing than it was intriguing. If it weren’t for your current state, swaddled comfortably within the furs, you might’ve been pacing, restlessness akin to some plague, haunting your every step.

Rest eluded you, until it didn’t.

Unable to recall when you had drifted off, book splayed open within your lap, your position indicated that you had fallen asleep amidst your worrying. You kept yourself angled toward the tent’s mouth, hoping to see Robb emerge at some point during the night.

The Young Wolf’s victory was hard-fought, an ambush through the thick of dusk, effectively dismantling Jaime Lannister’s host entirely, the Kingslayer now taken captive. Men had been taken in the process, such was the heavy toll of war, a burden he now shouldered as King.

Eager to return to you, Robb moved through the pavilion’s burlap flaps, shouldering past the canvas as he stepped inside, auburn curls plastered to his skull. Soaked to the bone, the warmth of his quarters was a welcome relief, chest heaving with a soft exhale.

Cerulean hues waded through his surroundings, finding your slumbering form huddled within his cloak, brows furrowed even as you slept. Affection swelled within his heart, a sentiment he did not think himself capable of, many moons ago.

With hushed footfalls, Robb silently rustled about, desiring to let you have your rest. As much as he longed to rouse you, he knew the toll this war had taken on you, as much as it did him. Unburdening himself of damp furs, he stepped closer, within arm’s reach of you.

Calloused fingertips lightly traced your crown, as soft as a doe, a threadbare smile painting his rugged countenance as he lowered himself onto the feathered paillasse. In a wordless rapture, he ogled your visage, a thing of true beauty, tresses somewhat mussed from sleep.

Fingers remained tense within his cloak, as if you clung to it even when dormant, cheek pressed against the pillow. He found you enchanting, beguiling — if it weren’t for your Baratheon blood, you might’ve made a bewitching sorceress.

Robb’s warm gaze shifted toward the book, nestled comfortably beside your lap, parchment parted to reveal the page you’d left off on. Each shallow sigh you took exuded sweetness, visage worn with inklings of worry, the rest of it somewhat peaceful.

Beyond the tent, the tempest screamed into the night, washing away the blood of both Stark and Lannister into the Green Fork. Dampened leathers clung to him, soaked through coarse linens beneath, the feeling a touch discomforting.

Auburn curls remained slick with rain, droplets continuing to roll from his temples; carrying with him the scent of petrichor and firewood, tinged with faint copper. As his fingertips graced the soft plane of your cheek, he lightly brushed aside locks of hair, relieving them from your brow.

Stirring from hibernation, a low hum tumbling past your lips, limbs aching with the heaviness of sleep. Robb did not intend to wake you, though it seemed much too late for that, his caress rousing you from what appeared as a deep slumber.

“Robb?” With a groggy croak, your lashes fluttered in rapid succession, brows still creased as you readjusted to your surroundings. To your complete surprise, there he sat, soaked as if he’d been wading through an ocean.

“I didn’t intend to wake you.” Robb’s Northern timbre hung heavy with an apology, thumb gingerly caressing your jaw as you moved to sit. Before another remark could escape him, your arms flung around him, drenched or not, clinging to him in an embrace as hot as fire.

“I don’t care,” Breathless, you refused to yield, nearly crushing him against you, if there were plausible. One palm settled atop the small of your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, calloused digits perusing through your satiny tresses. “I prayed for your safe return.”

He missed you terribly, more than he truly thought possible — Robb yearned for your presence, away on the banks of the Fork, dreaming of returning to you with each clash of steel.

Rugged lips peppered your temples, foreheads brushing against the other as he held you tightly. With each inhale, you breathed him in, fearing he might dissipate from your grasp.

“It was a hard-fought victory,” Ice-laden breath plumed across your brow as Robb exhaled, brow stalwart. “A blow hard enough to knock the wind from Tywin Lannister.” A pang of venom snaked through his words as he mentioned the Lannisters.

It was Joffrey’s head he wanted — golden crown mounted upon a spike, Lannister dead littering the South, wolves howling. The death of Eddard Stark was still an open wound, its sting evergreen, heart continuing to bleed in the wake of such atrocities committed against his family.

Empathy wept from your being, understanding of Robb’s plight, of his desire to purge the Lannisters and avenge Lord Stark’s passing. “I am thankful that you returned safely — unscathed, I should hope.” A sigh creased with worry left you, palms splayed across his chest.

A bemused chuckle escaped him as you surveyed for any injuries, only to find an endless sea of wet clothing and taut muscle — he must’ve been caught within the storm for hours. Caged beside him, you felt such relief, knowing that he was safe. “I am unharmed, I promise.”

“Gods, Robb — you are completely drenched,” An ebullient laugh spilled from your mouth, a heavenly sound that caused his breath to hitch. He smirked in the wake of your innocuous observation, azure hues dancing precociously. “You must be freezing.”

“Better now, thanks to you.” A twinkle of mischief sparkled within his gaze, the adrenaline of battle beginning to dissipate, leaving only a blossoming sense of triumph. Mouths gently sought another, tangling together for a soft kiss, one that roused a flame within his heart.

Wreathed in a thinly-veiled desire, Robb’s kiss echoed wantonly through your marrow, culling desire to the surface. Hands steadied themselves against your hips, reveling at your body, the way you molded yourself to him without a shred of hesitation.

Droplets of dew trickled onto your nose, the remains of the deluge still rolling from his tresses. He felt your smile, tangible against his mouth, thumb drawing circles to the swell of your waist. Still, his lips did not falter, growing with fervency.

It was you who withdrew first, fingertips ghosting over his countenance, over the light dusting of freckles beneath his eyes. From the first glimpse of your husband, you found him captivating, more handsome than any before him.

“You smell of wet wolf,” Tinged with amusement, the gentle lull of your cadence set his nerves ablaze, a huff leaving him as he playfully nipped at your bottom lip. “Robb! You must change!” Weak protests did little to deter your husband, who planted a kiss to your throat.

“As my lady commands.” Teasingly, his teeth scraped over your flesh before he departed, amusement clinging to his expression. It was comforting to return to you this way — despair nonexistent, with a sense of reprieve.

Moving from your bed, Robb went about unfastening his breastplate, prying leather aside, hoping to let it dry sometime on the morrow. It was the dead of dusk, the wolf’s hour, and yet he remained unburdened by exhaustion, instead replaced by exhilaration.

In rapturous silence, you sheepishly ogled your husband from where you sat, wandering eyes finding favor in his toned musculature. Robb was lean and hungry, a man turned wolf, tossing his tunic over the back of a wooden chair.

A generous smattering of freckles blanketed his back, pale flesh like marble, carved from stone. Dusky-auburn hair peppered his chest, like kisses of fire, broad shoulders turned a sculpture through smoldering candlelight.

Even from where he stood, your smitten hues pierced through him, as sharp as any blade, though it lacked such malice. Pearlescent teeth flashed in your direction, a knowing grin as he searched for a dry doublet, bare above the waist.

“You lack subtlety, my Lady.” Robb scoffed, catching you in the act, wolfish teeth around your throat. Words turned to ash upon your tongue, any retort smothered within your mouth, then and there. Instead, your features warmed as if it were a midsummer’s day.

Floating from the bedstead, you stepped forward, retrieving a cloth as you placed it atop his head, attempting to dry his soaked curls. “Perhaps it wasn’t my intention to be subtle, but for you to know that I find you painfully handsome.” With a sweeter remark, he found it difficult to tease you.

Allowing you to lavish him in plentiful sentiments, his frame shook with laughter, attempting to remain lighthearted in the wake of such a monumental victory. “Painfully handsome,” He parroted, a coarse tunic hanging between his fingers. “Is that so?”

As you dragged the swath of cloth over his crown, Robb stilled, chest reverberating with a subtle grunt. He found solace in your embrace, one that remained endlessly gentle, collecting rainwater from his tresses. Thumbs traced circles near his temples, swiping droplets aside.

“I may revoke my compliment if you continue to vex me,” Despite the playful lilt of your warning, Robb withheld a grin, curls now disheveled, partially dampened even still. Draping the cloth over the back of his neck, your wrist became ensnared within his grasp. “Robb.”

“Vex you? I dare not evoke your scorn,” A hint of a smirk betrayed his stony countenance, pearlescent teeth glinting, catching upon a sliver of dwindling light. Calloused digits stroked your flesh, gaze softening as you hid beneath your lashes. “You’re incredibly beautiful.”

A smile as gentle as springtime warmed your features, visage glittering with a thinly-veiled jubilation, heart fluttering beneath your breast. It was the very same smile he’d become enamored with in the beginning of your betrothal.

Robb brought you closer, able to catch your saccharine scent, an amalgamation of honeyed florals. “Is that so?” The tenderness of your cadence was unmistakable.

A low huff rippled through his throat, lips parting in incredulity, admiring both your charming wit and beguiling appearance. Songs would be sung of your beauty, regaled by those you glimpsed you; he found himself to be exceedingly fortunate.

Bewitched, Robb’s lips bridged the distance, already worn thin after he’d coaxed you closer. Mouths became immersed in a mutual heat, a dance of hearts — you succumbed so very quickly to it all, hands clamoring to hold fast against his nape.

A muscled arm slithered around your hips, caging you in against him, physique still damp from soaked garments. Even then, he warmed in your presence, exuding heat of a different breed, one born of desire that lingered within your heart and his.

His mind neglected to linger upon the hardships of war, with little desire to tarry within battle — instead, losing himself within your lips seemed a better fate than many. Awe glistened within your hues, a gaze that held an immeasurable affection, fingers interlaced between his shoulders.

Whatever frustrations he had coiled themselves into his muscle, anguish turned into action, crushing it all beneath the weight of your adoration. It was difficult to maintain any shred of propriety, throat rippling with a grunt as his teeth snagged across your bottom lip.

Steady hands knead eagerly into the swell of your hips, blood singing wantonly as the two of you unceremoniously clamor for your shared bed. Furs kiss flesh, nightgown still concealing your body from him, though it doesn’t seem to last for very long.

“Robb,” A gasp of startlement slips from you, thoroughly enthralled by his sudden blaze of furious desire, mouth as ravenous as a wolf. Kisses trail from your jaw to throat, jugular blanketed in passionate pecks and teasing nips. “Whatever is the matter?”

He knows you tease him, but he’s relentless, burrowing between your thighs as you welcome him with a thinly-concealed glee. “You,” Robb huffs, fire etched into your collar as he lavishes you in endless kisses, hands wrestling with silk and velvet. “A pretty distraction, you are.”

Lacking any malice, you feel his physique quiver with laughter, countenance alight with lascivious amusement. It eases your nerves, giggles tapering off into delighted sighs as he unburdens you of your nightgown, swatting the gaudy fabrics aside.

Gossamer curls around your frame, material dangerously transparent, candlelight casting you waning embers. His breath hitches, a subtle sound that fades as soon as it occurs, cerulean gaze beset by a fervent ardor.

The soft peaks of your breasts pebble beneath your shift, though it is of little consequence to your husband, who eases it down to place his mouth against your chest. A moan draws from your lips, gooseflesh icing your spine.

A strong, firm hand palms at your thigh, roughened digits grazing beneath the hem of your shift, guiding the fabric toward your hips. As Robb lovingly caresses the length of your leg, your hands tangle against his nape, raking through damp, auburn curls.

The scratch of his beard prompts you to gnaw at the flesh of your cheek, a sensation that leaves naught but ash in its wake, arousal beginning to stir within your belly. A wolfish hunger claws at Robb, lips descending upon your breast, lavishing satiny flesh in countless kisses.

Legs shift against him, thighs haplessly squeezing at his leather-clad hips, nails sinking into his skin. A blissful whimper erupts through your diaphragm, taking with it each wisp of air, lungs stinging with exhilaration.

