#and they’re planning on changing it AGAIN

[chrissturnsfav]

omg i just thought about something

can you write about how rapper!chris and star are arguing over something reallyy stupid and none of them wanna apologize first, but chris can't sleep properly if they're angry at each other so he tries to talk with her before going to bed😔😔

they’re just so sweet and i need some angst 💔

⋆.˚✮ rapper!chris and singer!reader refuse to go to bed angry

you don’t even remember how it started. something about work. or maybe it was the aux cord in the car. it was dumb as fuck, you know that, but now you're both too deep into this silent battle of egos to back down.

chris is across the room, scrolling on his phone, sprawled out in a manspread on the couch. you're on his bed, curled up in his hoodie that still smells like his cologne, arms crossed, jaw tight.

the sleepover routine hasn’t changed—you're here, he's here—but the vibe is off. and you hate when the vibe is off.

he exhales loud as hell, like he wants you to notice. you pretend you don't, but then he does it again. dramatic dick.

"yo, you really gonna sleep mad at me?" his voice is all low and smooth, but there’s that little whiny edge to it, kinda like he's suffering. good.

you don't answer. you hear him toss his phone onto the nightstand with way too much force.

"nah, fuck that," he mutters, then suddenly, the king size bed dips as he flops down next to you, shaking the whole mattress. you don't move.

he sighs and shifts. then a finger pokes your arm. once. twice. three times.

"quit actin' like you sleepin'. i know you ain't asleep, ma."

you swat his hand away, but he just laughs. you can hear the smirk on his lips.

"so we really beefin' over some dumb shit?"

"you started it," you mumble quietly, your heart speeding up. you hate arguing with chris, yet you're so stubborn.

"you kept it goin'," he shoots back, rolling onto his side to face you. "and now we both look dumb as shit."

you hate when he makes sense.

he shifts closer, nudging your shoulder with his. "look, i know you’re probably sittin' here thinkin' all hard, stressin' yourself out over some shit that don’t even matter."

you glare at him. "i am not."

"you are," he says, huffing with a roll of his eyes. "bet you already planned three different ways to apologize, blamed yourself for the whole argument, and decided i secretly wanna leave you. don’t lie."

you look away, huffing, realizing he's right once again.

he groans and throws an arm over his face. "baby, i love you, but you gotta stop doin' that shit."

his words hit something soft in your chest. you swallow.

"i just don't like to be wrong," you admit, voice small, chewing the inside of your cheek.

he peeks at you from under his arm, grinning. "well, if we're bein' real, we're both wrong. so now we can stop actin' stupid and go to sleep."

you hesitate, shooting him a bratty glare, making him scoff out a chuckle.

"c'mooon," he coaxes, voice dipping into that playful, teasing tone that always makes you crack. "jus' say you sorry first. be the bigger person. show me how mature you are."

"you say it first," you whine, frowning like a small child.

"nah, ion do first," he says, flipping onto his back with a smirk. "i'm a rapper. got a reputation to uphold."

you roll your eyes, but he catches the way the corner of your mouth twitches. he sees his opening and goes straight for it.

next thing you know, he's rolling over, wrapping himself around you like a human blanket, his breath warm against your neck. "damn, you smell good," he mumbles. "all mad and cute and shit."

you groan. "chris—"

"shhh," he hums, tucking his face against your shoulder. "s'okay, i accept your apology."

"i didn't even apologize," you whine, frowning up at him as you squirm.

"you were thinkin' it, though. i could feel it. don't pull that stubborn shit, now."

you smack his arm, and he just laughs, holding you tighter. his warmth melts away the last bit of your stubbornness. fine. you did miss him.

"…whatever," you mumble, snuggling into his hoodie.

he presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. "love you, kid," he mumbles against your skin.

you huff, giving in. "love you."

thank you for reading!! <3

tags 🏷️: @sturnobsessedwh0re , @idrk2292 , @mattsbrat , @ribbonlovergirl , @matthewsroses , @mattsdemi , @emely9274 , @frankoceanfanpage , @ifwdominicfike , @marrykisskilled , @strnilolover , @cayleeuhithinknott , @forgottxen , @sophand4n4 , @sturnsrecord , @purpledragon222 , @faiyaz555 , @jocelyncsblog , @freakiolos , @slut4chris888 , @chriss-slutt , @ilovedanielcaesar , @annsx03 , @snoopychris , @chrissweetheart , @slutformatt17 , @mattsturnii , @dominicfikeenthusiast , @mattsbratt333 , @ivysturnss , @tessasturns , @coquettechris , @courta13 , @sturniolo101 , @malsmind

@chrissturnsfav ™

[scary-grace]

pretty please will you write [bouquet] but reader gives flowers to tomura <33333

Thank you for the prompt! This got angsty and I apologize. Hopefully I can redeem myself with the third prompt! Post-canon, 2.1k, angst.

memory garden

The bouquet you buy gets bigger every year.

You’re in the interminable line at the florist���s, you and a bunch of guys in business suits and wedding rings, identical guilty looks on their faces, and somehow your bouquet is the biggest one. Not for the first time since you picked it up, you wonder if you’ve overdone it. White roses. Red roses – deep red, not bright red. Periwinkle-blue buddleia, ferns, baby’s breath, and ivy. It’s a lot of flowers. A lot of money. And it’s not like the person they’re for is going to appreciate them.

But it’s one day a year. One bouquet, and it’s the only bouquet he’s going to get. You kiss your pastry budget goodbye for the next week and wait for your turn at the checkout counter, feeling like shit for even thinking of buying something smaller. So what if you’ve got the biggest bouquet in line? It’s worth it. You don’t need anybody else to understand, which is a good thing. You barely understand the impulse yourself.

The last few Valentine’s Days, it’s been bright and cold and sunny, a picturesque winter day. Today it’s raining, and you check the forecast on the train with increasing dismay. It’s going to be a swamp by the time you get there, and you’ll be going home cold and wet and muddy. You’re already tired. It was an awful week at work, but when isn’t it, really? You work in Homicide, and in spite of society’s supposed great leaps forward since the war ended, people are still in the business of killing each other. If you didn’t have your quirk, you’d work anywhere else.

But you do have your quirk – Red Cap, which gives you a heads-up and flashback every time you walk over a spot where someone died a violent death. Working Homicide really is the only job you’re good for, although in the aftermath of the war, you were embedded with the national coroner’s office, walking the battlefields to identify victims, perpetrators, and causes of death. It’s not what you want to do with your life, but it pays. Enough that you could probably stand to get more than one bouquet, one day a year. But there’s only one day of the year where you can buy a bunch of flowers without anybody asking why.

As you’re putting your phone away, one of your friends texts you about a last-minute blind date – some friend of her boyfriend’s whose date fell through, who’s going to be a total wet blanket and ruin their night if nobody distracts him. Will you go on a pity date with him? You’re not his type and he’s not yours, but all you have to do is keep him busy for a little while. With an offer like that, how can you refuse? You text back one-handed. Sorry. I have plans.

doing what?? I know you’re single

I have plans, you type again. Even if your plan was to get plastered and forget about tomorrow, you’re not going to go on a date where you’re so obviously the consolation prize. And you wouldn’t be that much of a prize, either – once people hear about your job, and your quirk, they’re usually not interested. Sorry. I hope you can work something out!

