#scrape quartet

[nofatclips]

The Wolf by Jherek Bischoff with the SCRAPE Quartet, live for Second Inversion

[orjustsomeghostofme]

////

[rosierin]

when the world isn't kind (at least they are) | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; (y/n)'s day has been a string of minor disasters. she’s cold, wet, and one comment away from crying. lucky for her, she lives with three people who know just how to fix a bad day.

a/n; thanks anon for the request!! i enjoyed writing this ☺️

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

She hadn’t woken up in a bad mood.

In fact, she’d actually felt kind of hopeful. The sky had been soft and grey, the air cool enough to wear a sweater, and she’d hummed her way through brushing her teeth, already thinking about the green tea and toast she’d have before work.

But the kitchen... had other plans.

No green tea. No jam. Just an almost-empty jar that looked like someone had scraped it clean and then smugly put the lid back on. She stood there for a moment, toast in hand, chewing on dry disappointment and reminding herself it wasn’t a big deal. Minor inconvenience. Not the end of the world.

Then she missed her bus. Not by a lot—just enough to watch it glide past her like a cruel joke, her half-eaten toast still in hand. She stared after it, mouth full, heart already starting to sink. The next bus was late. The air was muggy. Her tote bag strap kept slipping off her shoulder.

By the time she got to work, the café was already drowning in orders. They were short-staffed, the espresso machine was being temperamental, and one of the to-go lids kept popping off no matter how hard she pressed it down. A customer complained that her “vibe” was off. Another one yelled at her because they ordered almond milk and somehow got oat. She burned her hand. Her manager raised an eyebrow like it was her fault the universe was visibly against her.

Still, she kept it in. Smiled when she had to. Made it through the day on muscle memory and caffeine and one lone protein bar she found at the bottom of her bag—probably the one Suna gave her earlier that week. At least it was her favourite flavour. Small mercy, she supposed.

When her shift finally ended, she didn’t even clock the clouds until she was pushing the café door open. The bell above her jingled. The air smelled damp.

She stepped outside—and sighed. A deep, resentful, resigned, and exhausted sigh.

Rain.

Not the soft, misty kind—the drizzly kind she could potentially work with. No. It had to be the cold, needly, drench-you-in-seconds kind.

Her eyes widened slightly, lips parting.

And of course. Of course.

Today of all days, she hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella.

Because why would she? The morning had been grey, not stormy. And she was tired. And her brain was full of everything except weather.

So she just stood there for a second. Let it hit her. Let the water soak into her sleeves, her shoes, her skin.

Then she walked. Head down. Shoulders hunched. Rain dripping from her hair and one minor inconvenience away from a full-blown breakdown.

By the time she pushed open the front door of the apartment, all she wanted was a bath. Maybe a hot chocolate—if they even HAD any—and then bed. No boys. No banter. No dinner table nonsense. Just steam, silence, and sleep.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit and quiet. It smelled faintly of something Osamu had probably cooked earlier, something homely and rich. Her keys clinked into the bowl by the door as she slipped off her shoes with a sigh, water squelching in her socks.

From the living room, she heard the low murmur of the TV. Suna’s armchair creaked slightly, and Osamu’s spoon tapped against a bowl. Neither of them called out to her, but she felt the shift in energy—the subtle way the room quieted at the sound of the door, like they had somehow already picked up on her bad vibes.

“Hey,” Osamu said, voice low and even. Gentle, but not pitiful.

Suna’s eyes flicked toward her, taking in her drenched clothes and the unmistakable aura of someone on the brink. “You okay?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She nodded once, already moving toward the stairs. “Just gonna shower.”

Neither of them stopped her. No jokes, no teasing. Just a quiet “Alright,” from Osamu and the return of the TV hum as she trudged past them.

But then—

From the kitchen came him.

Mister Tactless himself.

Atsumu, barefoot and fresh from a snack raid, rounded the corner with a slice of cold pizza in his hand and a mouthful of something stupid to say.

He barely looked at her before the laugh slipped out.

“Shit—ya look like a drowned rat.”

It wasn’t cruel. Just thoughtless. Reflexive. The kind of teasing that normally earned him a shove or an eye-roll.

But tonight it landed differently.

Her breath caught in her chest, like something inside her clenched all at once and just... snapped. She didn’t even say anything. Just… stood there, dripping on the hardwood floor, lip trembling before she could stop it.

Atsumu blinked. The smile slid off his face.

“Wait—hey, I didn’t—”

Her hands came up to her face, and then it happened. The kind of crying that didn’t make a sound at first—just shaking shoulders and a sharp inhale, like her body was trying to hold it in but failing.

Osamu stood up, face hardening as he shot Atsumu a look. Suna didn’t say anything, just dragged his chair in a slow pivot to glance at the scene.

Atsumu was frozen. Like someone had unplugged his brain. Even the pizza seemed to droop slightly in his hand.

“Shit, okay—c’mere.”

He set his food down and crossed the room fast, arms hesitating for a half second before he wrapped them around her, warm and solid and stupidly gentle for someone who’d just called her a wet rodent.

“'M sorry, ’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, rocking her a little like that might help. His voice was quiet now, words pressed into her hair. “'M sorry sweetheart. I thought you’d joke back. I didn’t know, I swear."

She shook her head against his chest, her fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt.

“No, it’s not you,” she mumbled, voice watery. “I just… I’ve had a really shitty day.”

She didn’t pull away right away. Just stayed there, tucked into him like she was trying to disappear. Her breath hiccupped against his chest, damp clothes clinging to both of them now.

Atsumu ran his palm up and down her back in slow, shaky sweeps. Like he wasn’t totally sure it was helping, but couldn’t stop himself.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

She exhaled through her nose, shaky and tired. “Just… everything. It honestly just felt like one thing after another. I kept it in all day and now it’s like—” She pulled back slightly, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “It’s stupid. I just wanna take a bath and go to bed.”

“S'not stupid.”

He said it instantly. No teasing. No grin. Just a low murmur with an edge of guilt clinging to the end of it.

“Alright,” he added after a pause, stepping back like he didn’t want to crowd her, “Go run yer bath. I’ll heat somethin’ up in case ya get hungry later.”

She nodded, still blinking back the last of her tears, and gave him a tired half-smile. Not quite forgiveness. But close.

He watched her retreat down the hall, water still trailing behind her, and rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink.

Behind him, Suna muttered mockingly. “Drowned rat?”

Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Shut up.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bathroom filled with steam in minutes, fogging up the mirror and softening the harshness of the day. She sank into the water slowly, letting out a shaky breath as the warmth wrapped around her like a balm. For the first time since she’d woken up, her shoulders started to lower. Her jaw unclenched. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The bath salts she’d been saving for a “bad day” finally got their moment. Lavender and eucalyptus curled through the air, calming her nerves as they prickled beneath the surface. Her hair was damp and messy, her eyes still puffy, but the silence was kind. Her breath came easier here.

She didn’t stay in long. Just long enough to stop shaking. Long enough to feel like herself again.

After wrapping herself in her softest pyjamas and towel-drying her hair, she padded barefoot back toward her room, ready to collapse into bed and forget today ever happened.

But when she opened her door, something else caught her attention.

There, sitting neatly on the centre of her bed, was a single daisy from the living room vase. It was slightly crooked, like it had been plucked in a hurry. Next to it sat her favourite kind of chocolate bar—half-melted around the edges like someone had clutched onto it too tightly.

A folded scrap of paper sat beneath the daisy. Her name jotted across it in messy, slightly smudged handwriting.

She recognised it instantly. Picked it up with a curious hum.

Sorry again for earlier. You’re not a drowned rat. Also Samu said I’m banned from the kitchen so if you’re hungry I’ll just order ya somethin. Just say the word. Please don’t hate me. – Tsumu ♡

She stood there for a long moment, lips twitching into the kind of smile you don’t even feel at first. Then she placed the flower gently on her nightstand, unwrapped the chocolate, and read the note one more time—tracing her thumb over the messy little heart at the end.

And just like that, the heaviness in her chest loosened a little.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel like being alone anymore.

She padded out of her room and down the stairs, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. Her hair was damp and slightly frizzy, her cheeks still a little pink from the bath, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.

Suna looked up first. He didn’t say anything—just raised his eyebrows slightly in greeting and moved his legs so she could sit down.

Osamu glanced over from the armchair. “There’s soup on the stove,” he said casually. “And hot chocolate in the thermos.”

Atsumu twisted around on the couch, too swift for it to be casual. His face lit up in that boyish, unfiltered way he never quite managed to hide around her.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Feelin’ better?”

She nodded, curling up between him and Suna with a tired little sigh. “Yeah.”

He draped an arm over her blanket cocoon, hesitating for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was still in trouble.

Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Forgiven.

They watched some random show for a while. Nothing important. Nothing serious. Suna handed her a mug of hot chocolate without looking. Osamu disappeared into the kitchen, then reappeared with a warm bowl of soup and a slice of bread, setting it on the coffee table like he could already sense her hunger even before she did.

No one said much.

But her eyes stopped stinging. Her chest felt a little less heavy. And when Atsumu nudged her knee and whispered, “yer the cutest rat I've ever seen” she rolled her eyes—but smiled this time.

The world hadn’t been kind to her today. But her friends were.

And that made all the difference.

[hannie-dul-set]

YOU’RE MY BUCKET LIST.

p — SHEN QUANRUI x fem! reader. g — humor, fluff, lovestruck! ricky trying his darnest to be cool. w — swearing, secondhand embarrassment what did you expect from me. 2.8k words.

note — rewriting the backstory of his leopard print shirt. my loser idolverse is expanding. no one is safe. who should i throw into the depths of patheticness next.

ricky doesn’t believe in bucket lists.

what need is there for a list of things he wants and wants to do before he dies when he can get and do everything he wants in an instant? if he wants to go bungee jumping, he can go to gangwon-do this afternoon. if he wants to date, he’s got a couple dozen numbers he can pick and choose to call. if he’s craving for authentic italian wine right out of the cellar, he can book a flight and visit all of europe with his phone as his only luggage. 

he lacks nothing, and therefore he wants nothing. ricky doesn’t believe in bucket lists— he didn’t believe in bucket lists. at least not until that damned day of reckoning, when the nonexistence of his list suddenly came to existence, harboring one thing and one thing only. 

there’s only one thing he’d like to tick off before he dies. one thing he wants as soon as possible. something that isn’t instantaneously achievable. something that unfamiliarly feels out of his grasp.

ricky, more than anything in the world, wants you to take him fucking seriously.