“Robb!” A moan, strangled within your throat; desire screams within your marrow, as violent as the crash of a tidal wave, heat flooding your insides. He has only been with you, and yet he seems well-versed, practiced in navigating your body.

Lips release your breast from his maw, mouth raking fiery kisses through your sternum, teeth piercing soft skin as he trails towards your mouth once more. Hands fly to the leather ties of his breeches, swift and needy, aiming to cement this heated tryst.

Arousal warms your nethers, belly rolling into taut coils of excitement, bodies flush, the space between all but nonexistent. It is all done in some frenzy, nerves crackling with fire as you keep your legs parted, shift disheveled, fabric wrenched in all directions.

The hotblooded fervor of youth prevails, wanton need exchanged between your flesh, all heat and desire. Through the brief clamor of Robb wrangling against leather trousers enough to free his cock, you coax him in for a kiss, his smile palpable through joined lips.

Outside, the deluge continues its torrential assault, winds whipping against sturdy canvas, the onslaught of the tempest providing ample ambiance. A strangled moan pierces your lungs as his cock presses against your petals, swollen head dragging through a time or two.

A breathy ‘fuck’ spilled from his lips, caught between wanton sighs and groans of rapture. The warmth between breath and body kept you feeling feverish, and you hitched one leg around his hips, evoking a growl from your wolfish paramour.

Translucent fabric pools around the swell of your hips, cunt growing slick with your nectar as Robb briefly dips his hand between you, a chuckle resonating through him. As deft fingers rake embers over your nethers, you writhe, unable to mask the choked whine that splits your diaphragm.

“Already?” Robb taunts, more loving and mischievous than cruel, pressing a hot, sharp kiss to the sensitive flesh beneath your jaw. “Didn’t have to touch you for it.” The naked reality of his amorous truth makes you flush, with no retort to make the embarrassment any less.

There is no place to hide from his smoldering stare, merely averting your gaze instead, but he’s swift to intercept, mouth reaffirming its hold upon you. Each kiss is a shockwave, rattling through your bones, bringing with it a fire that demands to be squashed.

“You are cruel.” Your words hold no bite to them, spoken through a partial moan that makes him yearn, ravenous lust festering within him like a plague. Teeth capture your bottom lip briefly, your eyes doelike and permeated by crystalline ardor.

Robb chuffs, the noise possessing a playful lilt as his thumb briefly circles the pearl of your cunt, toying with the clutch of nerves. “Am I?” His Northern timbre fills your stomach with molten heat, coalescing between your thighs as you suppress a hapless whimper.

Through half-lidded lashes, your gaze falls upon Robb with incredulity, lips parting as bliss unfurls from your visage. Any jocular feeling seems to dissipate, giving way to a sudden neediness, his cock incessantly urging against your nethers with wanton desire.

Azure hues burn with lust intermingled with adoration, no longer veiled as it sits heavy upon his rugged countenance. Lips hungrily capture your own, his position readjusting as a firm hand parts your legs, kneading over the plush flesh of your thigh.

Hips lightly rut forward, the friction crackling between flush bodies, evoking a sharp moan from your mouth. A grunt stirs from his chest, akin to the feral snarl of a wolf, ensuring that you’re comfortable before he begins to tilt forward.

A sob of delight wracks through your frame, a shiver slithering along your spine as Robb groans, burying his mouth into the hollow of your shoulder.

As he moves forward, his cock beginning to sheathe itself within your cunt, your nails dig crescents into the nape of his neck, back arching forward.

Carnality consumes you like some blistering fever, sinking its talons into you, as sharp as knives that stab at your belly. Robb’s passion is one you revel in, knowing his appetite is often an insatiable thing, one that you gleefully partake in.

Everything is heated, desirous — flesh to flesh, hearts clawing for one another, limbs entangled. A well-fought victory made his blood run with adrenaline’s cry, coupled with his own ardor for you, something that he no longer is shy in sharing.

Canines nip at the satiny flesh of your shoulder, hot breath pluming over your skin, causing you to shudder as he adopts a sluggish rhythm, allowing you a moment to relax. Digits grip at the auburn curls of his nape, countenance flourishing with inklings of bliss.

“Robb,” A breathy sigh tumbles from your lips, clinging to him as if you were drowning, body aching for him in every way imaginable. His ministrations are deliberate, rhythm drawn-out, intended to torment you. “Please.”

Foreheads brush against one another, his chest stinging with an incendiary want, brows creased in concentration. It is a slow incline, hips rutting against yours, friction simmering, akin to a flame roaring to life.

A low, animalistic groan tears through his maw, sending a cascade of shivers throughout your body, born of a tantalizing excitement. With each sluggish rut of his hips, you feel everything, his cock rocking into you with a rhythm that only seems to climb higher, higher still.

In the wake of war, it is you he dreams of, thoughts constantly torn asunder, between the mantle of an unwanted leadership and being your husband. It is not an easy task, this balance — yet, he finds himself wishing to forsake his kingly duties, if it meant a second spent within your presence.

Sighs tangle together in a heated snare, flesh joining, a fervent heat slithering between bodies. One hand departs from his tresses, reaching for his forearm, muscle taut beneath your fingertips as digits intertwine, now pressed into the furs.

Robb’s grunts are strained with pleasure, intensity building as he seizes your leg, hitching it further around his hips, angle deepening. A blissful cry emerges from your lips, visage contorted into one of ecstasy as the newfound position makes your heart shriek with desire.

“I thought of you, while away,” The husky cadence of his lull stokes a volatile fire within you, belly coiled into knots of excitement. Words plume against your collar, whispered like some fiery brand, emblazoned upon your heart. “Wanting to feel your body.” A growl sent shivers through your spine.

Awestruck surprise rippled through your brow, gaze briefly locking with his own, subservient to the starving rapture that lingered within his eyes. A darkened, auburn beard scratched ragged against your countenance, lips marred by another kiss, enough to rip the air from your lungs.

Candlelight wavered, casting pools of an ember glow across his flesh, now dappled with perspiration and remnants of rainwater. Mouths clashed in a passionate duel, poured with a thinly-veiled desperation, thigh quivering within his grasp.

Rooted within you, Robb’s hips withdrew, enough to rut forward with a sense of urgency, filling you to the brim with his cock. Lewd, crass noises reverberated in the haze of heat that enveloped you, his thrusts gathering in rhythm, becoming more invigorated, ardent. Hands squeezed another, anchored firmly beside your head.

“Gods, I need you,” It was nearly forced from you, choking upon a delighted sob that wretched from your lips, which clamored for his own. A low whimper left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into each ministration, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt. “Robb!”

Heat persisted even still, gazes meeting with such ardor, causing you to shiver beneath his stare. Arousal permeated between your thighs, slick and ambrosial, the scent of coupling invading your senses.

A shudder wracked him, as sharp as steel as your nethers clenched around him, taking him perfectly, as if you were molded entirely for him. Nails pressed crimson indents into his back, nearly scratching at his pale flesh as he continued to urge forward, cock kissing your womb.

“Turn over.” Filled with a strenuous impetuosity, an urgency that is nearly a whine, you obey with a sudden swiftness, clamoring to move onto your stomach. He does not take you callously, blanketing your body with his own, chest flush to your back.

Fiery lips brand themselves to your shoulder, forehead brushing over your dampened flesh, a moan tearing through your throat as he enters you once more. It is laden with haste, actions done in a flurry of passion, your legs spread apart as he thrusts with a wanton vigor.

Still, your hands are interlocked at one side, the other fisting at the sheets, Each rut of his hips are drawn-out, deliberate; it is a lascivious torture that torments the both of you, cunt tightening pathetically around his length.

It was this intense pace that you so adored, craved — it kept you grounded, made you understand the depths of his growing devotion. A breathy string of expletives flutters from your lips, joined by his cacophony of low grunts, steaming sighs pluming over your shoulder.

Within your belly, a fire stirs, billowing into a blissful oblivion — arousal coalesces between your thighs, a slick ambrosia that only seems to grow. Robb groans, pressing a string of kisses to the space between your shoulders, teeth grazing over unblemished flesh.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, crying out to the heavens. A sharp moan punctured your lungs, lips agape as your hips erratically rocked into the furs.

Calloused digits flexed against your own, and you met your release with a haze of white, a blinding heat that nearly dazed you. It was sticky and desirous, a union of bodies that had craved another, come to find their respite in such salaciousness.

“Robb!” A sweet moan left you as you reached your pinnacle, and he joined you, hips thrusting forward once more, gentler and steady. A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

With an incessant throbbing, he released his seed within you, painting your insides with a wave of warmth. He kissed your shoulder even still, visage momentarily buried against the crook of your neck, beard scratching ragged along the hollow of your throat.

Lungs burned as the both of you gasped for air, caught within the aftermath, an afterglow so satisfying that it brought some semblance of light to your shared tent. Robb allowed himself to stay sheathed within you for a moment more, lips curling into a smile.

Clinging to composure, he sluggishly tumbled to his back, propped up against the pillows, allowing you to be absolved of his weight. As you reached for your shift, he canted his head to one side, unable to suppress his bemused grin.

“Getting dressed already?” Teasingly, he reached for you, arms caging in around you as he tugged you backward, though the garment was already halfway settled upon your frame. “Hiding won’t change anything.”

Laughter spilled from your lips, tapering into squeaks of amusement as he planted messy kisses all over your neck. “Stop it!” Despite your numerous protests, they seemed to fall upon deaf ears as he eased you against his chest.

With a warm chuckle, Robb decided to let it rest, tugging you into the expanse of his body, feeling your cheek press along his collar. “You are so beautiful,” He murmured, hand moving to idly massage your hip, inhaling a gust of your scent. “Very beautiful.”

“Hm,” A gentle hum fluttered from you, head canting upwards, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Do you think that this deluge will pass?” It was an idle inquiry — this raging tempest had struck a sliver of fear into you, the rain howling outside, a clap of thunder piercing black skies.

“Soon, I think,” Robb’s eyes began to crinkle. “Why? Does it frighten you, my wife?” His teasing was endearing, a persistent banter that had always felt so effortless between you, something lighthearted to remove the edge of frustration. If he did not jest often, he became overwhelmed with anguish.

“No,” You mumbled, wincing at the flash of lightning that pooled through the burlap canvas, earning you a warm laugh from your Northern paramour. “A little, perhaps. That is why I have you to shield me from the storm.” Lips curled into an ebullient smile, and Robb was enthralled.

Beguiled, the Young Wolf planted a kiss to your brow, a comforting gesture. “I’ll keep you safe — I can promise you that.” It was a solemn oath made in the throes of youth, a determination that Robb wore as a cloak.

When the first splinter of dawn had struck down the black tides of the storm, bringing with it glitters of daylight, he kept you safe, even still.

[yandere-daydreams]

Screening: Dracula (1931).

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader (HxH).

Runtime: 1.8k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Obsessive Behavior, Threats of Physical Violence, Slight Gore, and Mentions of Death.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You could feel his eyes burning into you from the other side of the abruptly-too-short table, the chill of the marble slab where it threatened to press into your midriff, but you did your best to ignore both. The table had already been set by the time you were called down to the dining room, a small army of silver platters arranged neatly in the space between you and him. You hadn’t eaten since the night before, but you weren’t hungry. Even if you had been, it was hard to imagine forcing yourself to choke down anything aside from your own anxiety. You were tempted to try your luck with the generously poured glass of wine to your left, but to drink it, you’d have to reach for it, and to reach for it, you’d have to lift your hands from where they were balled in your lap and you couldn’t do that because your hands wouldn’t stop fucking shak—

“Is the meal not to your tastes, dear?”