The exclamation point feels forced. You tuck your phone away and stare out the window at the rain, the bunch of flowers rustling in your shaky hands.

The view out the window reminds you just how much Japan has changed. It’s been almost eight years since the war, and everywhere that matters to anybody has been rebuilt, bigger and better than before. Every city’s skyline bristles with skyscrapers, every highway has wider lanes – and in between are places that aren’t important enough to merit a rebuild, places that have been patched back together haphazardly or been allowed to fall into disrepair. Bigger cities, empty villages. More pretty city parks, fewer nature reserves. And every so often you’ll look out the window and see a dark shadow across the landscape, a scar that will never heal. Or so they say. People say time heals everything, and sometimes, you almost believe them.

Once you reach your destination, you’ve still got a ways to go. This part is uncomfortable. It always is, not because the terrain once you’re off the main road is rough, but because everywhere you step is a place someone breathed their last. This is the final battlefield from the Villain War. You’d say the number of deaths that occurred here is countless, except you have counted. That’s how you know where to go.

The rain soaks through your clothes as you pick your way across the barren, muddy field. At one edge of it there’s a shrine to all the heroes who fell, not just here but in the entire war, and on important days, there are people queuing up to leave offerings and pay their respects. You keep walking, hating the way your feet squelch in the mud. The longer you stay in touch with a particular piece of earth, the more information you pick up about the death that occurred there, and you saw enough the first time.

The death site you’re looking for is at the far edge of the field, pushed up into the shadow of the mountain that rears up nearby. It’s unmarked, of course. It would be unattended even if it wasn’t. No one mourns the wicked, after all, and Shigaraki Tomura, the Symbol of Fear, was as wicked as they come. Or so they say.

When you found his death site, what you witnessed through your quirk brought you to your knees. That’s not how it usually goes for you, how it usually went by that point. Almost every person who dies is scared while it happens. A lot of them are confused. A lot of them are angry or hurt or betrayed. But none of them are all of those things at once, and empty and lost and hollow at the same time, and while you’ve walked over many death sites, Shigaraki’s is the only one that’s ever taken you down. And when you got back up, you couldn’t see him as the monster he was any longer.

You thought reading the book the surviving members of the League of Villains wrote would help clear your head, or at least remind you who you were really losing sleep over. When that didn’t work, you went to visit the book’s author in prison. Spinner wanted to talk about Shigaraki, his best friend and his only friend, but nothing he said matched what you saw. Deku, who killed Shigaraki, never talks about him at all, and you can’t explain to anyone that you’re haunted by the last moments of a villain who was horrifying and tragic in almost equal measures. So you had to find something else to do.

You reach the far side of the field and come to a stop. You moved a rock a few years ago to mark the death site, so you wouldn’t have to step on it and retraumatize yourself every year, and you stop a meter or so back from where you know the edge lies. And then, like always, you hit a wall. You could keep doing this for the rest of your life, and you’ll still never know the right thing to say as you set down the bouquet. The last few years, you’ve just set it down and left.

But that thought’s in your head again – one bouquet, one day of the year. He doesn’t have a shrine or a grave marker, and you’re the only one who knows exactly where he died. If you only got one visitor every year, you’d want them to say something. Anything.

Anything, from you, is usually a bad idea. “I’m still working at Homicide. The murder rate hasn’t dropped back to pre-war levels yet. I go walking over two or three crime scenes a week, and none of them have ever been as awful as what I felt when I walked over yours.”

So what, you can imagine him saying. You get to walk away. This was my whole life, and I died as I lived. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you or something? “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. That’s not why I’m saying that. I just – I wanted you to know that it really was that bad. All the pain you felt, all that anger – it’s unbearable. I can see why you’d do anything to get away.”

You wouldn’t do what Shigaraki did, you don’t think. Then again, you don’t have that kind of power. The only person you can torment with your quirk is yourself. “I don’t know why I come out here. Or why I bring flowers. You probably hated flowers,” you say. You can imagine his response to that, too: Yeah, no shit. “I never met you, but I can’t unsee what I saw. I wish I’d never seen it.”

You feel that way about everything you’ve seen and felt through your quirk, but this especially. “I wish I’d never seen it, but I did see it. And it would be wrong to look away.”

That was something you remember from that first flashback, the one that laid you out in the filth on the battlefield. The way the emptiness inside him yawned wide, a gaping void no amount of rage and destruction could fill, a desperate howl that still echoes through your mind –  look at me, notice me, save me – a cry for help that went forever unanswered. It’s too late for Shigaraki Tomura. Whatever you could possibly do rings hollow, and he’ll never see it, anyway. The longer you think about it, the more miserable you get. You need to go, before you spend another Valentine’s Day crying on the train home.

But to leave the bouquet by your makeshift marker, you have to cross the death site. As you hesitate, you hear that voice in your head, cobbled together from every newscast of the destruction of Jaku City or the final battle that took place here: This was my whole life. You get to walk away. You steep yourself and cross onto the death site, and like always, it hits you like a knockout punch. All you can do is stagger to the marker, set the bouquet in its mason jar down at the foot of the stone, and stagger back out, your eyes burning, struggling to breathe.

You’re doubled over, gasping for air, when you hear the voice. “I didn’t think you’d come this year.”

Your stomach lurches. You stagger backwards, foot-first into another deathsite, and struggle to get your balance, searching for a safe place to stand. “Because of the rain,” the voice continues, raspy and rough. His voice. “How long are you going to keep this up?”

You’ve always thought your quirk might snap your mind someday. You just didn’t expect it to happen like this. If you’re already crazy, you might as well answer him. “Until I stop seeing it.”

“Forever.”

It’s been eight years. Nothing else has clung to you like this. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Forever,” the voice repeats. “I never stopped seeing it, either.”

You’re talking to a dead person. A ghost. You’ve walked over hundreds of death sites, and you’ve never met a ghost before. But if anybody was going to become a ghost, it would be him, wouldn’t it? Unhappy, unable to let go, unmissed and unmourned by anyone but you, and you can barely be called a mourner when the most you do is show up with flowers one day a year. He probably hates flowers, and hates you, like he hated everything before. “I’m sorry,” you say. Shigaraki Tomura’s ghost makes a questioning sound. “I’m sorry no one saved you. I wish it wasn’t too late.”

You turn and leave without another look at the death site, and Shigaraki Tomura’s voice follows you. “Maybe it’s not.”

You’re losing it. You really must be. As soon as you get home, you’re taking a leave of absence from your horrible job and going to therapy, so you can learn how to live with your quirk and not let it cling to you and leave a bouquet at a supervillain’s death site without having a psychotic break. Maybe it’s not too late. What does that mean? It means you’re going crazy. That’s all this was. You walk stiff-legged across the battlefield, sicker with every step, never looking back. If you see his ghost hovering over the death site, you’re going to lose your mind for good.