“you’re so pretty today.” 

is what he says, the moment you enter the office. well, two moments after you enter the office because he had to take the first moment to admire how pretty you are before verbalizing it. he’s down horrendous, he knows— totally outside of the image he’s perfectly curated for the past six months since entering university. you’re the chair of his department’s council, a third year, and by some mystical force or another (read: being stupidly whipped) he volunteered to help prepare for a department event and managed to drag the rest of his friends into it.

said friends being gyuvin and gunwook, who are looking at him in judgment and disgust after completing his daily routine of complimenting your face.

“aw, how cute,” is your reply. ricky wracks his brain for another word for pretty, but you’re quick to move one and leave him in the dust. “thank you, ricky! you’re so sweet. anyway, matthew, how’s the—”

gyuvin snorts. “hey, at least she thinks you’re cute.” ricky throws him a punch but it falls weak from the mental damage. 

cute. he hates it. he’s grown to hate it after it became the symbol of you thinking of him as nothing but your cute junior. are his daily compliments not enough of a giveaway that’s he’s lowkey fucking in love with you? what else do you want? a truckload of roses? a barbershop quartet illustrating through song how stupidly down bad ricky shen is for his unbothered senior?

knowing you, even if he gets on stage in front of the whole university and perform a three-act play of how he fell, head first with scraped knees, into the tunnel of torture that is you and your pretty smile, you’d probably just ruffle his hair and coo, “good job! you’re so talented, angel!” because he’s so cute, so lovely, so never going to be boyfriend-able in your eyes and it eats his despairing soul.

maybe if he rips his heart out of his chest and you see the gaping, you-shaped hole it’ll leave behind, you might finally get the idea.

“quit being a drama queen,” gunwook says, throwing a ball at ricky’s bedroom door that’s been locked shut for a good hour now. it bounces right back into his palm and gyuvin is laying flat on the floor next to him. “it could be that she knows you’re into her, but she’s just trying to reject your advances gently because she doesn’t want to hurt you.”

gunwook and gyuvin hear a crash from inside ricky’s room. 

“that’s— that’s, no. i don’t even want to think about that!”

they’re waiting for him to finish changing (if he is just changing. the crashes in his room are becoming sources of concern). you invited them for a nice buffet dinner to celebrate the success of the event. however, the three of them are already thirty minutes late for the restaurant appointment, and hanbin had to come over and pick them up with taerae in tow after hearing the news that ricky shen— cool guy extraordinaire— is having a breakdown over a girl. 

there are now four men waiting in front of ricky’s locked bedroom. gyuvin gets sick and tired and starts banging on the door. “hurry up! do you want to keep the love of your life waiting?”

“damn, you guys were serious,” taerae posits. “is he actually in love with her?”

“i’m afraid so,” gunwook solemnly shakes his head. 

hanbin hits another concerned knock on his door, and lo and behold, ricky finally cracks open his bedroom door and walks out—

walks out in an ensemble that they can only unanimously describe as jarring. 

leopard print. leather pants. gold chain necklace. a pair of shades are hanging on the way too low cut shirt and they wonder if he’s gonna wear them indoors. he’s got a leather jacket folded over his arm and it’s twenty four fucking degrees.

“what do you think?” ricky asks, eyes proud, expectant, and sparkly. hanbin doesn’t have the heart to break it to him. “i read somewhere that the pattern symbolizes, uh, confidence and sexiness, i think. this will make her stop thinking that i’m cute, right?”

“yeah,” gyuvin replies. “she’ll think you’re hideous instead.”

“google tells me that the leopard print is a symbol of, and i quote, absolute femininity.” gunwook has his eyes trained on his phone. he looks up and gives ricky a once-over. “if you’re trying to go for the femme fatale look, then you’re doing a good job.”

it takes a moment for ricky to react.

when he does, his reaction consists of grabbing onto the hem of his allegedly ugly shirt and starts pulling it over his head.

“whoa, whoa, whoa— what are you doing?!”

gunwook quickly tries to stop him from stripping. gyuvin is laughing his ass off. taerae has a hand covering his mouth. hanbin is stressed. “quit picking on him! ricky, you look fine!” ricky is not fine. his styled hair is not disheveled and he’s visibly upset and sulking. gyuvin is losing his mind. he’s on the floor and hitting the ground.

“are you trying to be cute right now?” taerae asks. this just scrunches up ricky’s brows even more and makes his bottom lip jut forward.

“n...no…?”

“well, shit,” taerae laments. “it’s a genetic disease. she’s never gonna take you seriously.”

the only emotion ricky knows is despair.

he’s supposed to be hot and sexy and handsome, why can’t you see that? do you have a pink filter when you look at him, or something? is that it? that’s gotta be it, right? because why else would you be so unaffected when he feigns nonchalance, brushing through his hair at a precise timing when he notices you starting to turn to his direction. it’s your heart that should be beating like crazy when he greets you with a half-smile and a nod— not his, not his, not his when you return it with a full-smile, so bright and beaming, of your own.

“oh, you’re finally here!”

ricky doesn’t believe in bucket lists. he lives in the moment. he doesn’t want things so desperately to the point where he writes them down on a checklist taped to his desk. the list definitely doesn’t have the words “get miss department chair to fall in love with me” written on it with scrawled letters. and he doesn’t didn’t give himself a deadline to date you by the end of the year.

he’s given himself until the day he dies because the moment he met you was the first time he imagined watching someone walking down the aisle. 

yes, he’s down bad. yes, he sings hopelessly devoted to you in the shower five times a week and replaced the word you with your name. yes, gyuvin has a recording. 

“ah, we’ve been waiting for you, kids,“ you say once they’ve all settled on their seats. kids. he scoffs. insult to injury. he’s pouting and picking on a plate of galbi. he feels like shit even though you’re sitting right across him all pretty and sweet like the strawberry shortcake you ordered— which he’s trying his damn best to not steal a slice from because he’s pretty sure you’re just gonna go, “oh! you really like strawberries, don’t you? so cute,” and he’d much rather choose physical over emotional torment, thank you very much.

“they were caught up in something,” taerae responds to your initial statement. your eyes gloss over them with curiosity.

“why? what took you guys so long?”

four sets of eyes are on ricky and his patterned shirt. the bossam wrap in his mouth won’t swallow down his throat. it was too late for him to change out of the symbol of femininity. mid-strip, hanbin got a text from you so he got dragged out, guilty in leopard prints and gold, out of his apartment.

don’t you fucking dare, ricky glares at the suspicious look gyuvin is wearing as he brings a glass of water to his lips. gyuvin clears his throat, “we had to wait for ricky who was dressing to impress y—” and is subsequently elbowed and chokes on his water.

hot. ricky feels hot. not the sexy kind, but the icky embarrassing kind because he wants to cover his burning face and stab gyuvin with a fork in the process.

“oh?” you voice out from across the table. you’re plucking out wads of tissue paper for a dying gyubin but your eyes are trained on him. oh my god. he wants to rip this shirt off and die, but he can’t do that. he can’t. he hasn’t been working out enough lately due to stress. “not everyone can pull off animal prints. it looks really good on you.”

huh.

“and you’re not wearing your usual silver! you look cool today, ricky.”

oh.

what.

“you really think so?” gyuvin, who has now recovered, eggs you on further in behalf of his malfunctioning friend. there’s steam rising to the ceiling and it’s not from the open grill. he exchanges glances with gunwook and taerae. they catch the signal and press on. “doesn’t he look—”

“—would you dare say—”

“—handsome?”

“hot?”

“sexy?”

you let out something in between a cough and a laugh. 

they don’t miss the flustered jitter filtering the sound coming out of your throat.

mission success.

“ahaha, what are you kids saying?” ricky doesn’t miss it either. the initial shock of you not calling him cute has worn off and now it’s up to him to finish what his friends have started. he doesn’t miss the way you try to brush them off while fanning your face with your free hand, the way you reach out for a glass of water with the other and there’s a nervous bob in your throat when you swallow. “a—anyway, let’s make a toast for the success of our event!”

when he clinks his glass with yours, ricky  maintains eye contact amidst the noise of the cheers. his gaze is deep and you’re caught off guard— escaping with a laugh and turning away as you down half of your beer glass in one go. holy crap. holy shit, it’s working.

ricky can see it. there’s hope for his bucket list. he’s gonna swear by leopard shirts and gold chain necklaces if he continues to get this kind of reaction from you.

“it’s not because of the ugly shirt.”

gyuvin snaps him back to sanity once dinner concluded and they start leaving the restaurant. “it’s because we manipulated her brain waves into finally noticing that you’re hot,” gunwook inserts. they’re all outside now. you’re bidding the other members goodbye and gunwook nudges him forward. “you’re welcome. you owe us a meal.”

now, even with the newfound confidence and hope, ricky’s knees still buckle when he approaches you from behind. why is the back of your head still pretty? why?

at the moment, it’s taerae’s turn to receive your goodbyes, wedged between two cars, one of them his. he notices ricky’s looming nervous wreck of a presence from over your shoulder. “ah, and this is my cue to leave,” he says. “thanks for the meal, miss chair. get home safe.”

“you too, taerae! thanks!”

when you turn around, you bump into him. maybe he intended it, maybe not, but god damn the uncharacteristic flutter of your surprised eyes is destroying his plans to act cool, act nonchalant, act totally unaffected with how prettily you’re looking at him under the dim parking lot lights and the night sky. “oh!” you exclaim after reformatting, after putting on your doting senior voice again and it kills him because that’s a night of progress down the drain. “are you kids heading out now? oh, sorry, this is your car, right? i’ll get out of the way.”

he frowns. totally uncool, perfectly non-nonchalant, and completely affected but he doesn’t care anymore. 

“what do you think of me?”

the words jump out before he knows it. screw his bucket list. he’s gonna proclaim his undying love for you even if it kills him.

you blink. “what?” a laugh bubbles from your throat— a mix of trying-to-brush-him-off but nervous at the same time. “ricky, what do you mean?”

his face is knotting up. he’s totally pouting right now which he’d rather be caught dead than doing, but he’s now twice the dead man. ricky takes a step forward. you take a step back until no more steps can be taken because your back hits against his car, and he’s grasping at the straws desperate to get even an ounce of a hint of a sign that you’re finally taking him seriously. “what do you think of me?” he repeats, voice a little lower this time. your expression is completely taken over by peaches of fluster, this time. no sign of the composure you’ve usually perfectly maintained.