“It’s perfect,” you responded immediately, beaming. You grabbed the wine glass before you could hesitate, drinking as much as you could stand to. Chrollo’s ever-present grin had taken on a contented lull by the time you set it down. “Remind me to thank the chef before I leave. That is, if I ever actually manage to catch him.” And then, with a forced laugh, “That is, if this storm ever lets up long enough for me to get out of here.”

As if on cue, thunder clapped outside, followed shortly by a bolt of lightning bright enough to cast the dimly light dining room in a vibrant silver haze. You shrunk into your seat, but Chrollo’s dark eyes only seemed to brighten. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t run into a member of my staff, yet. It’s been… how long? Four days?” Six. Come midnight, you’d be celebrating your week-long anniversary. “I hope you don’t think I’m keeping anyone away from you deliberately. Not that I’d mind keeping you to myself.”

It took everything you had to smile rather than cringe, to laugh rather than bury your face in your hands and scream. A day ago, you would’ve found your host’s nonchalance charming, but it was hard to find someone charming when the thought of meeting his eyes made you feel physically sick. It was hard to believe you’d been so thankful when you first turned-up on the doorstep of his dark, empty countryside mansion, when you realized you wouldn’t be at the mercy of an ancient, self-isolating millionaire but a man around you own age who, as far as you could tell, was as flustered to see you as you were to need his help. You explained that your car broke down about half a mile down the road, and he invited you to spend the night before calling for help at a more reasonable hour. The typhoon had rolled in not long before sunrise, and, well…

Again, thunder crashed and rain pelted the mansion from all directions. This time, you flinched into your seat before you could stop yourself.

It was your own fault, honestly. It’s not like there weren’t signs that something was wrong. Chrollo was charming, but he was off-putting, too. He seemed to treat the concept of personal space as more of a suggestion as a rule, whether that meant seeking you out in the tightest corner of the mansion’s sprawling library just to share a sofa truly meant for, at most, one person or letting himself into your room at night as if he couldn’t tell the difference between two in the afternoon and two in the morning. He claimed to have a full staff, and yet, you’d never run into any maids, butlers or cooks – never saw anyone who wasn’t Chrollo. His clothes always seemed to be either strange or ill-fitting, like he was wearing items from someone else’s closet, and more damningly, he didn’t seem at all suspicious of you, the stranger he’d allowed to stay in his home for nearly a week, now. No offense was particularly jarring, but it should’ve added up. You should’ve noticed sooner.

The only thing you could do, you figured, was bid your time and sneak out in the early hours of the morning. The landlines were down and you didn’t have cell reception, but the next house couldn’t be that far away, and you doubted Chrollo would follow you into the storm. Or, you hoped he wouldn’t, at least. You couldn’t really do much more than that.

“So,” Chrollo went on, and you made a point of nodding and smiling like he’d just said the smartest thing you’d ever heard, “When did you find the bodies?”

Immediately, your expression fell. A second later, you noticed that your hands had stopped shaking, but only because you’d lost the ability to move entirely.

When you finally regained the will to speak, it was all you could do to spit out something pathetically noncommittal. “...I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“Don’t be shy. I promise, I’m not mad, just curious.” He paused, letting his eyes bore into you. “You left the door unlocked.”

Ah.

The basement door, to be more specific. Calling what you’d found ‘bodies’ might’ve been a little generous, too. What little had been left of each corpse was already so badly deteriorated that it would’ve been impossible to tell which detached hand might’ve belonged to what disembodied torso. That was probably your fault, too. If you’d known to be wary of Chrollo, you would’ve known better than to follow him into the one place he’d asked you not to go, the one place he seemed to always disappear to when he wasn’t breathing down your neck.

“This morning,” you admitted. “I was bored and looking for you. Honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing that it took me this long to realize you were a…”

You trailed off, but Chrollo was more than happy to finish in your stead. “A member of the Phantom Troupe?”

This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from buckling – your mouth falling open as you stared at him, wide-eyed. “Oh my god,” And then, after burying your face in your hands, “I thought you were a fucking vampire, you goth prick.”

That was enough to earn an airy chuckle from Chrollo, any condescension hidden well underneath wry amusement. While you tried to recover, he went on. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you that I don’t actually live here. In truth, I only arrived a few hours before you did – long enough to dispose of the residents and staff, even if getting rid of their remains has been an…” For once, his eyes shifted away from you, skirting to the left. “An ongoing process.”

With a shallow sigh, he pushed himself to his feet rounding the table and falling into the chair closest to you. Dinner, if he’d ever had any interest in it at all, was thoroughly forgotten as he propped an arm on the edge and rested his chin on his knuckles. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not being more upfront. In a line of work like mine, it’s so rare to find an opportunity to play house.”

So, he was a thief. No, it was more than that – he was a world-class thief, with worse crimes under his belt than a handful of homicides and the wrongful imprisonment of one confused civilian. God. This was bad. You should’ve left earlier – as soon as you found the bodies. You should’ve never gotten out of your car at all.

Slowly, you straightened your back, keeping your arms crossed as you glared half-heartedly. “Are you going to let me leave?”

He hummed, drumming his fingers against his jaw. “Now, why would I go and do something like that?”

Your heart sank in your chest. “You’re going to kill me, then?”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.” It was uncanny, how little his demeanor changed prior and post to his confession. If anything, he seemed even more smug – like he was basking in your apparent terror. “As if I could be so wasteful. Besides, I was under the impression that you’ve been enjoying out time together.”

“And I was under the impression that you weren’t a serial killer!” You threw up your hands, agitation quickly overshadowing the worst of your nerves. “Things can change!”

“I suppose they can.” He was so frustratingly calm. If the memory of his dissected victims wasn’t burnt so deeply into your mind, you would’ve rolled your eyes. “And eventually, things will. You don’t think I plan to keep you trapped in this estate forever, do you?”

Rather than dwell on the implication, you moved on swiftly. “If you’re not going to hurt me, you can’t stop me from leaving. The storm can’t be more dangerous than spending another night with you.”

Somehow, his smile only seemed to grow that much wider. “Did you know that the majority of deaths related to natural disasters are from delayed attempts to evacuate? There are all sorts of threats – flooding, debris, sinkholes…” He brightened with each listed hazard, and you tried (and failed) not to picture yourself drowning in muddy rainwater. “Oh, and sickness, of course. Spend enough time in the rain and it won’t matter if you eventually find shelter – you’ll die of pneumonia in a matter of weeks.”

“You don’t know—”

“And, for the record, I said I wasn’t planning to kill you. You never asked about anything else.” He let out a dry chuckle. “I’m sorry, but I sure you understand. It’d just be irresponsible to promise that I’ll never have to, say, dislocate your ankle to stop you from making a very brash, very unadvisable decision.”

“Like calling the cops.”

“Like trying to go outside in a very bad, very easily deadly storm,” he clarified. “You can contact anyone you’d like, but please, try to be considerate. I’m going to run out of room in the basement eventually.”

This time, when you melted into your seat, it wasn’t out of reflex or anxiety, but in a deliberate effort to put that much more distance between him and you. “I… I don’t want to get hurt, and I don’t want to die,” you admitted, taking longer than it should’ve to say something so glaringly obvious. “Tell me what I have to do to make that not happen.”

Yet another clap of thunder. This time, the lightning didn’t so much as tint his soulless eyes. “Straight to the point, as always. I like that about you.”

For the first time, he seemed to hesitate – a pink haze spreading over his pale cheeks as he reached out and laid his hand, almost gingerly, over yours. His trepidation was short-lived, though, only lasting up until the second you tried to pull away and he had an excuse to intertwine his fingers with yours, his grip tight enough to bruise.

“Why don’t we get to bed, darling?”  

[kheprriverse]

I’m sure this is balanced

I have no idea where it is in my blog but the poll relating to my au’s magic system..

I started rewriting it coz the file was on my laptop and I didn’t want to invoke the wrath of csp license deactivation. I think I have a plan on how I want the sheet to look, especially now that I have some extra concepts to be working on for it.

I also want to try and redesign FD’s mask to match the serpent more than ko’jin. So ig wish me luck on that too lol

[loucifersbitch]

196. “i’ll untie you if you’re good” for BuckTommy 💕

featuring some unreliable narrator Buck and bottom Tommy

He hadn't planned it this way. He will swear until his dying day that this is not how he thought the day would go.

"Evan, come on. What the hell -" Tommy says, struggling against the straps binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. "I'm not running away. I promise!"

"I can't take that chance," Buck says, stepping back. "We're gonna talk, and I'll untie you if you're good and actually hear me out this time."

"Evan," Tommy groans, dropping his head back.

"So," Buck pulls up a chair so they're sitting facing each other, "how have you been?"

Tommy looks at him, face completely blank except for the flash of his eyes.

"Great," he says, monotone, glancing down at himself. "Never been better."

Buck sighs. That was a dumb question.

"Right. So, um, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." Might as well just say it. "And I'm tired of missing you. I'm tired of not having you. I'm tired of not sleeping at night because I know I sleep better when you're there. And if you don't want to get back together, that's fine. I'll get over it. But I can't keep dancing around the issue."

"Which issue?" Tommy asks. "The one where I broke things off and ran away? Or the one where we hooked up, I asked to get back together, and then immediately stuck my foot in my mouth and ran away again? Or now when you have me tied to a chair?"

"All of it," Buck starts, getting up and pacing. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, about us. And I know I'm in love with you. And I'm pretty sure you're in love with me. What kind of guy helps his ex escape the US Army and FBI in a stolen helicopter unless he's in love with him, y'know? But then Bobby died and life happened, and I - I should've called, Tommy." He stops pacing, leaning with his hands on the back of his abandoned chair. "I should've called after you left instead of waiting until I needed a favor. And I should've called after the Army released us. Or after the funeral. Or at literally any time between then and -" he looks at their surroundings "- and breaking into your house to tie you up."

He can tell Tommy's staring at him. He doesn't want to look over and see whatever expression is on Tommy's face after all of that though. The silence drags on, time moving so slowly Buck wonders if he was hit by another lightning bolt without realizing.

"Evan," Tommy coaxes, his voice soft. Buck looks at him after a moment, waiting for his fate. "Untie me."

That's fair, really. He walks over, the chasm in his chest opening wider with each step. He wants Tommy but... If he can't have him, it'll hurt, but he'll get over it eventually. Maybe they can even be friends if Buck promises to never break into his house again.

Starting at Tommy's ankles, he undoes the two straps, moving onto the wrists and freeing Tommy completely. Defeated, Buck is ready to leave. He stands up and starts to turn, heading for the front door, but a hand on his elbow stops him.

Letting himself be pulled back, he faces Tommy, expecting to be told off or given a lecture or something. What he doesn't expect is Tommy pulling him into a kiss. He's so shocked, he can't even kiss back. When Tommy pulls back, Buck sways a little, unsteady, but Tommy catches him.

"Sorry," Tommy says, like he has anything to be sorry for. "Was that not okay? I just thought aft- mfph," Buck cuts him off, diving into another kiss.

Buck grabs Tommy's waist, pulling him close before walking them both back toward the bedroom. They must knock into a table because there's a thunk against the wall and something falls to the floor, but neither of them stop to check.

"We still haven't talked," Tommy gasps when Buck leaves his lips to latch onto the side of his neck instead. "I thought you wanted to talk, baby."

"Mm," Buck hums, releasing the skin where he's started a small mark. "Do you want to be my boyfriend again?" he asks, going right back to the same spot, laving over Tommy's pulse in the process.

"Y-yeah, but -"

"Me, too. See? We talked," Buck says, kissing him once more.