Curiosity gets the better of you, though. You look back just once, once there are no more death sites to walk over and the only memories in your head belong to you. Shigaraki’s death site is easy to miss if you don’t know what to look for, but you know what to look for – and even from this distance, you can see that the bouquet you left for him is gone.

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Gilded Cage

Pairing: The High Priestess! Hyunjin x Billionaire’s Daughter! Reader

Themes: Smut | Strangers to ? | Crime Syndicate AU

Wordcount: 4.9K

Playlist: ‘Venus In Furs’ - Ängie

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Use of a blindfold - Feather play - Oral (F. Receiving) - Slight sensory deprivation - Pleasure dom! Hyunjin - Use of pet names - Praising - Slight submission (F. giving)

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous chapter: Drive By - The Fool

The world is your playground.

Or at least, that’s what your father says when he drapes another diamond necklace around your neck or hands you the keys to yet another car you don’t need. Being the only daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country has its perks—your wardrobe is worth more than some people’s homes, your vacations are always on private islands, and your life is a carefully curated dream. But beneath the luxury, beneath the silk and gold, there is something you would never admit to anyone.

You are bored.

Painfully, excruciatingly bored.

Your father keeps you in a cage—gilded, beautiful, but a cage nonetheless. Every move you make is monitored, every outing meticulously planned, and every interaction carefully screened. He says it’s for your safety, that the world is too dangerous for someone as delicate as you. And, to be fair, you don’t exactly fight him on it. Most days, you let yourself be entertained by whatever new, expensive distraction he throws your way.

But today, something has changed.

You’re in one of the most exclusive shopping malls in the city, sipping on a lavender-infused matcha latte while your personal assistant carries your designer bags. A hushed conversation catches your attention as you browse through racks of couture you don’t need.

Two women—elegantly dressed, just the right mix of old money and scandal—stand by the jewellery counter, their voices low and intrigued.

“Did you hear? The next one is happening soon. Invitation-only, of course.”

“I heard the last one had a snow leopard. Can you believe it? A real one.”

Your ears perk up. A snow leopard? Your curiosity is immediately piqued.

“It’s all so thrilling,” one of them sighs. “The kind of place where only the right people get in.”

Your fingers tighten around your drink. You are the right people. More than that—you are the people.

The moment they walk away, you turn to your assistant.

“Find out where that auction is,” you instruct. “Now.”

That night, you sit across from your father at the grand dining table, the chandeliers above you reflecting off the polished marble floors. A team of chefs has just served a meal you barely touch, your mind preoccupied with the plan forming in your head.

“Papa,” you say sweetly, swirling your wine. “I want to go to an auction.”

Your father looks up from his plate, intrigued but unsurprised. “An auction? What kind?”

You flash him a practised, innocent smile. “An exclusive one. Downtown. They’re auctioning off rare artefacts, and there’s a necklace I’ve been dying to get my hands on. A princess’s necklace.”

His expression softens, and just like that, you know you have him. Your father loves indulging you, and he loves history almost as much as he loves keeping you happy.

“I don’t see why not,” he says after a moment, nodding. “But you’ll take security with you.”

You sigh, pretending to be annoyed. “Of course, Papa.”

The plan is in motion.

The auction is at the far edge of town, in a place so inconspicuous that, for a brief moment, you hesitate. For all you know, this could be an elaborate trap. But the thrill of the unknown is too tempting, so you push forward, your lime green Shelby Mustang purring as you pull up to the entrance.

A single man stands at the door—a bouncer, thick and unyielding.

“Name?” he asks, looking down at a clipboard. You confidently give it to him, expecting the doors to swing open. He checks. Then checks again. Then looks back at you.

“You’re not on the list.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “That can’t be right.”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

You shift your weight, tilting your head. “Do you know who my father is?” The bouncer remains unmoved. “This is a private event.” Annoyance bubbles in your chest. This never happens to you. You always get in.

You try again, pushing, persuading, letting hints of your father’s influence slip between your words. But it’s no use.

With a huff of frustration, you turn on your heel, ready to storm off in dramatic defeat—

And then the door opens.

And he walks out.

At first, you don’t register anything except presence. The kind that commands attention without even trying. Then, the details follow—high-end fashion that drapes like it was made for him, layers of gold jewellery catching the dim light, a fur coat thrown over his shoulders like an afterthought.

But it’s the face that makes you stop.

He is beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair—graceful yet masculine, soft yet sharp. Dark eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long, long time, you feel entirely out of your depth.

His lips curve into an effortless smile, and when he finally speaks, his voice is like velvet. “Well, well,” he murmurs. “Who do we have here?” Your throat dries, but you don’t let it show.

He steps closer, the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the space between you. Then, with a slow, practised elegance, he takes your hand—his touch light, deliberate—and brushes his lips against your skin.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, lifting his gaze. “My name is Hyunjin.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

You don’t blush. You never blush.

But you do now.

Hyunjin’s smile deepens as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “I must say,” he continues smoothly, still holding your hand, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then, without looking at the bouncer, he gives a simple nod.

“She’s with me.”

And just like that, the doors open.

The moment the doors shut behind you, the world changes.

Gone is the cold, industrial exterior of the building. In its place, dimly lit corridors stretch before you, the air thick with the scent of expensive cigars and something more elusive—power. The floors beneath your heels are marble, the kind that doesn’t just exist to be walked on but to announce wealth. You glance at Hyunjin, his expression unreadable, and follow him deeper into the labyrinthine hallways.

Hyunjin doesn’t speak, but you feel the weight of his presence. His every movement is deliberate, controlled—graceful in a way that feels almost practised. You wonder if he was born like this or sculpted into the man he is now, refined like a perfectly cut diamond.

Before you can say more, he stops in front of a set of grand double doors. They are obsidian black, carved with intricate gold detailing—regal, imposing. He places a hand against one and pushes.

Beyond them, the world comes alive.

A breathtaking display of wealth and secrecy unfolds before you. The room is vast, the ceilings high, adorned with golden chandeliers that cast a sultry, amber glow over the opulent setting. Rich mahogany and velvet dominate the decor, the air buzzing with hushed conversations and soft laughter, the kind only the truly powerful possess—the type that speaks of invulnerability.

It’s intoxicating.

Your gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the sheer decadence of it all. These aren’t just rich people. These are the elite. The ones who don’t just buy luxury—they own it. You recognise some of them—captains of industry, heirs to ancient fortunes, politicians whose faces grace magazine covers. But there are others, too, ones who remain nameless but equally dangerous, exuding an aura of control that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

Hyunjin leans in, his breath warm against your skin as he gestures discreetly.“See the man in the navy suit by the bar? Oil tycoon. No country owns him, yet he owns half the world. And the woman in emerald green? Former royalty. Loves her diamonds, hates her family.”