“oh, uhm.” your hands are unsure and held hostage in the air because his arms serve as a barricade around you, palms pressed tightly against the cold glass of the front seat window. you’re nipping at your bottom lip. ricky just died thrice. “what—what i think of you? well, uh, you’re a very good, very cute, very hardworking junior that i adore, and i—i appreciate all the help you’ve offered to the counci— oh!”

ricky lets out a noise and buries his nose into the crook of your neck, arms that were once caging you are now completely wrapped around your waist. he’s putting all of his weight onto you. he is a corpse. he mumbles something unintelligible into you skin and you ask him to repeat it. “i don’t like it,” he says more clearly, still muffled, whiney all the same. “i’m not cute. i’m cool and handsome and totally in love with you but you just don’t get it.”

it’s quiet. ricky is anticipating the worst, which would be you calling him lame and a loser, but you don’t do that. you don’t push him off either.

“how can i not think you’re cute when you act like this?”

instead you pull him in closer. his eyes widen, and he feels your fingers digging into his hair, a tender touch on his nape, and he feels himself melting and turning into stone at the same time. 

“i never thought you were being serious every time you greeted me by calling me pretty. i thought you were just being playful and trying to earn extra points from me,” you hum. he sinks further. the only thing propping him up is you. “but calling someone pretty every day is barely a confession, ricky. how was i supposed to get anything from that? gosh, you’re so cute.”

“it usually works,” he mumbles. he doesn’t want to show you his face. he probably looks stupid right now. “i thought my new shirt worked too. gyuvin and gunwook don’t agree.”

“i think it’s cool.”

you finally pry him off, hands on his shoulders and he feels himself buckling. he’s pretty sure he looks stupid right now— pink and flushed and dizzy, but your face harbors no judgment. “i think i prefer the shirt owner over the shirt though.” only a familiar gaze of fondness and god, he’s so in love and you finally understand that. “now, why the hell are gyuvin and gunwook still loitering out here?”

ricky didn’t believe in bucket lists. at least not until that damned day of reckoning, when the nonexistence of his list suddenly came to existence, harboring one thing and one thing only. 

now, he’s got that one thing crossed out. he’s thinking of adding more.

YOU’RE MY BUCKET LIST. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[merbear25]

Creepy Crawlies (Szayelaporro)

CW: NSFW, MDNI, fem!reader, tentacles, bugs, bondage, biting, fear play, vaginal penetration, experimentation, endurance testing, anilingus, implied drug use, sadism. inspo from this fic.

It was all in a look, one that made him shudder and clench his jaw. He gripped the legs of his pants, knowing that the only escape from this tension was to essentially torture you.

Eyes dreary and heavy, the effects of whatever you were stuck with left its mark on you: an incision from a needle and a serum whose hold was waning. Coming to, you were greeted by the harsh lights of his twisted judgment, their glare forcing you to wince; there was nowhere to hide, though. The bright room left no crevice or dimple left unseen. Its silence being broken by the strain of the ropes and you choking back your grunts, the faint approach of footsteps behind you became an eerie quartet.

Hung up from the ceiling with your limbs suspended behind your back, the rope was digging into your wrists and ankles, although your captor paid your whimpers and whines no mind. They dripped into his ears and offered an angelic muse to his wicked intentions.

Taking his time, he stepped under you. His finger traced up your inner thigh nearly torturously, his nail purposely scraping your skin. The sharp inhale you made got his eyes rolling back slightly. You tightening, squeezing your most private area as if trying to keep any remainder of your decency tugged a smirk on his smug face. You weren’t going anywhere, nor were you going to be able to hide from him.

Your ears perked up and your attention was snatched to what was lurking below. Slithering. A sickening noise that was accompanied with the faint tapping of a million little legs. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of your face. Squeezing your eyes shut, you would rather not face what you already knew was waiting for you.

“Do you want to know something I admire about these creatures?” His voice teased that bead of sweat to drip onto the floor. “For things so small, so seemingly insignificant, they hold a tremendous amount of… power over people.” He held it up, letting your body be the centipede’s playground. “And letting it rain over this garden of Eden is the greatest opportunity it will have in its short life.”

You couldn’t focus on his words as much as he would’ve wanted you to, not when every fiber of your being was anticipating those legs scurrying up your body. A shrill squeal at its front legs timidly getting ahold of your hip was accompanied with a sudden jolt.

He smiled to himself, enamoured at how well you wore fear. “There you are…” The whisper was for the insect, now fully on top of you. “Go to mommy.” A sly snicker at his own nickname for you passed his lips. His eyes held on you, analyzing how each tiny stab of its legs affected you. “Careful not to be sudden with your movements. I don’t know if I have anything to soothe its venom.” The moan on that one word couldn’t be helped.

Collecting yourself took every ounce of your already depleting energy. Huffs, pants, on the verge of being ill: you fought back the urge to scream and thrash, even as you felt the unfriendly company hesitantly inching over your ass. “Get… Get it off,” you pleaded through gritted teeth.

The hum he gave in response alluded to a feigned ponder. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I like your tone.”

As much as you wanted to curse at his habit of dangling his control over you, you pushed your pride aside. “Please.”

“Please…?” He dragged out his question, urging you to call him what you only could under force.

“Please, Master.” You stammered over your own words, nearly spitting all over yourself from the saliva building up in your mouth.

“Very good.” He reached up to collect his little friend, placing it in the jar it came in. You heard a faint thump when he threw it into the glass prison and a shudder casted through your form. “But I’m sure you know that that was merely a warm-up.”

You knew fully well the layers that came with his games. Biting your tongue, you forced yourself to endure, knowing that any lashing out on your part would only make his game turn into one of thorns. Lost in your own thoughts and still recovering from the potential mental scarring, your body had a visceral reaction at the slimy brush up against your nipple. Shooting your gaze down, disembodied tentacles were teasing your swollen breasts.

Your eyes trailed up to their source: modifications he’d add to himself. They were too lifelike for your liking—that was what you attempted to force into the forefront of your mind. However, teasing was an unfair gift of his. Tilting your head away, you couldn’t bear watching as he had his way with you while using these things.

Their tips lingered on your thighs and gently suctioned your nipples, all while wrapping around you slowly. Helpless—just how he liked you.

“You don’t have to pretend.” His voice was like a siren, luring you into the deep to drag you down to the pits of his kraken’s lair. Your legs had been pried open, showing him each quivering reaction tingling across your slit. There was never any fooling him or yourself. “Just enjoy it,” he groaned when one of his tentacles slipped between your folds.

Coiling around your neck, twisting in your long hair and giving it that lustful tug, wrapping around your breasts with a distinct pulse: as much as you wanted to hate every moment of this, you couldn’t muster it. He pumped deeper into you. The thick, muscular appendage shrunk and expanded within you, hitting spots you never knew could ache this much. With the heat rushing up your chest, trailing up your neck, and spreading across your face, holding back the low moan would have been impossible.

Toes curled, walls spasming, and mouth hanging open slightly: your hands desperately gripped at the rope. You had long since forgotten the way it was digging into your skin, now only hoping you could cling to it as you felt yourself unraveling.

“O-Oh fuck…” You blurted out in a shaky breath. Biting your lip wasn’t helping you hold onto whatever dignity you thought remained. You could hear his voice taunting you in the walls of your mind, all without him ever saying a word.

You felt it push deeper and the tip swirled around your g-spot. A nearly violent shake coursed through your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake while you cursed the god he thought he was. Licking his lips, he positioned himself under you. Your pussy juices coated the tentacle, mixing with the natural slime. The elixir was dripping down past your clit, making that final jolt of pleasure surging through your cunt cause it to fall on his face. His tongue chased the trail, but it wasn’t enough for him to get his fix.

“You can do better than that,” he snarled. 

Pushing back into you, he milked you for all you were worth. The tentacles around your neck and grabbing your hair tightened, the ones coiling and suctioning your breasts intensified, and the one buried inside you teased your already overstimulated sweet spot. With the little trickles of your creamy release falling on his face, he still wanted more. One of the appendages wrapped around your hips slithered to your puckered ass.

Swirling around the tight opening, the natural lubricant lathered your now quivering hole. Just the tip pushed in uninvited, but that was all that was needed to send you hurtling over the edge. Your clenching and spasming walls made your orgasmic squirts messy. Spurts of you fell on his face in a chaotic manner, but his hums of approval were almost grateful for the mess you were making.

Holding his tongue out and batting his eyes up at you, he welcomed each drop that ran down his throat. He was savoring each one of them, unable to hold himself back from groaning and panting at the sight above him. When he finally squeezed every last bit out of you, he leaned up to suck the final droplet hanging onto your clit for dear life. Nipping at it, the yelp of pain tangling with bliss made him moan. 

“You’ve given me even more ideas for next time…” His breath bathed you. You felt his lips ghosting along your inner thigh before biting your tender flesh. “It’s not often that I have someone to thank for that.” He barely spoke above a whisper, not sure if he was comfortable admitting that, but with the heat of the moment still fresh in his mind, it just slipped out.

[the-aleator]

endeavour musings vi

featuring: quartet s5e5, Bright + Thursday I just want to highlight this scene:

BRIGHT: I don't want to have to raise my voice in front of the men, but this station is currently under review. THURSDAY: They wouldn't simply shut Cowley down, though, would they, sir? BRIGHT: Results, Thursday. Results. We shall live or die by our achievements… or the lack of them. THURSDAY: To be honest, sir… ..I'm not sure I've got the miles left in me to start over at a new nick. Particularly if it meant a new guv'nor.

It actually doesn't need any highlighting, because Lesser + Allam convey a lifetime's life in less than 2 minutes. Everything about this scene is gorgeous: Bright's confidence in Thursday about the review (as compared "to the men"), Thursday's honesty and doubt about the political machinations of upper management, Bright's honesty and doubt in return ("or lack of them"), and then Thursday doubles down on that honesty with a straightforward, not sentimental loyalty.