Tommy's back hits the closed bedroom door, and Buck crashes into him, feeling the long, hard line of his cock against his thigh. He groans, needing fewer layers between them now.

"Baby," Tommy sighs, kissing Buck and fumbling for the doorknob behind him. The door finally opens, and Tommy pulls him through with a murmured, "Come on."

A few too-long minutes later, Buck pounds into Tommy, draping himself over his back and listening to gorgeous noises Tommy makes. God, he's missed those.

"Missed you, too," Tommy grunts. Buck hadn't realized he'd said that out loud. "Missed this cock, holy shit."

Buck laughs, a little giddy. He feels almost stupid with how much he loves the man underneath him.

"Hold on," he says, uncurling himself from Tommy and pulling out, pushing Tommy onto his back. "Wanna see you."

"Yeah, yeah," Tommy nods, eager to comply. He curses when Buck enters him again, his eyes closing as his mouth drops open in pleasure.

"That's it," Buck breathes, getting his arm under Tommy's knee and pushing his leg up and back, opening him wider. Tommy looks debauched, sweaty and heavy lidded with his hair a complete mess. "Fuck, Tommy, look at you. I love you so much."

"Love you, too, baby," Tommy says, pulling Buck down into a kiss. "Probably shouldn't - ah, yeah - shouldn't say it for the first time when you've got your dick in me, but I didn't get to say it earlier."

Buck laughs again. He hasn't felt this light in months. He drops Tommy's leg and gets a hand around his cock instead, fucking into him while he jerks him off. Tommy cums soon after, pulling at the sheets so hard Buck worries they'll rip. Buck pulls out, fucking his fist until he cums on Tommy, adding to the mess he'd already made.

He takes a few seconds to catch his breath, then says, "Back in a second. Towel."

When they're both mostly clean ("I still need a shower, Evan. I'm not sleeping covered in leftover jizz." "Yeah, yeah, but later.") they hold each other, legs and arms touching as much of each other as they can.

"Hey," Tommy says, placing a finger under Buck's chin and pulling him into a soft kiss, "thanks for breaking in."

He smiles, feeling his cheeks flame.

"Sorry for the whole tying you up thing."

"Mm," he nods. "For future reference, my safeword is Volkswagen."

Buck is going to love this man forever.

[blasphemousclaw]

why Divine Beast Dancing Lion has the best soundtrack in the entire game

When I watched the first DLC trailer 6 months ago, I was so focused on Messmer that I never gave the lion dancers a second thought. But in a shocking turn of events, Divine Beast Dancing Lion is now my favorite boss in the whole game. To me, what makes this fight truly exceptional is its soundtrack, so I want to go through the music and outline all the things that make it so great!

What makes the music stand out is that it feels SO different from the rest of the OST… the majority of the boss tracks have a pretty similar style and instrumentation, but Divine Beast stands out in my opinion because of how it emphasizes its rhythm and texture.

Conceptually, this boss fight is first and foremost a dance — you are fighting two Hornsent warriors operating a lion costume based on the traditional Chinese lion dance in an arena that’s actually a giant stage.

The Chinese lion dance is typically accompanied only by percussion (drums, gongs, and cymbals). So naturally, Divine Beast’s soundtrack has much more pronounced percussion in comparison to the rest of the soundtrack, featuring heavy drum beats and cymbals, plus shouts and chants from the choir. The music is in a steady 6/8, with 2 beats per measure divided into three pulses (think 1 2 3, 1 2 3) giving it a lilting, dancelike quality (this type of meter is often used in folk and traditional dances!). And, in the boss’s second phase, the dancing lion’s lightning, wind, and frost phases each have their own music and are timed to transition as the music transitions. The whole boss fight is programmed like a dance, so when you fight the boss it feels like you’re dancing with it too!

The choir has a range of vocalizations that goes beyond singing melodies and harmonies; as I touched on before, they’re also shouting and chanting. The shouts are used percussively and help accent the rhythm of the dance, and the low chanting also brings to mind a sort of religious ritual? Which is exactly what this boss fight is… in Hornsent culture, the lion dance is a ritual for invoking divinity:

“A charm depicting the crazed, cavorting dance of the divine beast conducted at the tower festival. Raises potency of storms. Divine beasts are messengers of the heavens, and their rage mirrors the tumult of the skies, of which storms are the pinnacle.” (Enraged Divine Beast talisman)

The lion dancers, or “sculpted keepers,” are those amongst the divine beast warriors (themselves the chosen amongst the tower’s horned warriors) who truly excelled at divine invocation, and were “granted the honor of the lion dance” (Divine Beast Warrior Armor). In the boss cutscene, the Hornsent Grandam calls upon the divine beast to possess the bodies of the sculpted keepers, and rise again to defend the tower… so the lion dance, performed by warriors skilled in divine invocation, is essentially a ritual for invoking the presence of the divine beast within the dancers in order to commune with the heavens.

The sculpted keepers, having invoked the rage of the divine beast, are able to channel the forces of the stormy skies — lightning, wind, and frost. The force of the storm is represented in the music by quick runs in the high woodwinds and strings that come and go like gusts of wind. The music almost never lets up or loses momentum; it goes at a powerful, furious pace until the end, embodying the divine beast’s fury.

But the Divine Beast that we fight has an extra layer of emotion that goes beyond divine ritual:

“When the Impaler's army assailed the tower, the ritual of the lion dance was turned toward martial ends—its divinity, its fury, its light-footed beauty.” (Remembrance of the Dancing Lion)

What was once a beautiful ritual dance conducted at the tower festival was forced to become a weapon of war in order to fight against their people’s annihilation at the hands of Messmer’s crusade. And even this was not enough…

The Dancing Lion that we fight was slain, lying in a pool of dried blood, when it is miraculously awoken again with a fervent prayer. This is the last lion dance that may ever take place, giving us a mere glimpse of this ruined city’s long-vanished splendor.

Listening to the soundtrack, there is not only pride in the music, but also an urgent, visceral, warlike rage, a multitude of voices joining in a desperate fight for their civilization’s very survival.

[mylovesstuffs]

The Colour Was Crimson — Kwon Soonyoung

One dies. One lives. One forgets.

There is no logic to the moment you chose to trust him; a knight who might hand you over come morning, a man who said little and promised less. He was supposed to stop you. You were meant to keep running. And yet, in the cold hush of a forest steeped in rain, with prophecy wrapped around your neck like a noose, you find yourself leaning into the warmth of the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but alive. Beneath a tattered cloak and a leaking roof, you share a night together suspended in something like safety

Genre: Historical fantasy, romance (?), slow burn, dramatic realism, introspective character study, strangers-to-???

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung × runaway princess!reader

Content: Runaway royalty, stormy night in a shared cloak, strangers-to-something, knight × princess dynamic, prophecies, fate vs. free will, existential introspection, emotionally repressed knight, one-bed trope (?) (cramped hut edition), wounded pasts, survival in the wild, bittersweet comfort, philosophical undertones, reluctant alliance, prophecy entanglement ("one dies, one lives, one forgets"), themes of sonder, and that classic thunderstorm backdrop

Warning: Light references to past violence, implied political escape/war themes, mentions of blood and prophecy-related fate/death

Word count: 2179 words

A/N: LISTEN. this was soonyoung’s birthday fic and i was six minutes from flopping the entire mission by not posting on time. i posted this thing RAW at 11:59 KST. not even a title. no tags. no genre. no under the cut. just running on time and blind panic. if you blinked, you’d have no clue who it was for unless you read 80% through and saw the name of the member 😭 (yes, his name was written after lots of blabbering) anyway. it’s barely here, but here. this fic was born in a swamp of my deeply romanticised obsession with the, one night under a shared cloak trope. also knight soonyoung. stoic. leather. prophecy-haunted. emotionally constipated. yeah. this is my first draft with all the frizz of one, but i weirdly love it. shoutout to my discord pals who witnessed the meltdown in real time (you know who you are), and to tumblr’s draft system for always being the final boss.

happy birthday to the man who contains multitudes: tiger and tulip, chaos [confusion in gose too] and choreography, laughter and love, heart and hurricane. you’re the type of person who could lead an army into battle and then cry because the confetti cannon missed its cue. a man who dances like the stage is on fire and loves like his heart was never once broken. your laughter is loud, your spirit louder, and somewhere in between the two, we all fell a little more in love with life just by watching you live it. stay wild. stay tiger. stay soonyoung. happy birthday, our horangi. i'll always be the #1 supporter of horangi cult ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ

The mud clung to your boots dragging you down with every step. Rain lashed the trees, a wild downpour that turned the forest trail into a treacherous mire. Branches clawed at your hood, soaked through from hours beneath the weeping sky. Still, you pressed on, breath shallowed with shoulders hunched beneath a worn cloak no longer fit to shield you.

You stumbled, again. And then a hand gloved in ash-toned leather, caught your elbow firmly.

“I told you to step where I do,” came his voice, deep and tacit.

You didn't thank him, never did. Instead, you replied, “Perhaps if you talked more and glared less, I’d know where to step.”

He did not answer; rarely ever did. A stoic knight forged in duty, sworn to a kingdom not your own—and against better judgment, aiding a runaway princess whose name he dared not speak aloud.

Lightning carved a split in the sky, the brief flare illuminated the path ahead; if it could be called that. Just endless trees and endless rain. Somewhere, far behind you, the clamor of hounds and steel still echoed faintly through the hills. They hadn’t evanesced, yet.

Tightening the straps of his leather satchel, “keep moving,” he said.

But the storm had other plans. By the time you stumbled upon the hut that was barely wide enough for two to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, it was already half-swallowed by the woods, cloaked in moss. An old hunting shelter, perhaps. A relic of some forgotten war. You stepped inside, mud dripping from your hem. He followed wordlessly, shutting the creaking door behind you. The roof wept in places, but it was better than the wrath of the storm.

He shrugged off his sodden cloak, jaw tight. You eyed it, then him. “Well?” you asked.

He stared. “Well what?”

You huffed, peeling off your own cloak and wringing it out. “You were talking too much for someone who usually says nothing at all,” you said, voice sharp as sleet. That earned you a glance, but nothing more.

The storm howled. Wind seeped through the cracks in the timber walls like breath through clenched teeth. You shivered. Without a word, he shifted closer as he noticed, unfurling his cloak. It was soaked, but still warm from his body. Seeing this, you hesitated a little bit.

“What?” he asked. “Dared the woods, but frightened of my cloak?”

“It’s not that,” you murmured, taking a seat beside him. “Just... I’m not used to kindness that doesn’t ask for something in return.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. “I’m not being kind. I don’t want you to die of cold before I hand you over.”

You glanced up at him. “So you will hand me over?”

A pause, then, softer, “I don’t know yet.”

Rain danced on the roof like pearls rolling across wood. You curled beneath the shared cloak, closer to him than proprietary would ever have allowed, were you still in court and not in this forsaken patch of wilderness where rules meant little and survival meant more.

“Do you believe in prophecy?” you asked in a hushed voice.

He turned to you, his profile carved from shadow and ember-glow. He’d lit a small fire, somehow, despite the wetness, and it flickered now between you, casting a crimson gleam against his cheekbone. “No,” he said. Then, “Yes. Perhaps.”

“There’s one about me,” you said. “About the girl who runs, and the man who stops her. One dies. One lives. One forgets.”

“Romantic,” he said, with dry disinterest. But his eyes stayed on you.

“It’s not meant to be,” you said, lips curving bitterly. “Prophecies never are.”

Another silence. It wasn't tense at all, just… heavy with sonder. The ache of two lives that should never have crossed. The fire cracked, and he shifted. You watched the lines of his face which were drawn and tired, but noble in their own way; seraphic, almost, when the flames caught just right. You thought of the courts he came from, the sword at his hip, the blood he’d drawn, the blood he refused to speak of.