His gaze sweeps the room, pointing out kings without crowns and monsters in silk. You drink in this untouchable, untamed luxury, and it fuels something inside you.

Hyunjin guides you to an elevated space near the front, a private alcove with plush seating and an uninterrupted view of the stage. A waiter approaches instantly, offering crystal flutes of champagne. You take one, savouring the way the bubbles tingle against your lips.

The auction begins.

It starts slow, calculated. The first animals brought out are rare but not shocking—exotic serpents, small creatures from faraway lands. The bidding is fierce, millions exchanged with nothing more than a subtle nod or the lift of a hand.

Hyunjin watches you, his expression unreadable. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

You nod, unable to deny it. “The money… It’s insane.”

“It’s not about money,” he corrects smoothly. “It’s about power. Ownership.”

You gulp at his words, nodding as your mind drifts at the implications.

Then come the true prizes.

A magnificent Amur leopard, its coat like liquid gold under the spotlight; a Siberian tiger, its piercing eyes scanning the crowd with quiet defiance; African wild dogs, black-footed ferrets; and an addax whose curved horns could belong to a myth. The crowd leans forward with anticipation, voices sharpening as the stakes rise.

You are mesmerised. Not just by the spectacle, but by the people surrounding you here. These people don’t care about rules. They buy what they want. Own what they want. They are free.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the birds are brought out.

The Red-fronted macaw is dazzling, the Kākāpō rare and heavy with legend. But it’s the fruit dove that steals your breath.

It is smaller than the others, delicate and impossibly vibrant, its feathers painted in hues of emerald and coral, nature’s own masterpiece. It looks utterly out of place in this world of predators. And yet, there’s something captivating about it.

You barely notice the way Hyunjin is watching you.

“You like it,” he observes, voice smooth, knowing.

You nod, barely looking at him. The bird is mesmerising.

“Then bid.”

Your eyes flick to him, but he is already watching you, something unreadable in his gaze.

“It’s rare,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “Much is still to be learned about them. Many species are shy, difficult to observe in their natural habitat. They are not hunted for food, and yet…” His gaze drops, a fire within them that sets your skin alight.

“They are still coveted. A prized possession.”

You hear the words, but it is the way he says them that makes your breath hitch. The way his gaze rakes over your form, slow and deliberate. The way his voice lowers, rich with a meaning that has nothing to do with the bird at all.

You swallow. Hard.

“Bid.”

So you do.

The game begins, and at first, it is easy. A simple back-and-forth with another bidder.

But then— A woman’s voice. Sharp. Confident. Challenging.

You glance toward the source and immediately understand.

She is stunning, older, with an air of authority that suggests she is used to winning. But more than that, how she looks at Hyunjin—possessive, knowing—makes it clear.

She wants to win. Not just the bird.

The moment you realise this, a spark of something hot and reckless ignites in you. Your fingers tighten around the paddle. Not tonight.

You raise the bid. She counters. You go higher. The tension thickens. The numbers rise.

Four hundred thousand.

Four hundred and fifty.

Five hundred.

The woman hesitates. You see it in her expression. Hyunjin leans in, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear, “Don’t stop now.” You inhale sharply.

“Five hundred seventy-five thousand.”

Silence.

The gavel comes down. Sold.

You exhale, your pulse racing, but before you can bask in your victory, Hyunjin leans in. His lips brush the shell of your ear again as he whispers, “Good girl.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

The auction moves on, but you barely hear it. Not when his words still linger in your mind, setting every nerve in your body alight. And then, just as you take another sip of champagne, Hyunjin extends a hand once more. “Come,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Let’s finalize your purchase.” He leads you towards the back rooms, away from the crowd, away from prying eyes.

And something in the air tells you that whatever awaits you behind the darkness is far more dangerous than anything you’ve seen tonight.

You follow Hyunjin without question, still high from the rush of winning the bid, from the weight of his presence at your side, from the way he had whispered good girl in your ear like it was something sacred, from the taste of freedom you feel at finally doing what you want.

As you weave through the corridors, the sounds of the auction fading into the distance, a voice—her voice—cuts through the air.

“Hyunjin.”

You slow, glancing back. The woman from the bidding war stands in your path, her delicate fingers brushing against his sleeve in a way that is anything but innocent. She tilts her head, a sly smile curving her lips, but her eyes are sharp, assessing. “Leaving so soon? I was hoping we could… catch up.”

Hyunjin doesn’t even hesitate.

“Not tonight.” His tone is smooth, effortless, yet absolute. He doesn’t turn to face her, doesn’t spare her another glance. Instead, his hand rests on the small of your back, guiding you forward.

The rejection is brutal in its indifference.

You don’t look back. Not right away. But after a few steps, curiosity tugs at you, and you steal a glance over your shoulder.

 The woman’s smile is gone. She watches you with barely concealed disdain, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line. A slow, victorious smirk tugs at your own lips. She sees it. And it only makes her scowl deepen.

Hyunjin leads you through another door, and suddenly, you’re in a different world.

The room is exquisite—dark, sleek, littered with gold and fur. It is extravagant, opulent. Just like him.

Everything from the black marble floors to the velvet drapes screams power. A large desk sits at the centre, its surface polished and pristine, illuminated by the soft glow of an expensive-looking desk lamp. Behind it, shelves house rare artefacts, books that likely hold more secrets than stories, and bottles of aged liquor with labels in languages you can’t read.

At the centre of it all, a large black velvet couch sits like a throne.

You take it all in, slowly circling the room. “This is an office?” Hyunjin’s voice is smooth somewhere behind you. “Would you prefer something more… ordinary?” You glance at the velvet couch, running your fingers over the fabric. “No. This suits you.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Your heels echo softly as you step toward the desk, where Hyunjin is flipping through the paperwork, his golden rings catching the light. He slides the documents toward you, handing you a pen.

“Just a signature,” he murmurs. “And your payment, of course.”

You take the pen, its weight surprisingly heavy, and sign where he indicates before reaching into your purse. Your fingers find your chequebook, and you lay it flat on the desk, leaning over to fill it in.

The room is so quiet you can hear the soft scratch of your pen against the paper.

And then, a shift.

The slightest change in the air, a whisper of movement behind you. At first, you don’t register it. You’re too focused, too caught up in the ritual of payment, in the finalization of your victory. But then—heat.

A presence, pressing against your back.

Before you can turn, before you can speak—Dark silk blinds your vision.

Your entire world is cast into black.

Panic surges. Your body tenses, your pulse hammering wildly against your ribs. “What the hell is going on?” Your voice is sharp, edged with fear. “Hyunjin—!”

His hands are on your hips in an instant, grounding you. He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice low, soothing.

“Hush now, little dove.”

You shudder, your panic mixing with something else.

“You have been in a cage for far too long,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing firmly into your waist, his warmth melting into you. “It is time I set you free.”

Then—his lips. A slow, deliberate kiss against your neck.

Your lashes flutter beneath the blindfold, your senses heightening in the absence of sight. You can’t see him, but you feel him—everywhere. The warmth of his breath, the teasing press of his mouth, the strength of his hands holding you still.