I love that Bright's cynicism here about "results," as the gauge of a successful review, and how that contrasts with the emotional onus of the rest of their conversation: the men, the station, governors (people vs systematic measurements) I love the earthiness of Thursday's metaphor ("got the miles") as if he were a beast of burden, and the vulnerability when he says a "new guv'nor." Thursday intimates to Morse that it doesn't matter who the man in charge is, but that isn't really true: where Box tempts Thursday further down the path of self destruction, Bright only ever calls him back. They've seen each other through a lot already, and there's more to come! Compare it to when Thursday mentions putting in his papers to Morse: it's because he's "too set in his ways" and he won't do "cloak and dagger" coppering. It's the spirit of the same thing he says to Bright, but Thursday can't or won't be vulnerable to Morse in the same way -- Morse is too young to understand (as Bright will), that Thursday's tired of this life.

And also worried that all of this has meant nothing. The whole exchange between Bright and Thursday is roiled underneath by that worry, by both men, that their life's work is being thrown on the scrape heap, and that it was worthless.

I love that the show acknowledges that even though Bright is older than Thursday, Thursday has a lot more mileage. The toll of being a copper has fallen on them unevenly, mostly because of class but also personality. And Bright cares about that, and him. They value each other regardless. It fits into the enlisted man-officer dynamic and surmounts it.

The layers on layers here is stunning: the two steaming cups of tea, the comfortable English ritual, punctuating the vulnerability of the confidences between them.

(Strange calls their meetings "Morning Prayers," at one point and I love that description and its connotations to bits.)

Final note: Bright's friendship for Thursday is the parallel of Max's for Morse. Neither has the all-or-nothing character of the friendship between Thursday & Morse, which at times is pointlessly self-sacrificial to destruction's sake, but it is lovely and beautiful and bright (yes) all the same.

Cf: Coda, Prey

[kinomiya]

Mayblade 2025, Day 7: Hope

For those who would rather read on AO3, these stories are compiled as a fic titled: Rancor.

Content Warning: Trauma, Abuse, Violence.

Characters: Ivan Papov, Yuriy Ivanov, Boris Kuznetsov, Vladimir Volkov (minor), Original Character (minor)

Yuriy was haunted by every single face that crossed the threshold into the living nightmare after he had.

Lined up in uniform rows on the cracked cement slab in the dreary courtyard. A threatening silence loomed as every boy remained still and quiet, like statues. The monastery guards and older students circled the group like vultures. A ceremony to induct the new recruits they’d say; but it was actually the first culling. The first ten or so children that made a noise deemed too loud, became restless, collapsed from exhaustion, or were otherwise selected based on the capricious whims of the staff and senior students—

would have their future extinguished.

He had adapted quickly, from his own time standing lined up like an animal waiting for its slaughter, to the recruit Volkov himself said had the greatest potential. So he had easily ascended the ranks and become one of the vultures, prowling the orderly rows of boys not old enough to be considered young men, memorizing every feature of them. As long as he lived, someone would remember those destined to be forgotten.

There had been four of them for most of it. Sergei from a much earlier group of boys, a couple years older with a couple extra years of trauma. Dimitri from the year before them, and he and Boris from the same recruitment cycle. 

It was unexpected, as they’d never before allowed two from the same class to ascend the ranks. Not when the entire system was designed to breed contempt and distrust between peers. But while he had been the standout, the lengths Boris would go to survive, had caught everyone’s attention.

Even when he was beaten and unable to walk, kneeling before Yuriy with the cold metal barrel of a gun pressing between his eyes… he continued to utter derisive statements, about how worthless Yuriy was, how unwanted he was, about how he should turn the gun on himself because there was no place for someone like him on this planet.

Boris had a propensity for seeing right through him, from the very start.

Yuriy clenched his jaw and pulled the trigger.

The magazine was empty.

Volkov clapped in delight at the display.

They had both passed his test.

He had completed his quartet.

Until Ivan.

By all accounts he was unremarkable, younger than most the rest, frail, scared. Yuriy ignored the shaking of his knees when he drifted by him. He had no interest in signing the death warrant of someone who probably still had most of their baby teeth. Dimitri didn’t share such sentiments of course, Ivan’s body language was blood to a shark wanting any excuse to go on a frenzy.

So he descended on him in an instant, grabbing a fist full of his matted, greasy hair and pulling him out of the formation. He threw him onto the ground in front of the rest of the apprehensive boys, with an excitement he could hardly mask.

If Ivan had been quivering before, he was now trembling like an entire aspen tree, as he rolled off of his wounded knees to see his assailant. Dimitri grinned with a madness better suited for an asylum than an orphanage and stalked towards him, each step slow and exaggerated. He used his feet to slide himself backwards, ignoring the sensation of his skin scraping against the broken concrete, determined only to maintain the distance between them. Until his back collided with something solid, a guard's unmoving figure.

The funny thing Yuriy learned about hope that day is you can watch it drain from someone’s eyes.

He hardly remembered the words Dimitri taunted his prey with as he slowly closed the small gap between them. Too focused on the way colour drained from Ivan’s face and eyes, on how hollow he looked as he accepted his own extinction.

Dimitri took one last step, there was less than half a meter between them. Ivan glanced up at him, and attempted to bring himself back to a stand. He was partially kneeling when the taller boy's foot made contact with the side of his head, throwing him face forward into the steadfast guard. He collapsed back onto the ground.

Yuriy and Boris exchanged silent glances from across the courtyard, noticing the brief reflection of sunlight on a familiar silver object that had inconspicuously made it into Ivan’s hands.

Before Dimitri could deliver a second blow there was the all too familiar crack of a gunshot. The pistol in his hands fell to the ground with a silent thump, overshadowed by the much louder thud made as his assailant's body fell backwards onto the cement.

A perfect entry wound, right between the eyes.

Volkov smiled from where he had been observing the scene.

Four of them still remained…

But somehow everything about the game had changed.

[yumiyue07]

Always for You

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿ Pairing: gangster!H/N x f!Reader Genre: action | romance | crime drama Rating: 18+ Word Count: ~4k Warnings: kidnapping, attempted sexual assault (non-graphic but intense), violence, gunfights, language, suggestive content, possessive behavior, minor blood/injury, comfort after trauma, spicy fluff, romantic tension, protective male lead Summary: When you're kidnapped as leverage in a turf war, H/N doesn’t just bring backup, he brings hell. The city burns behind him as he fights his way back to you, one bullet and one kiss at a time.

H/N = His name Y/N = Your name M/N 1/2/3= Group members' names

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿

The rooftop restaurant was his idea.

Of course it was. H/N didn’t do anything halfway, especially not when it came to you.

He’d booked out the entire top floor of Seoul’s most luxurious skyline restaurant. A private string quartet played softly in the background, city lights blinking below like scattered stars. The scent of cherry blossom-scented candles mingled with the crisp night air. A silk shawl lay across your shoulders. He’d draped it there himself when the breeze picked up.

And he was sitting across from you, looking like sin in a tailored black suit and an unbuttoned collar, one hand swirling a glass of red wine, the other resting casually beside the silver pistol tucked under his jacket.

God, you were in trouble.

Candlelight flickered across his sharp jawline as he leaned forward, those dark eyes never leaving yours. He looked like he wanted to devour you and not just metaphorically.

“You’re staring,” you teased, kicking his shin under the table.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he caught your ankle between his legs, trapping it. His lips curled, amused and hungry. “Can’t help it. That dress is a crime.”

His thumb traced your bare knee under the table, slow and deliberate, sending sparks up your spine.

“Might have to arrest you.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let your smile crack too wide. “Says the actual criminal.”

H/N smirked. “Exactly. So you’re already guilty. Might as well come quietly.”

“Or what?” you dared, tilting your chin. “You’ll interrogate me?”

His eyes darkened, glinting with amusement. “Oh, I don’t need to interrogate. I already know where you’re most... vulnerable.”

Your breath hitched.

He smirked, clearly pleased by the effect, then took a long, slow sip of his wine, never breaking eye contact. The teasing silence between you stretched like a bowstring, deliciously tense.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, mimicking his smirk. “Do you ever stop flirting?”

He leaned closer, voice dropping low. “With you? Never. I’ll flirt with you in the middle of a firefight, sweetheart.”

You were about to respond, something sharp and clever, when his gaze shifted just slightly, and the air around him went still.

You followed his eyes.

Two men. Suits. Not from his crew.

Your heart stuttered.

H/N’s hand drifted down to his side, under the table. His fingers curled around the gun in his holster.

“Stay calm,” he murmured without looking at you. “Don’t move.”

A click. Right behind his ear. A third man. You hadn’t seen him. “Don’t move,” the stranger hissed. The barrel of a pistol pressed against H/N’s temple.

And just like that, the atmosphere shattered. The string quartet went silent. One of the violinists screamed. Chairs scraped back. Footsteps. Chaos.

You barely had time to scream before a gloved hand yanked you from your seat. Another clamped over your mouth, silencing you as your chair toppled to the ground.

“Y/N!” H/N’s voice barked like a gunshot, lethal and sharp.

The man behind him pressed the gun harder to his head. “We’ll trade her for the eastside docks,” the masked one growled. “Try anything, and she dies.”

You thrashed, kicking, but two sets of arms held you back. Panic surged in your throat.

Then you saw H/N’s eyes. They weren’t scared. They weren’t angry. They were cold. Ice cold.

Like someone had flipped a switch and turned off the man who had been teasing you under the table seconds ago. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Touch her, and I’ll peel your skin off.”

No one moved.

You could feel the tension building like a live wire, stretched to its limit.

The man holding the gun to H/N’s head twitched nervously. “You’re outnumbered. Don’t be stupid.”

“I don’t care,” H/N said softly, voice razor-sharp. “You make one wrong move, and I swear to God—”

An explosion thundered in the distance, too loud, too close. A diversion.

They yanked you back in that split second of distraction, fast, brutal, merciless.

You struggled as they dragged you toward the elevator, your eyes locked on H/N’s. He lunged for you, but a thug beside him swung a pistol, cracking it against his temple.

Blood streaked down to his brow, and he staggered for a moment.

“No!” you cried, your voice breaking.

The elevator doors slammed shut, cutting him off from view.

“Hold still or I’ll shoot you in the leg,” one of them growled. “Fuck you,” you snapped, driving your heel into his knee. He howled and grabbed your hair, yanking your head back hard. “Stupid bitch…”

They pulled you through the basement hall into the underground garage, your heels scraping the concrete.

“Where’s the idiot with the car?” one of them barked. “Gotta do everything myself…”

Your eyes darted around. Empty shadows. A distant echo. You searched for an opening.