And you — a girl who’d once worn silk, now cloaked in dirt and guilt and secrets. A girl who once smiled for paintings, now pressed into a hut with a man she barely knew but already trusted more than anyone else.

“Why did you come with me?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “I don't know.”

“Liar.”

“Verily,” he said, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Minutes passed, and the fire dimmed. You felt his breath before you heard it. It was slow, steady. Then he shifted just enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“Sleep,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“Will you watch?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I’ll watch.”

And so, you dared to close your eyes, against better judgment, in a hut barely wide enough for two, under a storm that tried to drown you, beside a man who might hand you over come morning—and yet, in this moment, was the only thing in the world that felt safe. Alas, fate was cruel.

But for one night, beneath a shared cloak, beneath thunder and whispers of prophecy, you let yourself believe otherwise.

-

When you woke up, it was still raining. Grey light seeped through the broken shutters, ash-pale and cold. You were still beneath his cloak, tucked against his side like some weary burden he had forgotten to push away. He hadn't moved. Not much, anyway.

You shifted slowly, limbs sore from sleep and too many miles. His arm, heavy with the weight of leather and muscle, slid from your shoulders with a reluctant grace. He was awake, you realized.

You felt the rigid stillness of someone pretending otherwise, before he spoke.

“You stayed,” your voice was hoarse. “I thought you’d vanish before sunrise.”

“I thought about it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His reply came slow. “Couldn’t get the fire going again without you snoring on it.”

You snorted. “So I’m good for kindling, then?”

“Among other things.”

A beat of silence before you managed to say, “such as?”

He didn't answer, again. You sighed not being amused, running a hand through your tangled hair. Mud crusted the hem of your sleeve; your fingers were stiff. The world outside felt like it was still made of rain. But for now, the hut held.

You glanced at him—jaw shadowed with stubble, cloak collar damp, his sword hilt resting at his side like a limb. Kwon Soonyoung. The knight of the southern border, the man whose name you only learned when you'd already fled three nights’ worth of roads with him.

He wasn't a friend, not per se, or at least, yet. But not an enemy either.

The first time you saw him was on the border road, your skirts were still too fine for your path. Crimson silk, pearl-studded hem; stolen garments from a carriage you'd bribed your way into before ditching the wheels and running barefoot into the night.

You were breathless and desperate. And he stood on the bridge under the clear blue sky of dawn, unmoving like a statue carved from fate itself.

“Turn around,” he said, not even drawing his sword.

You stepped forward. “You don’t want to do this.”

He tilted his head. “No. But you were talking too much for someone on the run.”

You flinched from recognition; it wasn't made of fear. He knows.

“I won’t go back,” you said, hosting your voice thin as mist. “Even if it kills me.”

He regarded you for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, his gaze steady and unblinking, though, in truth, it was rare to see his eyes flutter at all. And then, to your astonishment, he shifted only a fraction just like that, a simple pivot of boot against stone, but it was enough to create a space through which you might pass. No bargain was struck. No conditions laid. No commands issued. There was only the sound of the wind altering its course through the trees, and the strange, almost imperceptible weight of a decision made by a man who spoke little but once carried orders that ended wars.

You stepped forward, cautiously, your breath caught in your throat like a trespass half-expecting the reprieve to snap shut like a trap around your ankles. But he moved behind you with his footfalls, deliberate and unhurried; neither threatening nor companionable, merely present.

And when, driven more by confusion than courage, you finally turned to ask what tethered him to your uncertain path, his reply came with the same restraint that marked all his actions: “Perhaps I am waiting to see how this ends.”

“You dreamt,” he informed you without warning, breaking the hush with the same low, even gravity that marked all his observations: never a question, always a statement. You looked up with the remnants of sleep still clinging to your thoughts. He adjusted his cloak. “You said something, in your sleep,” he continued, his gaze not really meeting yours. “Something about fire... and fate. And the color red.”

“Not red,” you corrected, as if naming it properly mattered. “Crimson.”

He studied you openly this time for a moment with that same unreadable stillness he wore like armor. “A name?” he asked at last.

You hesitantly answered, “A warning.”

The space between you seemed to draw in the silence. The rain outside, though muted by walls, seemed to press inward now. You remembered the dream, though already the edges have begun to fray. Images rose in flickers: a long corridor lined with mirrors that refused to show your face; a voice, disembodied and cold as wind across stone, whispering not prophecy, but verdict—One dies. One lives. One forgets. A prophecy spoken beneath an eclipse. You swallowed.

“I’ve heard those words before,” he said. “On the battlefield. Whispers from an old seer before the siege of Ilyra.”

“Do you believe it now?” you asked.

He gave no answer, but his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword as his jaw tightened. You took the clue. Even without words, you both knew what hung between you.

You had stopped by the river sometime near dusk, though the light beneath the trees was so uncertain it could have been any hour between afternoon and nightfall. Your feet raw from the ill-fitting boots you’d taken off a sleeping stablehand three villages back, throbbed with each step, and you’d finally surrendered to the pain, lowering yourself to a moss-slick rock with a hiss that escaped despite your resolve to remain quiet.

Soonyoung had settled himself across from you perched on the length of a fallen tree. The dagger in his grip caught the dim light as he dragged the whetstone down its edge with a nice rhythm. His expression was, as always, unreadable, carved from whatever discipline exile required.

“I’m not the kind of girl who believes in romance,” you had said then, not looking at him, as if the words might sound less like a confession if spoken to the water.

He didn’t look up saying, “good.”

“But if I were...” you ventured, testing the edge of something less guarded, “I’d want it to happen during a storm.”

This time, his hand paused just briefly enough to be noticeable if one was watching. The dagger stilled, and so did the air between you. He resumed the motion without haste. “You’ll regret saying that.”

There had been something in his tone which was dry, unflinching, but not unkind that made you smile despite yourself. It wasn’t a smile of victory or charm, only the soft foolish curve of someone who still believed they might unearth warmth where others had found only cold. “Why?” you asked, meaning it.

And that was when he truly met your eyes for the first time without the usual wall of disdain, without the carefully measured detachment he wore like chainmail. “Because storms end,” he said.

“If we survive this,” you turned toward him now, more serious than you meant to be, “if the prophecy doesn’t kill us, or the king’s men don’t find us… what then?”

He didn't look away, for once, he didn't avoid the weight of what you were asking. “Then I go back,” he said.

“To what?”

“To nothing.”

"And I?"

“That depends on whether you still believe you’re meant to run.”

What followed was not merely silence, but thick with all that remained unsaid between you, brimming with the weight of choices half-made and truths withheld out of mercy or pride.

Without a word, he reached for the cloak and drew it around you both once more. There wasn't much warmth left in it, but it was something. And so, you realized, was he.

You allowed your head to rest just beside his shoulder. He did not shift away or speak.

And in that space of lull that came before action and decisions had to be named aloud, you found yourself wondering, if sonder was truly enough. To glimpse the infinite in someone else and, despite it all, still choose to stay.

⌦ ⚔️ © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[lover-of-mine]

I will never be over the "do more". Eddie Diaz, former army medic, current first responder, got thrown off the top of the ladder truck by an energy blast, got up, climbed back up, noticed his partner was hanging from the ladder, went up something that can be classified as a wet lightning rod without securing a line for himself while screaming himself hoarse, tried to pull Buck up once he reached the top before accepting he needed to lower him down, pushed his captain out of the way before being instructed to drive the ambulance, something we saw him do a handful of times before that, jumped off the driver's seat as soon as it stopped, took over compressions, shocked him and restarted his heart, followed the gurney as they took Buck away, and to top it all off, he yelled at a team of doctors. He knows the drill, he knows they always do their best, but he needs someone to go as far as he would because he can't do more than getting Buck to the hospital. That scene is insane.

[juletheghoul]

crossing the line

a/n: I have been possessed by this man, he has singlehandedly cured my writers block. This is un beta-ed, any mistakes are my own. Shout out to @foli-vora for joining in the hysteria with me, thanks for cheering me on my love Hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus jerking it so right, creampie, vaginal fingering, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance), Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 2.1k

reblogs are appreciated

Prev chapter Masterlist series masterlist

Maybe someone else would have been upset to see how little they owned in the world, but it made no difference to you. The tunic on your back, an extra one to swap out for cleaning, a shawl, and a pair of sandals. That was all you had, that was all you needed, not much to fill your new quarters, modest as they were. Only let you get accustomed to your duties all the quicker. 

You held no melancholy at having been sold into the service of another, it was the story of your life and had happened before. You had no doubts that it would happen again. Instead, you focused on learning the layout of the new villa that would be your home, on learning the moods of your new Dominus and praying to the Gods that he was not heavy handed with his slaves. 

You’d been purchased by none other than Marcus Acacius, the General of the army of Rome. 

Getting used to being in his presence took great effort, meeting his gaze was akin to being struck by lightning. He had the unique power to make your stomach roil like waves, but it wasn’t always an entirely unpleasant feeling. He was older, his hair streaked with gray and his face lined with age but it did nothing to diminish his beauty, or his prowess. You could almost believe he was a marble statue, an Emperor of the past, come to life. He’d caught your eye instantly. 

Months passed, then a year, and you did indeed learn his moods. You learned all about his needs and did well to anticipate his wants, so much so that eventually, he had you follow him around like a shadow. Your prayers had been answered, although his moods could get quite dark, he never raised his hand to anyone in his service. He had no need to. He could correct any misstep with a look. There was a cloud that loomed over him though, an intensity, an air about the man of bottled energy. Any words he did speak were short, and cut to the heart of the matter and despite the fact that he never hurt you or the others, you thought it might only be a matter of time before someone got the brunt end of his misplaced wrath. 

“He has been away from the battlefield for too long, pay him no mind. Do your duties, and he will settle.” One of the older women in the house noticed the way you wring your hands at his dark temperament, seeing her unbothered by it did much to calm you. 

You didn’t notice it at first, but more and more often you felt his eyes linger on you. Felt him follow as you set the table with his meals, when you helped him dress in the morning, more still when you helped him with his night time rituals. He was unabashed and unrelenting, his eyes traveling the length of you, lingering on the swell of your breasts when you stood before him, on your backside when you walked away. You knew the look, had seen it in countless men in the houses you’d served before. You’d seen on the boy that served with you when you were both coming to the age of such things, when young men stretched and grew overnight, and girls flowered, breasts blossoming and blood coming at the turn of the moon. You had seen it in the young man that had taken your chastity, fumbling at your tunic when everyone had gone to sleep.

At first it had shocked you, not because of some notion of propriety or disgust, this was something that happened in every house. The Dominus was there to be served, no matter what they wanted, it came with your station in life, what shocked you, was how welcome his gaze was. How much you relished his heated stare, how much you wanted him to look at you, always. He’d been the object of every heated fantasy you’d had since stepping foot in the house but you’d been under the impression that he was a solitary creature, uncaring for the company of anyone, except his hounds, two great big beasts that he doted on. He never pressed the matter however, and so you contented yourself with your dreams. 

-

He’d been gone most of the day, leaving you to help the other attendants with their duties, and the time passed quickly, and with the moon rising you thought it best to go to sleep–trusting that by this hour, surely he’d be staying put. With your own clothes washed and hanging to dry for the morning, you settled into bed. It was not to last however, one of the older women came through not long after you’d undressed and gotten into bed and announced that he’d arrived, looking for you. 

“God’s be damned.” You swore under your breath, “Gratitude, I will see to him shortly.” 

You had no choice but to put on one of the damp tunics, hissing at the frosty touch but running off to tend to him just the same. 

With a light knock to announce your presence, you entered his private chambers. 