“Will you let me?”

It is a question, and yet it isn’t.

The control is still yours, and that realization sends a different kind of shiver through you. You don’t speak—your voice has abandoned you. But the minuscule nod you give is enough.

Hyunjin’s lips curve into a smile against your pulse. His hands leave your waist, only for one of them to take yours, guiding you away from the desk. You follow blindly—literally—feeling the shift beneath your heels, the soft give of something plush against the back of your knees before he eases you down.

The couch. He has settled you onto the black velvet couch.

His touch disappears.

The absence of it is maddening. Your heart pounds against your ribs, your fingers flexing against the fabric as you try to sense where he has gone.

And then—A whisper of sensation against your arm.

Not fingers. Not skin. Softer. Lighter. Barely there.

A feather.

It drags down the length of your arm, trailing like a whisper over your wrist, up toward your shoulder. A pause. Then, lower—brushing against your collarbone, ghosting along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Your breath shudders out of you, and your lips part.

Hyunjin moves in silence, unseen but everywhere. The feather traces down your throat, over the fabric of your dress, dipping lower, teasing but never quite giving.

It is torturous.

And you have never wanted anything more. Your body feels strung too tight, your breath uneven, every sense heightened in the dark. The feather glides over your stomach, your thighs, pausing just short of where you ache to be touched.

Then—his voice. Soft, but commanding. “Open your legs.”

Your breath catches, but your body obeys before your mind can catch up.

You part your thighs.

You hear nothing—see nothing—but every nerve in your body is awake, thrumming, stretched taut like a violin string. The feather moves again, a whisper of sensation against your parted thighs.

You exhale shakily in anticipation, readying your body (and mind) for what is to come, and then—

It drifts lower. What?

The softest, most excruciating caress against the inside of your knee. It lingers there, teasing, before gliding downward, following the gentle slope of your leg.

You let out a soft whine, the sound escaping before you can stop it. Hyunjin chuckles, a low, indulgent hum that vibrates through the air. His voice is warm, teasing, like liquid gold spilling into your ear.

“Be patient, little dove.”

Your breath stutters. Patient? You are beyond patient. You are aching. Burning.

But he is in no hurry.

Your fingers twitch against the velvet couch, the fabric burning hot beneath your touch as the feather travels further—down, down, over the bare skin of your calf, brushing the sharp curve of your ankle. And then—your foot.

You gasp as the feather flutters over the sensitive arch, the unexpected sensation making your muscles jerk in response. Hyunjin hums in amusement. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, and though you cannot see him, you can hear the smile in his voice.

He takes his time, mapping the contours of your foot with slow, agonizing strokes—gliding along the curve of your arch, teasing the tips of your toes, circling back to skim over your ankle once more. It is a form of torment you never knew existed, this unbearable, feather-light pleasure that leaves you trembling, aching, your breath shuddering past your lips.

You make a small, involuntary noise when the feather finally begins its ascent again.

It trails back up your calf, slower this time, deliberately drawing out the moment. The sensation coils deep within you, tightening with each passing second, your skin hypersensitive, your body hyperaware, your underwear soaked, your pussy clenched.

It glides over the inside of your knee once more—then higher.

Your thighs tense as the feather sweeps along the sensitive flesh, tracing intricate, meaningless patterns that set your skin aflame. You shift, unable to stop yourself, but Hyunjin does not let up.

Instead, he continues his merciless game, the feather dancing along the curve of your thigh, drifting from one leg to the other, back and forth.

Your breath stutters. You’re trembling now, your body betraying you, responding to the teasing touch with increasing desperation. You can feel how close he is, the warmth of his presence, the weight of his gaze.

And then—finally—The feather reaches your cunt.

A sharp, wanton gasp escapes you when the feather softly grazes over your pulsing clit, your fingers tightening into fists against the couch. Hyunjin exhales slowly, like he’s savouring the sound.

The feather lingers there, tracing slow, deliberate strokes over the engorged nub, never quite giving you the pressure you crave. It brushes, flickers, teases, sending jolts of pleasure shooting up your nerves. Your hips twitch, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, and yet—he does not give in.

Not yet.

You shift again, desperate, seeking more friction. Something. Anything. To relieve this building ache in core.

And then, just when you think you might lose yourself completely to this torture, Hyunjin’s voice breaks the silence. Soft. Amused. Knowing. “What is it you want, little dove?”

You have never begged for anything in your life. Not once. But for him? For this?

“Hyunjin…please.”

Your voice is raw, breaking over his name. But he doesn’t move.

You can feel him, so close yet so infuriatingly still, his presence a smouldering heat between your thighs. You shift, parting them further, seeking more friction.

“Please, Hyunjin… I need you. Your fingers, your mouth, anything…Please.”

Hyunjin hums, pleased, his voice rich with amusement. “Look at you.”

Finally his fingers glide over your thighs, warm, firm, stroking in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel as if you might cry.

“You were so put together when you walked in here. So sure of yourself. And now…” His touch tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. “Now you’re begging me.” A shiver rolls down your spine.

“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Beg me properly, little dove.”

You swallow, your head falling back against the couch. The words spill from you before you can stop them. Before you can even think.

“Please, Hyunjin, please—I need you. I need you to touch me.” Your breath hitches, your voice trembling. “I need your mouth on me. Please.”

There’s a sharp inhale above you. Then—warm hands, strong and unyielding, gripping your thighs. “That’s it,” Hyunjin purrs. “That’s my good girl.”

He pulls you forward effortlessly, dragging you to the very edge of the couch, spreading you wide for him. Your shoulders hit the backrest, your body melting into his touch as a quiet, needy whimper escapes you.

“So pretty,” he muses as if admiring his favourite masterpiece. “So perfect for me like this.”

His fingers slide beneath your underwear, slow, teasing, just a brush—just enough to make you choke on a breath, to make you arch into him. “Let’s get these off, hmm?” There’s no waiting, no hesitation. The fabric is gone in seconds, leaving you bare beneath his gaze.

And then—heat. Hyunjin’s mouth finally presses against your cunt.

You moan out at the sensation, his lips softly enveloping your clit and sucking the nub into his mouth. Your sounds only seem to spur him on, and he dives in. He’s not gentle with it, like a man who had been starved for far too long finally getting his first taste of sustenance. He buries his head deeper between your thighs, sucking harder, his tongue and teeth alternating between flicking and nibbling the nub.

“More, Hyunjin…. Please.” You moan out, hips gently rotating against his face, desperate for more friction. More pressure.

He releases your clit with a pop, his lips instead tracing a path down towards your entrance. As his tongue pokes out to gather your juices, another gasp escapes your mouth. A second later, his tongue plunges into your hole, and you buck forward at the intrusion, your hand flying into his dark locks. Hyunjin pulls away, tsking at your behaviour.

His voice is strained, deeper than before, as he grounds out: “Now, now, little dove. Don’t make me clip your wings.”