“Don’t do anything dumb, sweetheart,” another sneered, cocking his gun. “Pretty face like yours won’t stop a bullet.”

Then, a roaring engine. A black SUV screeched into view, headlights slicing through the dark.

They started dragging you toward it.

Ding.

The elevator behind you chimed.

“Didn’t I tell those idiots to stop the elevators?!” the gangster next to you shouted, panic rising in his voice.

H/N stood there.

Blood streaked down his temple. His eyes burned with murder. Behind him, the man who had hit him now lay crumpled in the elevator, broken, barely breathing. H/N had unleashed hell on him.

“H/N!” you screamed, wrenching your arm free just long enough to reach out.

He was already moving. Gun drawn, sprinting, every step powered by rage. But he was too late.

The masked man shoved you into the SUV and slammed the door just as H/N fired. Glass shattered around you like crystal rain. You screamed, shielding your face. Tires screeched against the concrete. The SUV peeled away into the night. Darkness swallowed you.

H/N stood there, chest heaving, gun still raised, fury burning in his veins like wildfire. He slowly turned, eyes stormy, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it could break. H/N wiped blood from his brow, his phone already at his ear.

“They took her,” he growled, voice low and venomous.

Silence.

“We’re on our way.” ~~~

Twenty minutes later, the penthouse buzzed with quiet fury.

Gone was the romantic dinner ambiance. The skyline flickered outside like a war zone waiting to happen, and the soft jazz from the security system's idle screen was the only sound until the elevator dinged.

The first to arrive was M/N1, his right-hand man and personal bulldozer. He stepped inside, cracking his knuckles like they were warm-up exercises. “So,” he said casually, eyes glinting. “Who are we killing?”

M/N2 followed, twirling a butterfly knife between his fingers as he dropped onto the white leather couch like he owned the place. “I call dibs on the one who touched her,” he said, eyes locked on H/N. “I’m taking fingers. Slowly.”

Behind them, M/N3, the calmest of the three, walked in with a tablet already pulled up. His tie was still on from a meeting, but his sleeves were rolled. “I checked traffic cams. Their vehicle was last seen heading west through the industrial zone,” he reported, handing H/N the screen. “Could be headed to one of the abandoned shipyards.”

H/N didn’t speak.

He stood at the center of the room, in front of the massive screen mounted to the wall. His hair was a mess, knuckles bruised from where he’d punched a wall downstairs. He pulled up the restaurant’s rooftop security footage, scrubbing through the grainy feed until…

Pause. Zoom.

The frame focused on one of the masked men shoving Y/N into the SUV. A tattoo snaked out from under the man’s collar. A serpent coiled around a dagger, its fangs bared.

Cobra's mark.

H/N’s voice was ice. “Cobra’s men. They’ve been after Eastside for months.”

M/N2 made a low noise in his throat. “That greasy bastard’s got a death wish.”

“Guess we’re granting it,” said M/N 1, grin sharpening.

M/N3 exhaled, rubbing his temples. “And instead of negotiating like a normal person, he kidnaps your girlfriend?” He looked up, arching a brow. “That’s not just bold. That’s suicidal.”

H/N finally turned to face them. His smile was thin and cold, more threat than expression. “They won’t live long enough to regret it.”

He grabbed his jacket, strapped a fresh clip into his pistol, and looked to his crew. The only people he trusted enough to fix this without a body count that would make headlines for weeks. Unfortunately for Cobra, restraint wasn’t on tonight’s menu.

“Gear up,” H/N ordered. “We leave in ten.”

M/N1 cracked his neck. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this.”

M/N2 stood, flipping his knife closed with a snap. “Bet she’s already made one of them cry.”

M/N3 tapped the screen again. “One of the shipyards has lights on. Want me to prep a drone?”

“No time,” H/N said. His voice was sharp, final. “I want boots on the ground and a gun in Cobra’s mouth before midnight.”

He holstered his gun, pausing only for a second as his fingers brushed over Y/N’s necklace on the counter. He’d taken it off her earlier, playfully, to “hold it hostage” until she kissed him.

Now it was the only thing she’d left behind.

“We’re bringing her home,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And God help anyone who tried to stop him. ~~~

You woke up tied to a chair in a damp warehouse. Concrete walls. Rusty tools. The overwhelming stench of gasoline and cheap cologne. Fantastic.

Your wrists were bound with thick zip ties, ankles too. Classy.

A dim bulb flickered overhead, casting twitching shadows, and there he was: the idiot with the snake tattoo who ruined your date night.

He crouched in front of you, flicking open a dull pocketknife like it was supposed to scare you.

“Your boyfriend’s got twelve hours to hand over the eastside docks,” he sneered, tracing the blade near your cheek. “Or we start sending little pieces of you back in gift wrap.”

You gave him your most unimpressed look. “You must be Cobra’s dumbest cousin.”

His grin faltered. “What?”

“I mean, clearly. Who kidnaps the most protected girl in the city and thinks her boyfriend, the most feared boss, is just going to fold?”

He leaned in, too close, lips curling. “He’s not getting in here, sweetheart. You’re just leverage. Nothing more.”

You held his gaze, even as your heart pounded too fast in your chest. “You’re so dead.”

He laughed, stepping back. “Cute. Real cute.” Then he leaned in, voice low and smug. “Just wait until our boss finds out we’ve got you locked up. He’s gonna love the gift we brought him.”

The others chuckled darkly behind him.

You raised a brow. “You idiots kidnapped me without Cobra’s permission?” You gave a sharp laugh. “You’re all dead. The only question is who’ll kill you first, him or H/N.”

The laughter faltered.

One of the thugs shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe she’s right… We should’ve told Cobra first…”

“Don’t bullshit me,” the ringleader snapped. “We get the eastside docks and hand them over. He’ll be thrilled. And this pretty little thing…” He looked you up and down, sneering. “She’s the cherry on top.”

They left you alone after that, muttering among themselves.

You slumped back in the chair, the zip ties digging into your wrists. Just hours ago, you had been sitting across from H/N at a rooftop restaurant, candlelight flickering in his eyes, his fingers brushing your knee.

After weeks of barely seeing him, he had finally carved out time for you, real time. You had dressed up just for him. The moment he saw you in that dress, he couldn’t look away. He’d leaned close, murmuring how gorgeous you looked, promising that tonight he’d make up for every moment missed.

And now here you were. In some godforsaken warehouse, tied to a chair, adrenaline still rushing through your veins.

Your chest ached. “Is H/N okay…?” you whispered to yourself.

You could still see his bloodied face. The flash of panic in his eyes as the elevator doors closed. He had fought to get to you. He always fought for you.

He was coming. You just had to hold on.

~~~

Hours passed. The night deepened into something heavy and hollow. Your body ached, every nerve stretched too tight. You tried to stretch your legs, shift your arms, anything to relieve the burn in your joints, when the door creaked open.

You froze. For one aching second, hope flared in your chest. Please... H/N...

But it wasn’t him.

It was the same thug from earlier. The one with the snake tattoo and the punchable face. He stumbled into the room, reeking of alcohol, a half-empty bottle dangling from his hand.

“Looks like your lover’s not coming,” he slurred, voice thick with mockery. “Guess you’re not as special to him as you thought, huh?”

You glared at him, lips pressed into a hard line. He didn’t know anything about you and H/N. He didn’t deserve to know.

“I guess that means you agree with me,” he sneered, taking a long swig from the bottle. Then, without warning, he stepped close—too close—and reached out, running a grimy finger along your cheek.

You recoiled instantly. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

His grin widened. “Or what?” Another swig. His eyes were glassy and dangerous. “Y’know what? I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll keep you. Let the boss have the damn docks.”

Your blood ran cold.

Panic twisted in your gut, but you forced yourself to stay still. Calm. Don’t give him anything.

He leaned in, his breath hot and sickening against your face. “I feel like trying out my new toy tonight.” His laugh was low, stomach-turning. He reached for your face again, grabbed your jaw, forcing your head back. Then he pressed a wet kiss to your neck.

Your entire body recoiled. No one should touch you like that. No one but H/N.

“Stop it. Don’t touch me!” you shouted, thrashing against the ropes, teeth bared. But he was stronger, and drunk, and too far gone to care.

“I like it when you fight,” he growled, dragging his lips up your neck. “Go ahead. No one’s coming. Not even your boyfriend.”

Tears of fury stung your eyes.

He reached for his belt.

You adjusted your posture in the chair, trying not to wince. “Oh, you think he’s gonna sneak in?” You smirked. “He’s not sneaking.”

“Oh yeah?” Snake-for-Brains raised a brow.

“Yeah.” You grinned, teeth bared. “He’s gonna blow the walls off.”

And right on cue—BOOM.

The warehouse shook. The door behind Snake exploded off its hinges in a blast of smoke and debris. You ducked instinctively as concrete dust rained down from the ceiling.

“YAH! Y/N! You alive?!” came a familiar voice through the chaos. M/N1. Loud, dramatic, and about as subtle as a truck in a jewelry store.

You coughed, your hair falling into your face. Relief swelled in your chest. “Of course, he sent you first.”

M/N1 stormed in, clearing the smoke with the swipe of his arm, gun ready, eyes scanning. “Rude!” he called back. “I volunteered, by the way!”

Then he saw Snake-for-Brains, his belt still in his hand, standing way too close to you. M/N1’s playful tone vanished. His expression hardened, eyes burning with fury. “Back off,” he said in a low growl.

Gunfire erupted in the hallway behind him. Shouts, panic, chaos breaking loose in every corner of the warehouse.

“WHERE. IS. SHE.”

That voice. Low. Lethal. Loud enough to freeze the blood in every man’s veins. Your heart stopped.

H/N.

And then he appeared in the doorway like some god of vengeance. Blood on his hands, shirt half-open, black coat billowing behind him. His eyes found yours instantly. Something in them shattered and pieced back together in a single breath.

His shoulders dropped, just a fraction. Relief.

“Took you long enough,” you huffed, voice cracking a little despite yourself.

He was across the room in three strides, ignoring the bodies and bullet holes. He crouched down, hands gentle on your face. “You hurt?”

You gave him a cocky smile. “Just my pride. They tied me to a chair with zip ties like amateurs.”

He brushed a thumb across your cheek, checking for injuries. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m furious,” you whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Good. Hold onto that.”

From behind him came a scream. Snake Boy trying to crawl away.

H/N turned slowly, rising to full height, and the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. “You touched her?” he asked, voice too calm.

Snake stammered, “L-Look, man, it wasn’t personal…”

“No. It’s personal now.”

He stalked forward, pulling a blade from his belt.

You didn’t look away as H/N pinned the man to the wall with a single, savage punch. His crew, M/N2 and M/N3, stormed in behind him, rounding up the stragglers like wolves in a pen.

You heard M/N1 yell, “This one touched her!” M/N2’s knife sang as it came out. “Then he’s mine.”