“Apologies Dominus, I had thought you would be gone until the morning.” You bowed your head in deference to him, “Shall I fetch food and wine? Or will you be going to sleep?” His eyes were narrow slits, fixed on your body. You looked down to where he stared and noted that the wet fabric left nothing to the imagination. The dark patch of hair between your legs was clear as day, as was everything else. “Apologies Dominus, I had washed them when I thought you would be gone.” You stood there, the room pregnant with tension as he looked his fill. After what felt like hours, he looked up to your face and the expression made your nipples harden, a fact he did not miss. 

“No, Girl. I am not hungry.” He set about undressing and you hurried to help him, doing your best to keep your touch from lingering too long. “I will cleanse and go to sleep. Snuff out some of these candles, and be off to bed.” His voice was low, and it opened a river between your thighs, the arousal for him so sharp it ached. 

“Yes Dominus.” You did as he asked, leaving only a couple of candles burning near his bed, and leaving him there. You were just closing the door to your quarters when you realized his basin had not been filled, so you ran back to make sure he had the water he needed. It would have to be cold at this hour. 

This time, you did not knock, hoping that he’d still be preoccupied enough that you could just slip in, fill his basin and slip out. 

There was a slick, rhythmic noise that greeted you, along with a low, guttural groan. His chamber was darker without as many candles but the sight that greeted you was clear as day, and would forever be burned into your mind. Him, bathed in candlelight, his cock thick and shiny with his pearly arousal. 

His strength could never be denied, but like this, with his arm flexing with each long stroke, his muscles glinted. You’d seen all manner of people nude in your service, there was no shame in it. The human body was a work of art and growing up and giving into desires meant you’d seen men nude and ready to rut, but this was something else. The young men you'd been with were callow boys. This was a man. 

You stood there, frozen, and aching with an emptiness you hadn’t felt this keenly in so long. 

He felt you then, and looked up to see you watching him and before you could say anything he focused on the place so clearly visible through the wet fabric between your legs and moaned a filthy moan. You didn’t know whether to drop the jug of water and run, or mount him like you would a wild horse. You bit your lip, willing him to beckon you forth to him.

“Did you come back just to torment me, girl? Or would you lend a hand?” He watched your face, letting you decide what you wanted, you put the jug down and walked towards him. 

“I live to serve you, Dominus.” His brow furrowed with every step you took until his face tipped up to look into your eyes. 

“Take that off–” He grunted the last word, squeezing his cock in his fist while you obeyed. “Put your foot right here.” He gestured to the spot beside his thigh, and you did. “Spread it open. I want to see it.” He watched your sex, his mouth opening in a silent ‘O’ when you complied. “Are you wet for me, girl?” He sped up, fucking his fist in earnest. 

“Yes Dominus.” You slipped your fingers down, dipping them inside for a moment before showing him. He moaned again and your heart felt like a hummingbird in your chest. He grabbed at your fingers with his other hand and shoved them into his mouth, eyes closed and groaning around them and it was almost too much. 

“Take it Dominus, take me.” You whispered, watching his rapturous gaze with unwavering desire. You had no time to think, because within a second, he was up and pushing you down onto his bed, settling between your spread thighs. His sex hung heavy, an angry red and for a moment your stomach dropped imaging it inside you. 

“This will be quicker than I would wish it to be,” He grasped himself in hand, almost trembling as he lined himself up and sunk inside with one, quick thrust. “Gods above, girl, this little cunt was made for me.” He couldn’t hold himself back or give you time to adjust to his size, instead he set a brutal pace, and you held on, with arms around his neck and legs high on his hips for dear life. 

Your fingers ached with how tightly they gripped the curls at the base of his skull. You pulled him closer, needing to feel his weight as he stretched you open on his length, over and over, making everything bounce with the force of it. He was right about it being quick though, a handful of pumps was all it took for him to seize up, one hand palming your breast as he seized with a growl. You felt it, the spurt of him deep inside.

“It is a gift, my gift.” He watched himself, hissing with discomfort as he pulled himself out. “My seed, just for you.” His breath came in pants as he drew himself out, softened and spent and you were struck again by his beauty. With the flush of exertion blooming on his cheeks, and the rare smile on his lips, you couldn’t help but mirror the expression, even as your own climax slipped away with every passing second. “Your turn, now I must see pleasure on your face.” He huffed out the words before laying on his side to your right, resting his head on one hand to gain a better view of you spread out beside him. 

His fingers found the source of divinity between your legs. 

“Spread those pretty thighs nice and wide for me, girl, I would have access to all of you.” He spoke low, pressing his lips to your temple as his fingers used the slip of his own mess to stoke the fire spreading through your veins. “So lovely.” 

The reverence in his tone was so at odds with the confidence in his fingers, his skill was no tawdry thing and within a few moments the euphoria was so close you could taste it. You turned your face to him, silently begging for his mouth and he obliged, his kiss sweet as summer wine and all at once the wave crested. Your legs closed of their own accord, but this only bolstered him to slip two fingers inside, pumping through his seed and your liquid desire, laughing softly at the way you clutched at his arm. 

All of the times before, had been a jest. It was hard to know if anything you felt before could even be called pleasure. 

“Can you walk?” He pressed his lips to your shoulder, lowering them until he took a nipple into his mouth. You nodded. 

“Yes Dominus.” He placed a final kiss to the soft skin of your breast, the whiskers on his face tickling you. 

“Very well, off to bed.” The smile was gone, but it was replaced with a sleepy, satisfied look, one that you were sure would be gone in the morning. 

“Yes Dominus.” You rose, on shaky legs, grabbed your damp tunic, and slipped out of his chambers. 

—

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[luxaofhesperides]

Accidental Bride Sacrifice ; requested by @starlightcat04!

Danny has long since gotten used to the feel of summonings. They don’t happen often, but sometimes the right components are put together to force him into answering, and he’d have to go as the new Ghost King.

Which no one told him was a thing! He hadn’t protested too much about the whole Ghost King deal when they finally told him about it after he graduated high school. It gave him a good excuse to ditch life in the living realm and not worry about college or a career, and let him really embrace his ghost side. 

The summonings are a problem, though. They always feel staticky and bad, like a dumpster that just got struck by lightning. The taste of iron on his tongue, a clear sign of blood being spilled, lets him know that it would be one of end the world for us summonings, because some people can’t put in the effort to do it themselves, apparently. 

But this time, the summoning feels different.

Danny pauses, eyes going unfocused in the middle of his conversation with Jazz. He had been looking forward to spending the week with her, now that she’s on winter break, but his luck is as bad as always.

“I’m being summoned,” he tells her, cutting off her rant about a transphobic professor she had. 

“Oh, no. Do you need me to do anything? Should I go with you to beat up whoever it is that’s summoning you?”

Danny tilts his head to the side, considering. The taste of blood is noticeably absent. In fact, this summoning pull doesn’t make him feel sick at all. It makes him feel warm, as if he’s just been wrapped in a hug.

“No,” he says. “I think I’m good. This one feels different.”

“A good different?” Jazz asks, worry clear in her voice.

“Yeah. A good different. I’ll come back soon, okay?”

“Alright. Be careful, Danny.” Jazz pulls him into a quick hug, then steps back to watch as Danny stops fighting the pull of the summoning and disappears into a swirling white rings that flashes into existence behind him, blinding her for a moment, and is gone when she manages to blink the spots out of her vision. 

For a minute, Danny drifts in a void of stillness, traveling through the realms as the summoning draws him closer to the correct realm. And then he’s rising out of the ground in a dark building made of concrete, candles of green flame scattered all over the place.

“Great One!” someone in a hooded cloak cries, raising his arms in jubilation. “Our calls have been answered!”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” a mechanical voice yells from farther back. When Danny looks past the cultists’ heads, he spots a man in a red hood and leather jacket chained to a pole, along with a bunch of other people in strange costumes tied up, desperately trying to free themselves. 

“Silence!” The leader of the cult, or who Danny assumes is the leader, snaps at the hooded man and gestures to the people off to his left. They force another costumed person forward, this one in yellow armor. He can see the blood running down their face from beneath their helmet and from their nose, dark lines of blood cutting through their brown skin. 

The cultists throw the armored person forward, forcing them to kneel. Then they bow to Danny and step back.

“Great One,” the leader says, voice unpleasantly reverent and grating, “Welcome to the mortal realms. We offer you this sacrifice to feed your strength. He will make a fine general for your undead army in your crusade to rid this world of its filth.”

The people in the back begin shouting all together, panicked voices overlapping, and Danny is left staring down at the cultists in shock.

The summoning had felt so nice. What the hell was this? He did not sign up for another ‘end of days’ insane cult. He just wanted to be hugged. 

His silence makes the cultists nervous. They begin to shift uneasily, whispering to each other, and the leader clears his throat, then pulls a large crystal dagger out of his cloak. “We shall prove our devotion to you through an offering of a hero’s blood!”

And then he moves towards the sacrifice and Danny snaps out of his shock to yell, “Wait!”

The entire room freezes. Even the costumed people in the back go still. 

Danny winces, then tries to smother his power, make himself more palatable to the humans of this dimension. “Wait,” he says again, and he sounds closer to human now. If he could, he would drop his ghost form entirely, but he knows better than to endanger himself like that. “What, exactly, did you summon me here for?”

The cult leader stares at him for a moment. “To… To rid the world of filth and allow your loyal followers to spread word of your power. You will be worshiped again, Great One, and serve as a reminder to man that Death shall always prevail.”

“Okay, I get that, but I was talking more along the lines of the summoning. What ritual did you use? What specifically were the summoning requirements?”

Normally, he’d be able to figure it out himself, but these cultists didn’t use a summoning circle. So they did something else, something less visible and therefore harder to figure out, in order to bring him here.

A woman standing off to the side speaks up, stepping forward hesitantly. “I had pieced together a few summoning spells from this book to bring you here. You had to accept our chosen sacrifice to your side in order for the summoning to work.”

“Hold up that book for me, please?”

She does, and Danny flies down to grab it from her hands. “Point out which lines you used,” he says, already reading a few of the words written down. It’s definitely ghostspeak written down, which should be near impossible for living humans to translate without being skilled in magic.

“Ah, these ones.” She points to each line, reading them out for him, and Danny starts understand what, exactly, went wrong.

“Is there a problem, Great One?”

Danny returns the book then floats over to the sacrifice and picks him up. The costumed people make alarmed noises, but quietly quiet down again when all Danny does is move him away from the cultists.

“Okay,” he says, “So. The lines you used to summon me were not translated properly. What you interpreted as ‘accepted to stay by the king’s side in loyalty and strength’ is not meant to be, like, him being part of my undead army or whatever. It’s a royal marriage vow.”

“They married us?” the sacrifice shouts, disbelieving. The cult leader buries his face in his hands and sighs.

“My deepest apologies, Great One. We meant no offense. We simply wanted to aid in your destruction of this depraved world.”

Danny scrunches his nose and shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly with me. I do not do the biding of random people, especially those who are ready to murder innocent people for no reason. Frighty, if you would.” He snaps his fingers, calling up Fright Knight who always enjoys getting to torment the people who summon Danny for murderous reasons.

Fright Knight appears in a swirl of darkness and screams. Shadows swallow the room, and when they recede, no cultists remain.

“Thanks, Frighty. Have fun with them. I need to figure out all… this.”

Fright Knight bows to him, then disappears. Danny lets out a breath, then floats down lower to be eye level with the sacrifice. “Hey,” he says gently, with a smile, “I’m so sorry they did this to you. I’m Danny. What’s your name?”

“Du— Uh, Signal,” the sacrifice says, sounding rather dazed. 

“Signal,” Danny repeats. “Like… a traffic signal?”