The gaze that greets yours is dark, feline, and suddenly, you wonder if you might have actually become a bird at the mercy of this predator.

Hyunjin commands softly: “Grab the back of the couch. Don’t let go.” Before diving back in. Even though his head is buried against your cunt again, you still nod your head before doing as you’re told.

You feel his hand sneak its way between your legs as his lips resume their plays around your clit, before he plunges two fingers inside. “Oh fuck…” you groan as his hand picks up the pace, in perfect sync with his mouth. You grind your hips against his face again, careful to keep your hands behind you, and Hyunjin groans out at your brazenness, the vibrations sending another shiver up your spine as they pulse through you.

Hyunjin picks up the pace even more, adding a third finger, curling them inside of you and flattening his tongue to apply more pressure and draw quicker circles on your clit. It’s slightly embarrassing how quickly you reach your peak, the combination of the blindfold still covering your eyes, your senses being dulled, the earlier ministrations of the feather, and Hyunjin’s skilful movements between your legs proving to be too much.

“Oh fuck… I’m coming. Hyunjin. I’m coming.” You have just enough time to scream out as you topple over the edge, your body quivering as your orgasm overtakes you.

Hyunjin pushes you through it: “Yes, little dove. Yes. Come for me, such a good girl you are.” He groans, his fingers still pistoning inside of you. Your juices cover his hand, his lips, but he doesn’t stop. Only when you cry out, sounding a little less pleased and a little more pained, he gently removes himself from you. Delivering a soft kiss to your vulva, a silent praise.

Your body is still humming, the aftershocks of pleasure leaving you weightless, limbs heavy against the velvet couch. The world feels hazy, suspended between reality and something more indulgent, more intoxicating.

Hyunjin rises from the floor, slow and fluid, his presence still a smouldering heat between your thighs. And then—warm hands cradle your face, fingers pressing just enough to ground you before his lips crash against yours.

You moan softly into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue, letting him swallow the sound like a secret. The kiss is deep, unhurried, yet claiming, leaving you dizzy all over again.

And then—he pulls away.

“Stay put.” His voice is smooth, firm, laced with something unreadable. “Don’t take off the blindfold yet.”

You exhale shakily, nodding without question. Your body still belongs to him, your mind too clouded to resist. You listen as he moves—footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the faintest shift in the air.

Then—Nothing. The silence is so thick, so absolute, it coils around you like an invisible tether. You strain your ears, waiting, anticipating. Still—nothing. A minute passes. Then another. Your fingers twitch against the couch, unease flickering beneath the remnants of pleasure.

“Hyunjin?” you whisper. No response. You wet your lips, your throat suddenly dry. “Hyunjin.” Louder now. Still—silence.

A strange chill spreads through your limbs, the absence of sound shifting from anticipation to something else—something wrong. You sit up abruptly, your legs pressing together, your body instinctively curling inward as your fingers move quickly to your face. The blindfold slips away.

Blink. Adjust. Focus.

The dim golden glow of the room sharpens around you, the opulence still intact—the dark, sleek walls, the velvet couch, the furs spilling over the furniture. But Hyunjin is gone. Your chest tightens. Your gaze sweeps the room, searching for movement, a shadow, an open door. Nothing. No lingering warmth. No sign he was even here. Your breath hitches. You reach for your underwear, needing something tangible, something to ground you.

But they’re gone.

Instead, lying beside you is a small folded note. As you pick it up, your fingers tremble slightly, the thick paper cool against your skin. You hesitate, pulse ticking at your throat before you finally unfold it. Neat, elegant handwriting stares back at you.

“Don’t fly too far, little dove. Or I’ll have to catch you again.”

Your breath shudders. Something slips from the note into your palm.

A tarot card.

Matte black, smooth between your fingertips. You turn it over, gold lettering gleaming under the soft glow of the lights.

The High Priestess.

Your grip tightens around it, your mind racing, pulse hammering. You’ve heard whispers before. The Syndicate. A name never spoken too loudly, slipping through the cracks of high society, shadowing the rich and the powerful. You know enough to understand its weight, but not enough to know its reach. A slow chill creeps into your bones, replacing the lingering heat. What does it mean? Why this card? And more importantly—

Did you just sign away your soul to the devil?

A/N: Part two of The Syndicate is here! Still have 6 more members to go, each with their own role and plot within the group. Can you guess who is next on the list? Also, kudos to anyone who noticed the little easter egg at the beginning. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

Taglist: @hanjisungs-bitch66 - @smartie-pants

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[damiansgoodgirll]

can you please give us damian having to tell readers he got moved to smack down and she’s on raw please ❤️❤️❤️

damian priest x reader

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

‼️some feels, love and angst‼️

stay, somehow

“y/n…” damian starts, his voice tight like a rope about to snap. he won’t meet your eyes. he’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides like he’s bracing for impact.

your stomach churns. you don’t like this. damian is always so confident, so sure of himself, but now he looks… afraid.

“what’s wrong?” you ask, stepping closer.

he flinches. just barely. but you see it.

he exhales sharply through his nose and finally looks at you, eyes dark and stormy “i got the promotion, smackdown.”

for a second, you don’t understand why that’s bad. this is something he’s worked so hard for. countless nights spent training, perfecting his mic skills, practicing new moves until his body hurt.

you should be happy for him. and you are. but something isn’t right.

“that’s amazing!” you say happily “but… why do you look like someone just died?”

and then it clicked.

you were, are on raw.

he swallows hard. his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but can’t “i have to leave you behind.”

oh.

everything inside you goes still.

“what?” your voice is barely above a whisper “no, no damian…you will still see me…not as much as we use to” your heart broke “but nothing will change”.

“it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. if i say no, i might never get something like this again but i can say no. i can ask them to keep me on raw” he knows they don’t have many plans for him on raw but he can stay, for you. he will stay.

it makes sense. of course it does. but logic doesn’t stop the ache blooming in your chest.

“look at me, you’re not leaving me behind” you say, and it’s not a question. you tried to bring him some comfort that was missing.

his hands finally unclench, and now they’re shaking “i have a choice, i can stay on raw.”

you laughed “damian…it’s not the end of the world, we can work it out. we always do.”

you’re going to miss having him driving you to the arena, and then straight back to the hotel. you’re gonna miss him carrying your luggage, him pretending to be annoyed by your whines about how heavy your luggage is.

or the sleepless nights spent together making love in a random hotel room. the sleepless nights spent watching movies that none of you cared about.

but he has this new opportunity and you aren’t the reason he is going to fuck up his career.

silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating.

he looks at you like he wants to argue, like he wants to fight back, but instead, he just says, “i love you” he takes a step forward “i do. i love you, te amo y/n. this doesn’t change that.”

