The youngest was the fairest of all, and her name was Beauty. Beauty only came out at night.

It was an accident.

Armin can be kind. People always tend to make the mistake of assuming that makes him nice, and he can’t help but feel that mistake clanging dissonantly in his chest as he sprints down the last living member of his squad, blade already in hand, Eren’s sloppy chewing noises behind him.

Two very different people fall in love with a boy called death. Finding each other is chance. Falling for each other isn’t. This is their story. (Or in which Nico is Death with a capital D, Annabeth is a serial killer, and Percy is the poor schmuck who falls for both of them.)

Sanji is carefully placing a cherry on top of the ice cream, his hands nimble, soft, almost—gentle. But all Zoro sees is the way the hems of his pants are still soaked in blood from an earlier skirmish with a marine ship, red seeping into the cracks on the floorboard, spattering across the kitchen floor in a slow drip, drip, drip. Zoro stares, fascinated. He can’t bring himself to look away. (Or, Zoro and Sanji—terrible monsters, in love)

Love is a weapon brought to bear. Love is blood spilled without remorse, and a kiss that’s so sweet they can ignore the taste of copper underneath.

When old sect leader Nie dies, the Wen sect attacks and annexes Qinghe Nie, with the two heirs of the Nie sect taken to be raised as Wen Ruohan's wards - and more besides, in Nie Mingjue's case. Nie Huaisang spends a lot of time thinking about that.

A man who binds himself with so many rules is afraid of what he will do without them. When all his righteousness is not enough and his little brother is killed by one he trusted, Nie Mingjue casts aside all restraint and principle. He travels to the Burial Mounds, his brother's corpse cradled in his arms, and kneels before the Yiling Patriarch, begging him to bring his brother back - And then he goes to seek an accounting. No matter what the cost.

“It’s not wrong if you write it down,” Mo Xuanyu muttered to himself like a mantra as he scribbled down a rough explanation of what he was going to do. “If you write it down, it’s just an experiment, and that makes it okay.” That’s what they used to say back at Koi Tower, back when they were doing all those bad things. They also said that you’re supposed to try stuff out before you do the real thing, because practice makes perfect. And anyway, surely it wouldn't hurt to put the cat in the middle of the body-sacrificing array before he put himself in - the array ran on resentment, on revenge, and how much resentment could a cat possibly have?

Obi-Wan went over thirty years without a heat. It was hardly unusual or unexpected. Everyone knew omega reproductive systems were finicky. Omegas were incredibly fertile while in heat. Nature had, perhaps, compensated for the situation by ensuring they only went into heat when...conditions were correct. OR, the Dark Side AU where the Empire is already in power, the Jedi are long gone, and Obi-Wan Kenobi ends up leading an army to wipe out the Emperor's enemies. Things get more complicated when he goes into heat.

“Bring me the Joker’s head on a platter,” Jason says, and he doesn’t mean anything by it, not really. It’s the kind of thing he jokes about when he’s overwhelmed, and he’s overwhelmed by Tim a lot. Tim’s intensity makes Jason turn flippant, makes him counterweigh the seriousness with comments about his own torture and death, like that will somehow lighten the mood. Jason says all kinds of things, for all kinds of reasons. He doesn’t expect anyone to listen.