~~~

Later, when the dust had settled and your restraints were finally off, you stood beside H/N, your hand still trembling slightly from the adrenaline.

The aggressors lay sprawled across the floor, beaten bloody, unconscious, or moaning in pain.

H/N’s eyes swept over them, cold and unmoved. He stepped forward, voice calm but lethal.

“Tell your boss this is my first and only warning. Next time he pulls a stunt like this…” He looked down at one of the groaning men, lips curling into a dangerous smile. “…I’ll blow him to pieces.”

M/N1 chuckled, nudging a barely conscious thug with his boot. “I’d gladly take care of that.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at the idiots on the floor. “Cobra doesn’t even know about this.”

H/N’s eyes met yours, then flicked back to the men. His voice dropped lower.

“Fucking amateurs.” He turned to M/N1. “Let’s send Cobra a message. Let him know what kind of clowns he’s keeping around.”

M/N1 grinned. “Want me to gift wrap it?”

~~~

Two minutes later, H/N walked you out of the warehouse like the building wasn’t burning behind you.

You leaned into him, exhaustion tugging at your bones, but you were alive, safe, held close to the man who had just torn the city apart for you. His jacket was draped around your shoulders, the inside still warm from his body. His arm never left your waist, as if letting go for even a second might make you disappear again.

Outside, the night air hit your face. Cool and quiet.

H/N looked down at you, his gaze softening. “You good?”

You managed a tired smile. “I’m starving,” you muttered. “You owe me dessert.”

He huffed a soft laugh, brushing your hair from your cheek. “We’ll stop for cake on the way home.”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “Actual cake? Or…”

His eyes darkened slightly, something wicked curling in his smile. “Depends on how long you want to wait.”

“Oh, we’re doing…?” you asked, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the soreness in your body.

H/N leaned closer, voice low and full of promise. “After what you put me through tonight?” He brushed a thumb along your cheekbone. “I’m not letting you out of bed for days.”

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm, cheeks heating. “You’re impossible.”

“Correction…” he whispered, before pulling you in and kissing you—slow, deep, and possessive. Right there beside the getaway car, with the city still smoking behind you. “I’m yours.”

~~~

His bedroom was quiet. Dim lights cast golden shadows across silk sheets, the city skyline glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You stood by the glass, arms crossed, still in the dress from dinner, wrinkled, dusty, but clinging to you like a second skin. The fabric hugged every curve, a reminder of the night that had started with candlelight and nearly ended in gunfire.

Behind you, his warmth wrapped around you before his arms did. His hands slipped around your waist, his body pressed against your back, solid and steady. His chin rested on your shoulder, and you felt the weight of his breath.

“You were brave tonight,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

“I was terrified.”

“But still brave,” he said, pulling you tighter.

You turned in his arms, your eyes locking. The weight of his gaze made it hard to breathe.

“You came for me,” you breathed.

“You didn’t think I would?”

“No. I knew you would.” Your fingers slid up his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “I just didn’t know if you’d get there in time.”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw with a tenderness that nearly undid you. “Always in time. Always for you.”

You leaned into his touch. “Still… you owe me for that ruined dinner.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “That so?”

You rose on your toes, lips ghosting against his. “I want my dessert.”

His mouth twitched in a grin that turned sinful in an instant. “What flavor?”

You kissed him. Slow, deep, filled with everything you'd held in all night. A kiss that said I’m here. I’m yours. Your fingers fisted his shirt. His hands roamed your body like he had to feel every part of you to believe you were really here.

“Surprise me,” you whispered against his lips.

He didn’t need a second invitation. In one fluid motion, he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bed. The city lights washed your skin in gold as he laid you down like you were made of something sacred.

His hands were everywhere, sliding up your thighs, unzipping your dress, pushing the ruined fabric down your body. His lips followed the trail, pressing reverent kisses across your collarbone, down to your stomach, and lower.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“Maybe I’m excited,” you whispered.

“Or still in shock,” he teased, voice low and rough.

You reached for him, pulling him down to you. “Make me forget.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, devouring your fear, your anger, your longing. Clothing fell away piece by piece, slow and impatient all at once. Skin met skin. Every inch burned with desire.

The skyline burned behind him, stars drowning in city light, but all you saw was him. He hovered above you, breathless against your skin. “Don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight again.”