“it doesn’t. you are my everything.”

he was going to miss you.

one or two days a week were left for you.

how was he going to survive? how were you going to survive?

he reaches for you then, fingers ghosting over your wrist, hesitant “please don’t hate me.”

your emotions fizzles out just like that, because how could you ever hate him? you’re not mad, you’re a little hurt, but beneath all of it, you still love him too.

so you let him hold you. his arms wrap around you tightly, like if he holds you close enough, maybe he won’t have to leave at all.

you let yourself lean into him, just for a moment.

you couldn’t lie. you were going to miss him. you got used to stay with him everyday, all days.

he sensed you were thinking about the whole situation.

“what happens now?” you ask against his chest.

his grip tightens “i don’t know.”

neither of you do.

but when he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, something in your chest settles. because no matter what happens next, no matter where he goes, you were going to be there for him. even if it meant seeing each other once a week.

and somehow, that’s enough.

[renku]

Red (Part I)

BINI Mikha Lim x Male Reader

A/N: Sorry it took long for this fic. There are no actions here yet but I plan to put it all in the next one. Apologies again, work is just taking too much of my time.

「 Si besarte fuera pecado, caminaría feliz por el infierno. 」

「 If kissing you were a sin, I would happily walk through hell. 」

∼ ∼ ∼

Wandering around for a considerable amount of minutes made some people look. Few attempted to ask what's wrong, ‘cause painted all over your face was straight up discomfort. Not a single soul—maybe, too intimidated.

“What's taking her so long?” you murmured. It's already past nine and having to explain what took both of you long isn’t what you signed up for. Ticks from the clock makes it even more frustrating. Game night plans? Uninterrupted long sleep ‘til morning? All gone.

Patience continues to drop exponentially; pulling out your phone in a haste to call her. First ring. Second ring. Third ring. Finally, she picked up.

“Hotshot! What’s up?”

Unbelievable. “Uhm... hate to break your enthusiasm, are you intentionally keeping me wait?” trying to sound calm as much as possible. “You still have an event to attend, miss. If I might add.”

“Relax! We’re not going to be late,” she remarked with same attitude.

“Mik- miss, you know me. It’s not that I care, I just hate waiting,” a composed response coming from you. Trying not to sound mad.

“Give me five more minutes! I promise I’ll come down right away.”

“My goodness, Mikhs. Still the same,” a comment you could’ve said but chose not to.

Five minutes. Intrusive thoughts urging you to go up continues to rise. Just a bit more.

“Hotshot!”

Guess it won’t be necessary. After of what it felt like forever. You turned around to see if all the wait was worth it. Long, black dress, fine makeup—not too strong yet not too light to highlight her facial features, and her signature red hair put you in a trance for a few seconds. This is not something new in your part, but yes, her beauty is more captivating than what people can see in their screens.

Mikha did her best to come down quickly. “I'm sorry if I made you wait,” she said with a pouty face. You hate it when Mikha does it. She knew she's at fault but always get away.

“All set?” you asked.

“Yes, yes, can hit the road now. By the way, how do I look?”

“Is that really necessary? You’re Mikha Lim,” you replied in a sarcastic note, as if you're shaking off the question.

Mikha rolled her eyes. “Tss... Fine...”

She walked towards the main door where the car is waiting outside. You followed right away and took the back seat with her. Giving a nod to the driver and he started to drive.

Silence filled the vehicle for a few minutes before the driver turned on the radio, adjusting the volume. Their song—the latest—Cherry on Top came right in. It was a success considering the hype they got from the fans. Who would’ve thought she’d reach this kind of milestone. It made you proud—just not being vocal about it.

“How are your parents?” a question from her out of nowhere, breaking the silence that was filled only by the song.

“They’re doing fine. Always have.”

“Glad to hear that. I kind of miss them.”

You chuckled. “I guess they feel the same. They always ask if we’re still in touch.”

“What did you say?” she asked, looking at you with curiosity and anticipation. “Well,” you paused, “I told them it’s not frequent like it was before. You’re a celebrity now.”

Mikha fell silent for a moment, before giving a faint smile and subtle nod. “Can’t say you’re wrong, it did change some things.”

“Like what?”

“You know... the old times,” she replied in an almost inaudible voice. You're not sure what she meant but it did hit you. No words were coming out of your lips. What should you say? Is it even necessary? A series of questions piled up but nothing was asked. It would be also completely useless since both of you arrived at the destination. The drive did not take much time, it was a surprise.

“Wait,” you said before getting off the car and going to the other side to open the door. You offered your hand and Mikha obliged before giving her thanks. The media knew that the members will come here so it’s no surprise cameras are flashing around.

As soon as she stepped out, you quickly wrapped her shoulders with your coat. Weather during December is quite a killer. No doubt that the dress can barely keep her warm. Mikha gracefully headed towards the entrance, maintaining the image most idols practice—perfection. It irks the hell out of you. She’s pretty much close to what you see in social media and all but can’t still ignore that uneasiness inside you. A thing that people can easily judge.

~~~

“Finally!” you exclaimed. “Finally, what?” Mikha asked out of surprise. “We finally escaped the them.”

“Oh, is that it?” Mikha giggled.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing! I just find it cute how you maintained a straight face despite hating being exposed to public.”

“As you said, exposure. Might as well do my best shot not to look funny when I'm about to be broadcasted all over the country,” you noted in quite a sarcastic note. “I know I'll be all over the headlines the next day.”

She flashed a wide smile to the statement. “We should go to the girls, they're probably expecting us by now,” Mikha expressed as she took your hand. Her hand holding yours stirred up some memories—nothing special—but all of it was pure, honest, and innocent. It was a treasured recollection buried deep within.

There were not as many tables as you expected; finding the girls was a piece of cake. They already know you so there's no need for those scripted and awkward introductions. You suck at any social setting and this is no exception. Good thing Mikha is here to cover up for that. Seeing her somehow gives you comfort, despite your mind already making an escape plan to flee the scene.

Drinks were served during all the hours of chit-chats and laughter. For the sake of being a good sport, of course, you did take shots as much as you hate drinking. Same goes for Mikha. From what you know, she can’t hold much but that was years ago. She probably improved, right?

But no, you approached her to check. “Miss? Hey, are you okay?”

She can't keep a straight face and form coherent words. Evidently, she's drunk. “You should probably take her home. The party’s good as finished anyway. We’ll take it from here,” Aiah said from behind.

“Yeah, seems like it. Thanks,” you replied, giving her a smile.

“And hey, you care for her, right?” Aiah interjected. Question took you by surprise. “She looked forward meeting you today. It wasn’t by chance that you’re the one she brought tonight. I knew she insisted you to join her. I know it. But, anyway, take care.”

Her last words were puzzling. Wasn’t even close to your story, but enough of it. You need to bring her back to the hotel first. The car was just right at the main door and the driver immediately assisted in getting Mikha inside the car. Luckily, no cameras were around.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, please. Thanks.”

“Right away, sir.”

Mikha’s completely passed out on the way back. It’s not clear when was the last time you saw her like this. Hate to admit it, this is the only time when you see her up close. Like real close. The light outside shines upon her face and in that moment, she looked beautiful—more than her visuals, in every way—weirdness, childish attitude (sometimes), kindness, and aspirations. A look beyond that admired face that many can see.

The ride only took twenty minutes. “Do you need anything, sir?” the driver inquired.

“No, I can take it from here. You can take the rest of the night. Thank you very much. We'll contact you if anything will come up. Thanks again for today.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you. Have a good night.”

“Good night as well.”

You hurried to get the other door to help Mikha. She’s lightweight but given her current state it became quite difficult to bring her to her room. Asking her room number beforehand really paid off. The place also has little to no people; fewer eyes, the better.

After successfully entering her room, putting her to bed was the first thing to do, then took off the shoes immediately. Changing her into sleeping clothes would be the final boss. But you know you already lost before it even started. It’s just not on your watch.

“What should I do? Damn it...”