“No. I mean, maybe? But it is Signal. That’s my hero name, not my real name.”

“Oh, you’re a hero!” His getup makes more sense now. Danny checks him over for any signs of injuries. So far, only his head and nose seem to be injured, but his wrists are tightly bound behind his back. Carefully, Danny calls upon his ice and shapes it into a sharp knife, then cuts through the zipties.

He helps Signal up to his feet, floating by his shoulder. “All good?”

“Yeah, man, all good. Let me just get the others free.”

“Oh, I can do it!” Danny flies over to the other costumed people, who must also be heroes. All it takes is one link in the chain being frozen and broken for the entire thing to go lax, allowing them to free themselves. Hooded guy spares Danny a single glance, then hurries over to Signal to check on him. The other three, a man with a blue bird across his chest, a blond girl with a yellow bat outline on her chest, and a guy with bandoliers and a golden bird emblem, all watch him warily as he floats back towards the center of the room.

“So,” the blue bird man says, “If they summoned you with a marriage vow, and you accepted, does that mean you’re planning to steal Signal away from us?” He’s smiling, but it’s not a nice smile.

“No! I had no idea they did this! I am so sorry you all got caught up in this. You most of all, Signal.”

Signal shrugs, nudging hood guy away from him. “Nah, man, it’s all good. This is definitely the better outcome.”

“I don’t know, being married off isn’t really a good thing.”

“Hey, at least they married me off to a decent guy.”

“You don’t know that,” Danny says, “What if I’m secretly evil?”

“If you were secretly evil, you’d be destroying the world right now. I think you’re fine.”

The blond girl waves at him, demanding his attention. “Quick question! They were calling you ‘Great One’. Are you a god or something?”

“Not really? I’m the Ghost King. So I’m a ghost who rules over other ghosts and also a majority of the Infinite Realms.”

She nods as if this is all totally normal for her, then shoots Signal a grin. “Congrats on bagging a king! Not the worst way to spend a night, right?”

“Can you break the marriage?” blue bird man asks, the lines of his shoulders tense.

Danny awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, not looking any of them in the eye. “I honestly don’t know. I can look for a way! But I genuinely have no clue. This was unexpected.”

“But you accepted.”

“I didn’t know what I expected! It just felt like a hug, and I wanted a hug! I thought I was being summoned for something nice for once!” Danny curls up, bringing his knees up to his chest, and hides his pout behind his hands. He knows he’s being childish, but he can’t help but be upset that he couldn’t have this one good experience from being Ghost King. 

It’s always responsibilities and death cult summonings and fighting ghosts who don’t think he should be king. Sure there have been some good things, but they’re comparatively few when looking at all the other stress and pain that comes with the crown. Sue him for wanting to have a nice night for once. Hell, at this point, he’d take being summoned to help with some kid’s homework, because at least then he could have a quiet night helping someone.

“Hey, man, can you come down here?” Signal asks. 

He wants to stay out of reach, hiding himself away for a bit longer, but Signal is his new, surprise, accidental husband, so Danny lowers himself to the ground and peeks through his fingers to look at him.

He tenses when Signal hugs him, soft and warm and comforting. It takes a moment for him to realize what’s going on, and then he’s melting into Signal’s embrace, dropping his hands to wrap them around Signal’s back.

Distantly, he can hear the other heroes talking quietly amongst themselves. He blocks out the sound as much as he can, determined to enjoy this hug while it lasts.

Which is… fairly long. Signal makes no moves to end the hug, so Danny closes his eyes to really savor the moment. 

“So,” Signal murmurs into his ear, “As newlyweds, how about we get to know each other a bit better before we start working on fixing all this?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Let’s ditch these guys and take some time to ourselves.”

“I promise I’ll get this fixed,” he says, just to make sure Signal knows. “Genuinely, I am so sorry to have married you through an old Realms vow when you had no say in it.”

“Hey, if it lands me a very nice, very attractive king, then I don’t mind at all. I could have done without the murderous cultists, though.”

Danny huffs out a small laugh. “Oh, for sure. Thanks for being so cool about this. Want me to fly us out of here?”

“Yes please,” Signal says. Danny smiles and tightens his grip on Signal, then lifts them both up. “I’ll see y’all later! Have fun with the rest of your patrols!” he calls out to the other heroes, who start shouting at him.

Danny flies them right out the roof before the other heroes figure out a way to kick his ass. The city they’re in is smoggy and dark, tall buildings rising up into the cloudy sky, and police sirens ring through the air. There’s no where that looks like a particularly nice spot to land for a conversation, so he asks Signal where he’d like to go and follows his directions from there.

They end up phasing through a building, then into the floor, which leaves them in what Signal calls The Hatch. 

Danny takes a quick moment to freak out over being in a hero’s secret hide out, the composes himself and finally pulls away from Signal.

“So,” he starts, looking around The Hatch and taking in the giant computer, the workstation, the motorcycle farther down the way, “What did you—Woah!” Danny spins around, slamming a hand over his eyes the instant he realizes that Signal is taking off his helmet, leaving his face bare.

It’s not like he’d know who Signal is anyways, being from a different dimension, but it’s the principle of the matter.

Signal laughs when he sees Danny’s attempt to keep from looking at him. A warm hand wraps around his wrist and gently pulls it away. “It’s okay, Danny, you can look,” he says. “It would be pretty weird if my own husband didn’t know my face.”

Slowly, giving Signal to change his mind, Danny opens his eyes. He moves his gaze up, going from Signal’s armor to his face, his very cute face and his warm brown eyes, and Danny stares for a moment. 

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi,” Signal says, fondness coloring his voice. “My name’s Duke. Are all Ghost Kings as cute as you?”

“Duke,” Danny repeats. “Hi. Um, no. The last one really sucked, actually, which is why I fought him. He was so bad the Infinite Realms didn’t want him anymore, so though I technically didn’t beat him in single combat, it was enough for the Infinite Realms to kick him out and get me on the throne.”

“Man, I can not wait to hear more of your stories. Think we got time for that while we search for a way to undo that marriage vow?”

Taking his chance, Danny says, “Sure! It’s a date.”

He’s awarded by Duke’s bright smile and idly wonders how long he can keep them married. Hopefully long enough for them to get into a real relationship where he can propose properly. And then he can get Jazz’s blessing too—

“Oh shit,” Danny realizes. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I need to tell my sister or she’s going to actually kill me.”

Duke winces. “And I should probably tell the others before Spoiler makes a mess of things… B is not going to be happy with me.”

They share a despairing look, already dreading the amount of scoldings they’re both going to get. He’s not looking forward to it.

“...Put it off until tomorrow?”

Duke nods. “Yeah. That’s a tomorrow problem. For now, how about a late dinner?”

“Sounds perfect.”

. . .

[send me a ghostlights prompt!]

[sulkingheichou012]

Into the Dungeon with You

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Future Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

[Special Reward Successfully Claimed.]

Author's note: I'm happy that some of you are enjoying my silly work! Yes, if you're asking to be tagged—sure! 😊

Chapter 12

The ground trembled beneath an army gathered at the heart of humanity’s last stand. Hunters of every rank stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons clenched tight in their grasp, faces grim but determined. Even the weakest among them stood their ground, refusing to abandon the front lines, because behind them was home—and family.

And at the forefront stood the Shadow Army. Ten thousand strong. Silent. Unflinching. Giants towered over mountains, the air thick with Tusk’s arcane incantations. Bellion, Igris and Beru knelt at Jinwoo’s side, their auras blazing in anticipation.

And standing just behind him was Y/N.

Her scythe rested over her shoulder, and at her feet was a massive, slumbering shadow—her dragon. Its pitch-black scales shimmered with deep violet veins, its breath rumbling like distant thunder.

She whispered to the dragon, “Be ready.”

The portal in the sky pulsed ominously, dark tendrils spilling out, distorting the air itself. And then— A tear ripped through the clouds.

He came.

Antares arrived like a black sun blotting out the heavens. Wings outspread, talons sharp enough to rend continents, his descent cracked the earth itself. His molten glowing red eyes swept the battlefield with disdain.

And then, they settled on Jinwoo.

“You’ve gathered quite the resistance,” Antares said, his deep voice like the grinding of mountains.

Jinwoo stood tall, unmoved. “They’re not here for me. They’re here to protect what matters.”

Antares chuckled. “Protect? When the end is inevitable?” He spread his claws wide, gesturing toward the swirling abyss above. “The Primordial Hunger stirs. Even if you kill me, you’ve already lost.”

Jinwoo tightened his grip on his blade. “I haven’t lost anything yet.”

Antares tilted his head, his gaze shifting—landing on Y/N.

She froze.

Her shadow dragon rose, snarling low at the Dragon Monarch. Antares’ interest piqued. “You,” he murmured. “The Balance Keeper. Ashborn’s broken anchor.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I’m not broken.”

She wasn’t ready for the sheer heat of that stare. It was like staring into the heart of an active volcano. Her chaotic brain, ever unhelpful, whispered: Majestic Daddy Dragon… Which was immediately followed by her own mental slap: Stop that!

But Antares noticed. Of course he did. Instead of fear, he found curiosity. Sparkle.

Antares gave a slow, cruel smile. “Perhaps not. But you will be.” he said, voice lowering as if it was a secret shared between them.

“I expected terror. But I see… fascination.”

But Jinwoo’s shadow swelled, and he took a deliberate step in front of her. “You will not touch her,” Jinwoo said, his voice dropping an octave.

Antares sighed. “A shame. She’s… intriguing.”

Antares’ offer came. Alliance. Partnership. Protection from the Primordial Hunger that was already stirring.

But Jinwoo refused. Exactly as Y/N knew he would.

And as Antares’ disappointment turned into lethal intent, Y/N found herself gripping her scythe tighter. This was it. The calm was over.

Jinwoo gave no warning. In a blink, he was in motion— Sword clashing against Antares’ talon in a blinding explosion of black and red.

The shockwave blew back the front line of Hunters. Tusk threw up shields of magic to hold the line.

Above them, titans clashed. Antares was relentless, his strength honed by eons of conquest. Jinwoo was faster, cutting deeper, shadow blades slashing like lightning strikes.

But it was not enough. Every time Jinwoo pressed forward, the portal tore wider behind Antares. The Primordial Hunger pulsed, screaming to be let loose upon the world.

Y/N didn’t stand still.

While Jinwoo fought Antares, she ran to the front lines. Hunters were falling, their ranks breaking under the weight of lesser dragons and corrupted beasts spilling from smaller tears. Y/N swung her scythe in wide arcs, cutting down monstrosities with brutal grace.

“Hold the line!” she shouted. Her dragon roared beside her, unleashing streams of black flame that consumed the enemy.

When a Hunter was about to fall, she was there. When a squad was about to break, she summoned shadow manifestations of ancient warriors, spectral heroes, and great beasts to bolster them.

But it wasn’t enough.

The monsters kept coming.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. But Y/N didn’t hesitate. She called forth more of her Shadow Manifestations—warriors she didn’t know, yet who stood for her as if they’d been waiting for the call their whole afterlife.

“You fight for me,” she whispered. “Then I fight for you.”

Y/N was everywhere. Her control of the battlefield was flawless.

And Antares noticed.

Through the corner of his eye, he watched as she rallied the broken, her dragon shielding the weak. The Balance Keeper… restoring the fragile thread between life and death, holding the tide back.

He sneered. “She’s interfering.”

But Jinwoo heard none of it. He was locked in a brutal exchange, his blade carving deep into Antares’ scales, his strength driven by something deeper—someone he couldn’t lose.

Antares roared, shifting back into his true form—massive wings blotting out the light. The heat of his flames scorched the land. The Shadow Legion roared in response. And Jinwoo’s shadows surged forward to meet him.