You smiled, tugging him closer, hearts beating in sync. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

~~~

Bonus scene:

The elevator dinged open, and before you could step out, confetti exploded in your face.

“She lives!” M/N3 shouted, throwing his arms wide like he’d just won a championship.

You blinked at the mess of balloons, pizza boxes, and cans littering the penthouse.

M/N1 plopped onto the couch, mouth full of chips. "We saved your girl and got revenge. That’s a five-star Friday, boss." “Speak for yourself,” M/N2 muttered, nursing a bandaged hand. “One of those idiots bit me.”

You rolled your eyes and collapsed into the armchair. “Did you seriously prepare a party while I was kidnapped?”

“It is a celebration of survival,” M/N1 replied. “Also, M/N2 made cookies. Real ones.”

H/N stood behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders protectively. “She’s not a war trophy,” he said, but his voice held a rare softness. You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. “It’s okay. I feel like one. I expect a parade and a crown next.” “Noted,” H/N said, deadpan. “Custom tiara. Gold-plated.”

Laughter broke out around the room, tension melting like ice. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe.

M/N3 raised his drink. “To the dumbest gang in the city for thinking they could touch our queen.”

“To the queen!” the boys echoed, slamming their cups together.

You grinned, leaning your head back against H/N’s stomach. “You boys are so dramatic.”

“And you love it,” M/N1 said.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, hiding a smile.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿

♡ Author’s note

Blame it on ENHYPEN’s MAKE concept. One look at those deadly stares, weapons in hand, and suddenly this whole gangster AU exploded in my brain. ⚔️🖤

Enjoy reading. ( ´ ▽ ` )

Love, YumiYue 🌙

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿

Please like, share, and follow! ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡

Follow me on: 📸 Instagram / 🎵 TikTok: @yumiyue07 📝 Wattpad: @LunaVerse_YumiYue

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fan fiction. All characters and events are fictional and are not intended to represent real people or events.

© 2025 LunaVerse - YumiYue07. All rights reserved. Please do not repost or reproduce this story without permission. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

[the-voldsoy]

TMA headcanons

(the majority is about jon im sorry) (at least a couple of these are probably canon, but ive seen so many fanworks that i genuinely couldnt tell you)

Tim wore heelies

and owned too many worm on a string that he hid around the office

Michael (distortion) is also fond of worm on a string

Jon has had heterochromia since he “died”— one eye to see and one eye to See

Martin listens to hozier

Jon has punched a cop (rebellious uni years)

Daisy has a mullet

Jon wears socks with sandals

One of the reasons Jon was so stuck up in s1 is because he felt ashamed(?) of his uni days and wanted to get as far from that as possible

he felt that he was ‘better’ than that punk he had been, and wanted to show it

If they could’ve (Scottish safe house period or Somewhere Else), Martin would’ve gotten a small flock of chickens and Jon would’ve fondly named them all

S1 Jon tried to grow a moustache once and it was so pathetic that he had to shave it off

Sasha was a black women with soft, round features, who wore comfy jumpers. Not!Sasha was a tall, white, blonde woman with sharp, angular features who wore pencil skirts — like someone out of a stock photo.

Jon is capable of making decent tea, he just doesn’t give enough of a shit to do it

instead he usually just puts everything in the mug, microwaves it, and leaves (then comes back a couple hours later to microwave it again)

S1 Jon had stupid half-moon glasses with gold chains like a librarian

There isnt a single cis/het person in the archives

Simon Fairchild dresses like he's missing the rest of his barbershop quartet

Jon says things like good lord because it was a habit he got when he grew up with his grandma, and picked it back up to "seem more distinguished"

Tim used to read the Beano

Martin had loads of those little ceramic or felt animals that you find at garden centres

Tim used to have a bunch of googly eyes stuck at his desk/around the archives, but scraped them all off when the things about the Eye was revealed

The grey in Jon’s hair was a visible mark from the Web, and turned light and sticky like spiderweb after ep160

he also had his hair Reallyyy long pre-archives, cut it short when he was promoted but then almost immediately started growing it out again

Tim was a dramatic little ass about getting sick/minorly injured (head colds, paper cuts, etc)

[bloodrelationsofheavenandearth]

it won’t be the same (you are my achilles heel)

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; something happens and you are different, then, i watch you walk away from me. why are you different now?

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; clive rosfield : cidolfus telamon : dion lesage : barnabas tharmr -> x gn!reader

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist ; p2

the morning is light, sweet like the scent of fresh rain and flowing with simple melodies- no string quartet to detail his failure to depollute himself, no staccato to lead into the cacophony of his mind; no whistle of brass instruments, not an off key scrape to even disturb him. clive can simply exist, watered down and trickling into a slow stream of consciousness instead of the typical roar of a torrent in his mind- no, the morning is sweet, as he thinks that it always should be. the pollution of noise comes in the late afternoon. the string quartet starts when you take your first step away from him, then the staccato follows the slump of his shoulders and the shaking of your head; whistling brass and off key scrapes come when you turn, walking away. the evening is dark.

dusty air fills his lungs, a strange comfort. the same cup has been sat at his desk for a week now, imprint of a lipstick stain left as the sole curse of his lack of focus. cid is a busy man, he is a stubborn man, yet he is cursed to stare at the imprint of your mouth on a week old dank metal cup. your lips, wrapped around the edge of it, choking and sputtering on a laugh as he appreciates you- the lamplight reflected in your eyes, the crookedness of some of your teeth, the curl of your lips and the crease in your brow. resplendent. he brings his own cup to his mouth, drinking in a swill of his drink until his mind hazes, even slightly when he remembers that damned lipstick stain, is all you’d left.

dion kisses you, just to kiss you- sweetness on the tip of his tongue, touch simple but perfect as he cradles your face in his hands. dion kisses you, just to kiss you and pulls away, hands sweetly placed against your cheeks and watching your eyes. watching your eyes, your eyes are wet like crushed autumn leaves on the pavement and he can feel his heart weep as he feels the seasons change; all while he watches your eyes. his hands drop from your face, now holding yours- he pulls the parts of you that are conjoined to his chest, where you both end and begin in an infinite moment; please, please don’t let me watch the seasons change again. then, the seasons stop changing all at once, you drop his hands and he knows winter will not leave him.

hearts beat, breaths mingle, fingers twist. stubble on smooth skin, dry lips to wet lips, palms of hands cradling cheeks. barnabas remembers all of this well as he finds himself at the top of the hill he’d found, watching the whisps of a memory take a tumble through strands of green. the whisps collect to form into solidity, a swirling vortex until they connect, phantom smile curling until it collapses and the image is destabilised. he finds himself then focussing on reality, on the whisps of green and the real figure further ahead; walking away, leaving. a kiss to the forehead, unsteady feet, hands wiping at wet cheeks. how can this really be for the best.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; so, hi! it’s been like a week haha. this, may possibly be, the product of an angst shot i read & it had a song which i realised was by an artist i don’t mind this one OTHER song to- tldr; the up theme song was also in the mix and oh GOF MAN

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ hiebies 2023 ©

[fallingblueroses]

Whumptober 2024 prompt: Sensory deprivation, with a dash of betrayal added.

VP's Panic! at the Disco video with a twist.

***

Eli's head throbbed as he woke up. Where am I? It was dark--no, he realized. He was blindfolded. There was tape over his mouth, and when he tried to move he realized the cold metal on his wrists was actually chains holding him down to a chair.

His heart beat doubled as he realized he'd been kidnapped--and from the sound of it he wasn't alone. He could hear chains rattling and chairs scraping as others struggled. A muffled groan of frustration that sounded like Earl came to his ears. Had they all been taken?

What the hell happened? The last thing he remembered was being at PattyCake Productions with VoicePlay rehearsing for their new video. He'd separated from the group to get a cup of coffee while Layne and J argued over some minor point. He'd been walking down the hall when he'd felt a sharp pain in the back of his head...

Eli's thoughts were interrupted when he heard footsteps. The others with him fell silent as well. The footsteps stopped, then there was a sound of tape being torn from skin. Geoff's voice, loud and angry: "Who are you? What the hell is this!" And then, a few seconds later, in a much softer, bewildered voice: "Tony? You?"

Tony?! Eli's eyes widened behind the blindfold. Tony had been acting strange lately, but Eli and the rest of them had put it up to the accident. A few weeks back Tony had fallen off a ladder at PattyCake while setting up some lighting and had hit his head. He'd spent a day in the hospital under observation, but had been ultimately declared fine and sent home.

"Yes, Geoff. It's me."

Eli heard Geoff draw in a sharp breath. "Oh my God...what...why..."

"They deserve it."

"What?!"

"They forced me out of VoicePlay. For him." Tony's voice was cold and hard. "Well, Eli? Layne? Earl? Was he worth it?"

Earl said something through his tape, and Geoff's voice mirrored Eli's confusion. "Tony...no. That's not what happened."

Tony's voice sharpened. "And what did happen, Geoff?"

Geoff spoke quickly. "No one forced you out. You wanted to leave to focus on PattyCake. Remember? You said business was picking up and you didn't have time for both. We didn't want to lose you, but we understood. We supported your decision."

"Those three wanted me gone. They had him waiting to step him."

"No. J wasn't waiting. We were a quartet for a while, remember? We found him..."

"Stop. Just stop."

"Tony, let us go. It's not too late..."

"Stop it!" Eli jumped at Tony's scream. But his voice quickly softened. "That's why everyone loves you, Geoff. You see the best in everyone. All of that happened right in front of you and you never saw it. You were the one who called to check to see if I was sure I wanted to leave."

"It was a big decision. I wanted to make sure everything was okay. You said it was. You've been happy the way things are now. Remember? You told me it was easier not touring, being able to sleep in your own bed every night, not having to eat out all the time. Please, Tony. They're your friends too. Let us go."

Silence.

"I know things have been confusing for you since the fall. But we can talk this out."

Silence.

Geoff's voice became desperate. "Tony, I'm begging you. I'd get on my knees if I could. Let us go. We've toured together. There were times we saw more of each other than we did our families. Yes, there were rough patches but we've always worked them out!"

Silence, except for heavy breathing next to Eli. It sounded like Layne.

Geoff's voice was starting to come in rushed, gasping breaths. "Tony. If you kill us...that can't be taken back."

Those words made Eli's heart freeze. What did Geoff see that he couldn't?

Tony still remained silent, but Geoff went on. "Let us go. We can go back to PattyCake like none of this ever happened."

"There's that optimism again." Tony's voice was calm, thoughtful. We can't go back just like that. You know that." Geoff fell silent, and then Tony spoke again. "I'll let you go. Just you."

"What?"

"We can walk out of here. But you have to leave them behind."

Eli's own breath came hard in the silence. Then Geoff's weak, defeated voice: "I don't want to die."

"Then you don't have a choice, do you?"

"No. I don't."

Earl's voice came in a muffled, angry yell as Eli felt himself deflate. Was Geoff actually going to walk out and abandon them to...whatever Tony had planned? No. He wouldn't do that...

Eli heard Geoff's chain rattle--then his heart leapt as he heard two punches. Tony grunted and fell, and there were a few quick footsteps before Tony yelled. "Put that down!"

"Tell me how to disarm it."

Disarm...A bomb. There's a bomb. Eli stiffened as a fresh wave of panic set in. How much time was left...?

"Put it down!"

Geoff screamed in fear and rage. "Tell me how to disarm the god damned bomb, Tony!"

Tony sighed. "I don't know. I didn't make it. I bought it."

"Where did you..." Geoff's voice trailed off, but Eli could hear his deep, heavy breathing.

"Put it down, Geoff. There's nothing left to do." Tony's voice was cold and certain.

An agonizing silence fell, and then Eli swore he heard Geoff swallow. "...Guys...I love you all." Then running footsteps.

Tony screamed. "No!" More running footsteps, and Eli understood. Geoff was running away with the bomb. A crashing sound came from some little distance, and Eli could hear Tony and Geoff struggling.

"Let go of it!" Tony yelled.

"I have to get it outside!"

Tony cried out in pain, and Eli heard Geoff run again. Tony followed a few seconds later. The sound of footsteps faded, and then Eli heard glass break. Two more seconds passed--then the building rocked as an explosion nearly deafened Eli. He braced himself, but there was no heat. No pain. No debris fell to crush him...A wave of relief washed over Eli for a heartbeat--

And then Tony screamed. "No! No, no, no!" And to Eli's horror, there was no answer from Geoff.

[yakool-foolio]

SUSATO TELL ME EVERYTHING ABOUT KAZUMA RIGHT NOW. Damn, even Mikotoba is shook up by that dog collar. He must've been in Britain when this 'Hound of the Baskervilles' story took place. The judge really is becoming a character to look out for it seems. Getting sprites outside of the courtroom means real shit is gonna happen with him for sure.