Jinwoo glanced once toward Y/N. And found her already staring at him.

He spoke through their minds. “I’m proud of you,” he said. And then, “Stay alive.”

Y/N’ throat tightened. “You too, idiot.”

And yet, the Primordial Hunger continued to awaken.

Y/N saw it. The portal above was too vast, too hungry. Even if Jinwoo defeated Antares, the world was moments away from being devoured.

And then it struck her.

Ashborn’s final battle. The memory of his agony as she gave her life to seal the rift. History was repeating itself.

Y/N bit her lip hard, her scythe trembling in her grip.

She turned back toward Jinwoo. He was fighting with everything he had. For her. For everyone.

Tears stung her eyes.

Jinwoo was struck hard by Antares.

He flew back, smashing into the ground with an explosion of debris.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She sprinted toward him, throwing herself down beside him.

He coughed, blood painting his lips. But his eyes were on her immediately, searching her face.

“You have to stay back,” he rasped. “I can do this.”

Y/N’ throat closed. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Before he could react, she leaned in— And pressed her forehead to his. A soft, lingering moment in the chaos.

“I’m glad I met you,” she whispered, tears threatening. “You… you are my home.”

Jinwoo’s breath hitched. “Y/N, don’t—”

But she was already rising. Running.

The battlefield had descended into utter chaos. The skies tore open with gaping maws of endless blackness, spilling the influence of the Primordial Hunger. Portals bled into each other, rupturing reality as monstrous distortions clawed at existence itself. Even Antares, locked in deadly combat with Jinwoo, glanced up once— And smiled. “The beginning of the end,” he whispered with cruel satisfaction.

But Y/N had already made her decision.

She exhaled shakily, lifting her gaze to the sky. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, calling to the massive shadow coiled nearby. Her dragon responded instantly, rising from the ground with a thunderous roar that shook what little was left of the earth.

Y/N vaulted onto its back. Her scythe stabbed into the beast’s hide—not to harm it, but to anchor herself as they surged skyward. The dragon’s wings spread wide, obsidian membranes shimmering like oil on water as it carried her toward the heart of the apocalyptic storm.

Below them, the Hunters were frozen in place, gazes lifted. “Lady Y/N…” murmured one of the low-rank Hunters, eyes wide in awe.

“She’s going for the portal!” shouted another.

“She’s going to close it!”

A rallying cry rose from the ranks. Their voices shook with desperation and hope.

Beru and other shadows knelt in the dirt, his mandibles clicking anxiously. Bellion and Igris, battered but standing tall, silently lifted his sword toward the sky in salute.

As Y/N and her dragon climbed higher, the winds howled violently. The Primordial Hunger’s influence battered at her, tendrils of dark energy lashing at her skin. Blood streaked her cheeks, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward.

“Just a little closer…” she murmured. The dragon’s muscles coiled tight as it reached the apex of its flight. With a final, guttural roar, it unleashed a torrent of shadowflame, scouring a path directly into the heart of the portal.

Y/N rose to stand atop the dragon’s neck, arms wide. Her scythe vanished in a ripple of shadow. In its place, black tendrils erupted from her fingertips—long, thick shadow chains, glowing faintly with ancient runes.

“Bind,” she commanded. Her voice was steady, though her body shook.

The chains shot outward, spearing into the edges of the largest rift in the sky. The entire world seemed to groan under the strain as the chains anchored themselves deep into reality’s seams. Then— She pulled.

Y/N screamed. Shadow energy exploded from her body in a shockwave that sent the dragon tumbling beneath her. But she did not fall. She hovered, suspended by sheer will.

The chains groaned and tightened, inch by agonizing inch, dragging the portal shut. Each moment was a battle. For every meter the portal closed, the Primordial Hunger pushed back twice as hard.

Blood poured from her nose and ears. Her vision blurred. But Y/N smiled through it all. “Not this time,” she whispered. “I’ll finish it.”

Below, the Hunters watched in stunned silence. They saw her glowing like a dying star, her dragon dissolving beneath her into black dust. And still, she pulled the chains tighter.

Relief and sorrow warred in their expressions. “She’s doing it…” whispered a Hunter. “She’s winning.”

But others wept openly. “She’s… she’s not coming back, is she?”

Jinwoo felt it the moment Y/N gave herself to the Balance Keeper’s duty. A tearing sensation in his chest, as if something inside him was being ripped away.

He roared, driving Kamish’s fang deeper into Antares’ hide. The Dragon Monarch snarled, retaliating with brutal fury— But Jinwoo was relentless. Fueled by desperation. By rage.

He drove Antares back, deeper into the broken ruins of what was once a city. Every strike Jinwoo delivered cracked the air itself, his shadows swarming in a black hurricane.

Antares smirked through the pain. “You’ve already lost her,” he hissed.

And Jinwoo snapped. He unleashed everything. Antares’ massive body was thrown back, smashing through the remnants of a skyscraper, pinned by a forest of shadow spears.

Jinwoo didn’t wait. He turned and sprinted toward the sky.

The portal was closing. The chains had nearly finished their work. The sky was clearing.

But Y/N— She was falling.

Her dragon was gone, disintegrated into stardust. And she followed, her body fragmenting into particles of light and shadow. Each breath she took scattered her essence a little more.

Jinwoo’s heart stopped.

He leapt. Shadow teleportation blurred his form as he raced to catch her before she was lost.

“Y/N!” he shouted. Her gaze found him, dazed but soft. She smiled. “We did it.”

He caught her— But there was nothing solid. Her form dissolved against his chest, leaving faint warmth and motes of light behind.

“No. No, no, no… Please... not like this…” Jinwoo’s hands scrambled to hold her together, but his fingers passed through smoke and fading light.

And she was gone.

The portal sealed behind her, its edges stitched closed by shadow chains that dissolved into the ether.

Hunters dropped to their knees, some crying and roaring out in relief, others in grief. They had won. The world was saved.

But the cost…

Jinwoo stood in the center of the ruin, arms empty, head bowed. Shadows swirled around him, restless and mourning.

The silence was deafening.

Jinwoo knelt there for a long time, hands still out as if cradling something that wasn’t there. His head bowed. His shadows stood frozen behind him, unmoving, silent in mourning.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He simply… stopped.

The world was quiet. The battle was over. But the ache had only just begun.

And in the wind, A faint whisper: “I love you.”

His fists clenched. Tears dripped from his chin. But when he raised his head again, his eyes burned with purpose.

“I’ll find you, Y/N,” he swore. “Even if I have to tear through every realm to bring you home.”

And the Shadow Monarch took his first step toward a new journey.

<< Chapter 11 | Chapter 13 >>

Tag requests: @kisssleeping; @catsf0rlife707; @aorifukuzawa; @joannthebish; @ojog404; @tanspostsblog; @snowy-violet; @o-qi-shisme; @sleepyamaya; @harrystylesfan2686; @night-shadowblood-writes2; @weaponxgames; @bubera974;

Sending big hugs to every Y/N out there 😭💔

[aventurineswife]

I thought of an one piece x Genshin x Hsr crossover idea with a mix of SAGAU and SAHSRAU with the Creator being Kuma after watching the lastest episode of one piece about Kuma's past

How would The Entire SAGAU and SAHSRAU cast react after finding out What Kuma (aka their Creator) endured throughout their entire from getting sold and brought in slavery as a child to Witnessing a Event that was erased from history to Joining the Revolutionary army with their Love to hearing that their Love getting kidnapped and forced to have a child with a higher noble before their Love was thrown out like trash while having a Disease before dieing shortly after Kuma found her dead and only Leaving a child before raising the child as their own before finding out that their Daughter has the same disease that killed their Mother before finding out that it's a incurable disease before going from kingdom to kingdom to find a cure for their daughter while being on the run from the world government before they willing sacrificed their memories and concession and become a weapon in exchange to have their daughter cured AFTER dealing with the faker who was posing as the Real Creator.

Also how enraged will the Entire SAGAU and SAHSRAU cast be towards the world government after they found that the world government targeted Kuma reader specifically due to their Buccaneer bloodline and with the Bloodline believing in Sun God Nika,

God that was long but if you want the full context, the video is here

Oh, this idea?

This is biblical.

Kuma as the Creator in this kind of crossover, post-Episode 1106, is like handing a lit match to an oil-soaked world and saying “I’ve endured enough.”

(Might be ooc because I haven't watched one piece, so apologises in advance.)

Once they piece together everything—the slavery, the pain, the love lost, the incomprehensible self-sacrifice for your daughter, and the world’s cruelty—their worship turns into something far deeper, almost primal:

They don’t just love you.

They grieve for you.

They mourn the world that hurt you.

And they rage in your name.

They realize the "faker" who paraded as you and demanded worship wasn't just an imposter—it was a final insult on your shattered existence. And now that they know?

It’s open war.

SAGAU Characters Reaction:

These people already place you in a divine light. But now that they’ve seen what you endured? You’ve become more than their god.

You’re their savior, their martyr, and their symbol of resistance.

Zhongli goes deathly quiet. Stone-cold rage. You’ve endured what he considers a history’s worth of suffering, and he could not act. He considers this his greatest failure. When he speaks, it’s to condemn the World Government’s crimes in formal, godlike judgment.

Xiao becomes your eternal blade. He once protected Liyue—now he protects you, not as a god, but as someone who deserved better.

Ei? She sees in you the pain of eternity without peace. She meditates in silence for hours before rising with lightning in her eyes. “They will not touch you again.”

Diluc, with his disdain for corruption, goes full vengeance mode. He would torch the World Government's strongholds himself if he could.

Nahida learns everything and remembers everything—even the parts erased from history. She reconstructs your truth and plants it across the world like seeds of divine justice.

Furina cries loudly, theatrically—but it's not for show. It's guilt. It's helplessness. She was meant to serve justice. Where was it for you?

You’re not just the Creator anymore.

You’re the embodiment of resilience through cruelty.

SAHSRAU Characters Reaction:

These are people who know systems, who’ve fought oppressive regimes, who have stared into the voids of corporate gods and mechanical tyrants.

The moment they learn your history, it’s like seeing the worst parts of the universe personified.

And you endured it all. Willingly. For your daughter.

They revere you like a star that refused to die.

Kafka is all venomous fury. “They turned you into a machine. Into a weapon.” She turns to her crew: “We’re dismantling this system. Top to bottom.”

Blade, in all his brokenness, sees a mirror of himself in you. He swears by blood to destroy anyone who hurt you—and he means everyone.

Silver Wolf hacks into everything she can reach, tracing the World Government’s threads. “Let’s erase them from the data like they tried to erase you.”

Dan Heng’s eyes glow with a wrath you’ve never seen before. “You should never have suffered like this.” He will protect you, even if it kills him.

March 7th sobs uncontrollably. “Why does the world always hurt the kind ones?”

Jing Yuan handles it with quiet intensity. “You sacrificed everything for love. You are not a god to us. You are the ideal we should all follow.”

To the Astral Express? You are the true Stellaron—the spark that ignites revolutions.

Once they learn why you were targeted—the Buccaneer bloodline, your link to Nika, your hope—everything shifts.

They don’t just hate the World Government.

They declare them a cosmic enemy.

The belief in Sun God Nika? That’s divine inspiration to the people of Teyvat and the stars. To them, you are that hope. They see you now not just as a Creator, but as the living echo of liberation.

Your bloodline became your curse—and now it becomes a symbol of freedom. All who follow you now fight to undo what the World Government erased.

You’re no longer just a silent god.

You're a revolution.

The Genshin and HSR casts are no longer just your followers.

They are your avengers, your witnesses, your family.

They don’t pray for your peace.

They fight for it.

And this time, you are not alone.