BRETT ISN'T A REAL PERSON AND IS ACTUALLY ONE OF THE PEOPLE MENTIONED IN THE MORSE CODE MESSAGE?! This quartet (now a solo, poor Gregson is the only survivor) really is a rag-tag group that seems to have no noticeable connections between each other. It's dramatic irony that Shinn and Kazuma met in the first trial without even possibly knowing each other's involvement, at least Kazuma didn't.

KAZUMA'S BODY VANISHED HMMMMMMMMMMMMM???

HE COULD STILL BE ALIVE HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM?????

THERE'SSOMUCHLOREHAPPENINGALLATONCEICAN'TTYPEFASTENOUGH

Harebrayne has gone as crazy as I have. Mood.

Me: HE DOESN'T KNOW WHERE THE WORKSHOP IS?! WAS HE BLINDFOLDED OR SOMETHING?! Harebrayne: I was blindfolded on the way there- Me:

NEW LADY! She's gone :(

Ohhhh so Klint's spirit is rumored to be The Reaper! He's the Hyde to Barok's Jekyll! I hope this is only the tip of the iceberg, but I'm more than ready to dig down myself if I must!

Ough Sithe's theme is sooooo good, that harpsichord is bringing me to a higher plane of existence. WOAH WOAH HEY KID PUT THE KNIVES DOWN!

OH MY GOD A PUPPY! Gregson frets that Gina could die to The Reaper so he wants to keep her safe and take her far away from any danger... aw man now I have a new appreciation for him. I'm not too big on him, but he's a good guy and I do like him, just not as much as the other detectives in this series. Ema Skye supremacy I don't make the rules.

I spy with my little eye a Van Zieks! Perhaps there's a mystery man not to far from here...? I do like that Van Zieks barely ever wears his cloak outside, it makes it look like he only ever wears it in court to make a flamboyant entrance. I like his style.

"I turned as white as a-" "You turned as pale as a-" I GET IT YOU'RE ALL SHOCKED! Were the writers scraping the bottom of the barrel on similes for fear this case?

HE'S HERE! Susato's got the right idea to talk to mystery man! IT'S KAZUMA IT'S GOTTA BE HIM! DON'T LEAVE NOOOOOOOO! OH SHIT HE'S GONNA BE IN COURT WITH VAN ZIEKS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HYPEHYPEHYPE! This is the one thing I will genuinely thank Stronghart for, as I don't trust that man as far as I can throw him.

(To Whom It May Concern - @raymondshields)

[soft-for-xie-lian]

Now that it’s pride month again here are all my aspec mdzs fanfics! You do need an account to read these, I made them private after ao3 was scraped by generative AI and they’ll stay this way as long as AI is a Problem

My queerplatonic xiyao au series (that i’m still writing for!)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/4762873

My juniors quartet truth or dare oneshot i wrote for the gotcha for gaza, featuring aroace lan sizhui (the others are aro or ace spec too i just didnt make it as obvious)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62320792

And my ace songxiao deities au

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32604691/chapters/80879017

And more to come! The majority of what I write these days and for the foreseeable future is going to be aspec 💚🤍🩶🖤🩶🤍💜

[thekoikitten]

tell me abt ur wips...if u wanna...

Basically all the fanfictions in the pinned poll (which I'm keeping up so I feel guilty about not doing it while I'm reposting beetle photos/videos out of hopes that I will eventually do it despite having no motivation)

Plus a bunch more fanfic ideas I keep in my notes app (mostly being rocket executive/johto quartet content with a side of N x proton (aka NeverHappeningShipping) and maybe reguri fanfic ideas (the same "Red and Green mountain angst stuff™" everybody makes but still makes me cry) . I hardly even scraped the surface but I need to finish the four from the poll first. Currently the one I got the farthest with was the proton and N fistfight at a Denny's parking lot thing. No spoilers though. It's a surprise 👻👻👻 (jk I'm giving spoilers. The one spoiler is that petrel emerges from the Denny's to see proton doing that family guy death pose (n already left long since then)(also petrel is incredibly slow with his orders))

[daevastanner]

A Court of Blades and Beginning Finale

Tomorrow the Epilogue releases :)

F I N A L E

 “You must know... surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I'd scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love--I love--I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

Mr. Darcy in Joe Wright’s “Pride and Prejudice” 2005

Azriel was going to murder Cassian. On the night of his mating ceremony no less.

 And all for dancing with Gwyneth Berdara. A mild offense, all things considered… if Gwyneth Berdara were not Azriel’s mate. 

If Gwyneth Berdara had not been utterly resplendent in that blue gown.

If Gwyneth Berdara had not been laughing and giggling as his brother twirled her. 

But perhaps the most vicious offense was that unlike Azriel, Cassian had Gwyneth Berdara all to himself. A privilege that the shadowsinger had yet to be afforded. 

Then do something about it, his shadows urged.

Maybe I will.

With that, Azriel tossed back the remainder of his champagne flute, setting it back down on the banquet table with a bit more force than necessary. No one remained to witness his ire. His seatmates were all up dancing after all. Emerie with Morrigan. Elain with Lucien. Feyre with Rhysand. Nesta with Nyx.  Amren with Varian.

And fucking Cassian with Gwyn. 

Pushing out of his chair, uncaring of the way the legs scraped crudely against the marble of the temple floor, Azriel walked around the banquet table and straight for the dance floor. 

He maneuvered through the sea of dancing bodies, heading straight for Cassian and Gwyn.

The string quartet’s music wound down and the pair separated, just as Azriel arrived before them. When Gwyn rose from her curtsy and Cassian from his bow, they both noticed his fuming presence. 

Cassian chuckled. “Thank you for the dance, Berdara.” He nodded to the shadowsinger. “Azriel.” 

Gwyn turned and beamed at Azriel, her expression so breathtaking that his anger nearly dissipated. 

Nearly. 

He was unable to account for the cause behind the full extent of his anger. He knew it was mostly just the damned bond, paired disastrously with his own natural inclination towards jealousy.

“Would you care for a dance, Shadowsinger–”

“No, I would not,” he bit out. “Come with me.”

He took her hand and began towing her towards the exit as the band struck up their next number. The doors shut behind them muffling the sound of music and merrymaking, but Azriel did not stop. He continued towing her along the grounds of the river house, all the way to the moonlit bank of the Sidra, where he finally released her. 

Gwyn gestured to the water, then said meekly. “It’s lovely at night.” 

“The sound of the rushing water will prevent anyone from overhearing.” 

“And what might they overhear?” Gwyn asked, amusement coloring her tone. 

But her amusement only served to feed his outrage.

Read the rest on ao3

[1-800-papaya]

The viper's badger

It shouldn’t work; it just wasn’t meant to be. A venomous viper should never be seen cuddling up with a fluffy badger in the dark, warm corner of the library. And yet, on the cool, winter Sunday afternoon, while most of the student body was bracing the cold winds as flashes of blue and red fly above their heads, Mattheo Riddle was cuddled up with Lyra Scamander. Most considered it the greatest scandal to rock the school since…well…since ever.

Lyra would argue quite vehemently. To her, Mattheo was nothing like a venomous viper but more like an agitated Niffler. It was Mattheo that would describe Lyra as a venomous viper. The young girl had shown her teeth well before being placed in the black and yellow house, which had reduced her to a ‘fluffy badger’.

It was not lost on Mattheo that his last name would cause him issues at Hogwarts. Ever since news got out that his parents were in support of Gellert Grindelwald and his plans for the wizarding world, Mattheo had become a pariah of sorts. Many of the other students glared and sneered not so quietly behind his back; even those in his own house refused to sit by him. Last year, he spent many potions lessons alone. His saving grace had been the tight-knit group of friends he had been dragged into by his close friend Theodore Nott.

Theodore Nott and his brother, William Nott, had pulled Mattheo into the group head-first, not taking no for an answer. Mattheo was glad Theodore had not roped him into joining the Slytherin Quidditch team. That would possibly had been worse, he didn’t want to think about how the rest of Slytherin house would’ve reacted to his appointment - no matter how well of a player he was. Theo was Mattheo’s only respite in when he entered their common room, his only barrier from his fellow house mates that wanted everything to do with his name and not him. It was the twins that had brought the most scandalous couple in of of Hogwarts together.

The couples other friends, Marcy and Dean were also involved in this plot. Together the quartet had pushed Lyra and Mattheo together like colliding atoms. The speed in which the relationship had bloomed in the pair’s second year had baffled even the most inquisitive professor.

It seemed that the pair had been right all along. The cold bitter Scottish winter sky had turned a miserable grey and small droplets pattered on the beautiful stained glass window. Part of Lyra felt sorry for her friends that had braved the harsh winds just after lunch, but then again they were the same friends that would trudge back into the warmth of the library to complain about the vary homework Lyra had chosen to do instead. Said parchment lay rolled up neatly in her book bag, it hadn’t been hard Professor Binns was known for giving short detailed assignments. Various books on the Goblin Rebellion and Goblin History still sat idle, despite Lyra having been long since finished her two and a half foot essay, Mattheo still had a foot to go.

Mattheo sighed ruefully as the little enchanted hourglass rattled on the alcove desk that the pair was currently hunched over. Lyra had wanted to make sure she could get to the kitchens for fresh mugs of hot chocolate before their friends returned from the Quidditch fields. Her chair scraped softly against the hardwood floor as she started to send the volumes they’d been using back to their rightful place. Mattheo watched on, Lyra was the picture perfect student - he was not. All of their professors loved her and her dedication to her work. Professor Kettleburn often praised the young girl and commented often that she would excel in any future job she wanted. Her studious nature was something that Mattheo admired. Mattheo was shaken from his thoughts as the subject of said thoughts extended her hand towards him.

“Ready to go my viper”

“Certainly puff”

The pair exited the warm library, hand in hand and book-bags tugged over shoulders. The castle’s stone walls provided a surprising amount warmth as the couple traverse the long hallways and ever changing staircases. Despite this, Lyra still tugged her scarf and robes tighter around her frame. Mattheo waited patiently as Lyra entered the kitchens and gathered her desired mugs of steaming coco. Mattheo didn’t like being alone. especially when he was outside the classroom or common room. While most of his fellow Slytherin’s came from dark wizarding families like his own, the rest of the student body seemed to not want a single thing to do with him. Shrinking slightly against the stone pillar supporting the spiral stone steps that led to the kitchens and Hufflepuff Common room, Mattheo tried to make himself seem smaller than he was. Hoping and any passing student may mistake him for a younger Slytherin and not the enigma that his reputation had become.

However, when the portrait that disguised the entrance to the kitchens creaked open he straightened out to his full height. Lyra greeted him with her signature toothy smile and four floating mugs. With her wand raised, the pair made their way back though the castle till they reached the Great Hall. Much to Lyra’s chagrin Marcy, Theodore and William were already situated along the Hufflepuff house table. She greeted her friends with a huff as the mugs gracefully place themselves in front of each person. Yet another thing Mattheo loved about Lyra. Her pout. her features portrayed faux sadness that her plan had been thawed, but her eyes revealed the genuine joy at being around her friends.

The trio that had braved the weather, filled the couple in on the game, a miserable defeat for Ravenclaw and a equally miserable victory for Gryffindor. Slytherin was still on top of the table though, which Theodore took great pride in reminding everyone. Every now and again Mattheo slightly tightened his hold on Lyra’s hand, comforting her when her features hardened to a uncharacteristic scowl. In the four year’s that the group had known each other, Lyra’s protectiveness of her friends had not lessened. She would happily bare her sharpened teeth at any fellow student that felt the need to comment openly about Mattheo, most learned their lesson after the first round with his honey badger of a girlfriend, however some did not.

Gideon Ashford was one of the few that seemed to like constantly facing off against the terrifying girl Mattheo called his. Gideon is a third year Gryffindor that often harasses not only Mattheo but also Dean. Luckily today, Mattheo spotted Gideon’s stupid blond mop thundering towards them, a unwilling and tired Dean following behind. Seeing his daily tormentor approaching, Mattheo wrapped his arms securely around his love. Lyra growled lowly like one of Professor Kettleburns beasts once her hazelnut eyes landed on the egotistically proud expression on poor Gideon’s face.

“No” Her quick, harsh response to the mere presence of Gideon didn’t shock the group, after her last detention before the Christmas break, Lyra didn’t want to suffer the wrath of her elder brother. The sudden denial seemed to cause Gideon to physically bristle in angered shock. Gideon was from a well to do, influential family, with his father being the recent Minister of Magic he wasn’t use to being denied anything. Most Professors tended to treat him with kit gloves which lead him to believe that he ran the school like his father use to run the British wizarding world.

Fortunately it seemed whatever Gideon was going to sprout today was squash with the simple word. With a arrogant huff the blond escaped to the front of the hall where his gaggle of follows was eagerly waiting, probably to hear whatever tale of triumph he could come up.

Dean sagged into William’s awaiting hold. Unlike Lyra and Mattheo, you’d be hard pressed to find a single resident of Hogwarts that didn’t think Dean and William made a cute couple. Well maybe one, But Theodore Nott didn’t count. It didn’t seem as scandalous for a beautifully feathered raven to fall hard for the star player of the roaring lions. As William pressed his lips to Dean’s temple in a chaste kiss, Theo proceeded to gag and throw teasing comments at his brother and dear friend. This was why Theo didn’t count.