~~~

Mikha woke up. She checked the clock and it’s already past seven in the morning. A familiar face surprised her—Aiah. “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning, too. Dumbass.”

“Did you follow me here?”

“You should drink first,” Aiah replied, taking a glass of water and handed it over. “Here.”

Mikha took it all in one sip. “Hey, explain yourself,” she followed.

“Let me finish first cooking our breakfast. Take a shower and change, then I’ll tell everything while eating.”

Curiosity fueled Mikha up. What Aiah told her was done in a matter of minutes. She’s already at the table when Aiah just finished setting up the table. Mikha took her sit and her friend followed suit with a suggestive smirk. “Okay, spill it. All of it.”

Aiah gave out a laugh and Mikha is not having it. “Hey, enough already!”

“Fine, fine... you really don’t have any idea, do you?”

“We’re not having this conversation if I have any.”

“He called. Last night. He said he needed help.”

“Help with what?” Mikha asked, almost demanding for an answer right away. “Helping my light drinker friend,” she answered pushing her forehead.

“He didn’t want to undress you to change your clothes. Gosh, so cute! If I was in your place I wouldn’t mind if he’ll see me naked!”

“HEY!” Mikha exclaimed, still making Aiah a bit surprised despite expecting her reaction. “Chill, sis! I’m just kidding. It’s not my fault if your plan failed.”

“I know,” Mikha said in a gloomy voice. “It’s just that I don’t want to look desperate in front of him and, I have this feeling that he doesn’t see me the way I see him...”

“I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. Or kind of. He’d not accept your invitation as your date yesterday if he’s not interested,” Aiah stated, sipping the fresh cup of coffee.

The thought started spread out inside Mikha’s mind. She doesn’t know how to take it; should she follow Aiah’s word or wait for you to confess yourself? Having a breakfast like this isn’t helping at all.

“It’s up to you. I just gave the option.”

“Yeah... I know.”

“Then, I better get going. My bed is calling me. Ciao!”

Aiah left. Mikha tried to relax for a bit to collect her thoughts and make a reasonable decision. Hopefully one she won’t regret. She walked around the room to calm down some nerves, but then she noticed the black dress on the couch.

“Oh, right. I need to return this.”

Mikha stopped by at the company to return the dress to their wardrobe. As she went inside the room, she saw you, having a small chat—a good one, it seems—with Stacey. Mikha was almost unnoticeable by how she entered, but what gave her away was where Stacey was standing.

“Mikhs!”

“Uhm, he- hey... Sorry to interrupt...”

“No, we’re just done talking, are you staying here until afternoon?” Stacey asked. “I’m afraid I’m not,” Mikha replied. “Oh, I see. Just need something?”

“Need to return the dress I wore yesterday, that's all.”

The two of you just exchanged glances; words don't need to heard and letting the eyes do the talking. You can see in her eyes; something bothering her and that need to let it out, just holding it due to Stacey’s presence. Luckily, she excused herself out of the room and just told Mikha to see her before leaving the building. A moment of silence filled the room, quite chilly too.

“What is it? Let it out.” Mikha didn’t expect that you know what’s going on in her mind. “I know you have something to say, spill it out.”

Your tone made her even nervous, pressured, even. Heart beats faster, can’t look straight to your eyes. Mikha is lost for words. She hates it.

You're still waiting for a response, never leaving her eyes. “So?”

“Can we- can we talk about it outside? Just not here. I'm- I'm not comfortable.”

To tell the truth, you’re quite intrigued. She’s not being herself. The girl you knew all along doesn’t hesitate to speak to anyone in front of her. But, if it’s something serious, you’re more than welcome to give her a favor.

“Where do you want to talk?” you asked.

“Your place would be most suitable,” Mikha responded quickly. You’re puzzled by her choice but of all the places she could pick, why yours? It doesn't matter anyway. Curiosity is killing you now.

“Okay, my place then. Shall we go now right away, or do you still have some matters to attend here?”

“Let me just say goodbye to Stacey. Then, we can go.”

“Sure thing. Take your time.”

“All right. Thanks.”

She went on her way to go to her friend. You picked your things up before going down the lobby to wait for her. Walking down the hallway, questions continue to fill your mind while trying not to get caught up about it. But, you can’t stop asking yourself one question: “Is it because, she’s hiding something but it’s too serious she’s cautious with it?”

You can only wait for her before finding out the answer yourself.

[sirazaroff]

Hey :)! Just asking but how does Glinda hide her scars on the visible parts of her body(like hands or the one on her face). And if anyone ever noticed did Morrible say that Glinda got attacked by the Wicked Witch?(you don’t have to respond with a drawing :), hope you have a good day/night)

Hey there! Thank you for the inquiry, I know yall are waiting on me to say SOMETHING since first posting the two ideas. Such a tease I am~

I will make a disclaimer that my ignorant ass has yet to know what goes down in act 2. I have plans to change that soon enough. Here’s my current take on things but I’ll make an update if they no longer have any merit in the timeline.

And speaking of a timeline, just keep in mind that after she’s struck on the back, the final beats of act 2 start to play out: Glinda going to Kiamo Ko and witnessing Elphaba’s ‘death’. The Wizard leaving and Morrible tries to grab power before Glinda can, and then failing. Glinda takes over as ruler and changes Oz in Elphaba’s vision.

——————

So, why does Glinda cover her scars?

It’s cause of her image as hope to the masses. The Good Witch can’t be appearing all busted up like that, people will ask questions. They’ll be afraid that the Wizard can’t actually help them, or at the least that Glinda can’t. Truthfully she’d rather people believe the truth but between the threat of more punishments from Morrible, and the fact that she’s putting her own public image and safety at risk, it’s better to just hide the scars. No one ever really sees them and so they never question it.

——————

Now let’s talk about how she covers them.

My thought process is that with her hands she would hide those with gloves during the frequency of the beatings. Gauze underneath, hoping they won’t bleed thru while she’s away from the palace. When Morrible eased up on this, Glinda switched over to covering them with makeup since they could finally heal over.

For her lip, Morrible gave her 3 days to figure out how to deal with the fresh wound before throwing her back into the spotlight. The pain of this caused Glinda to resent smiling. This scar would also be hidden with makeup once healed.

Now once she’s struck by lighting, all of this goes out the window. Glinda is quite literally bedridden for a few weeks and her absence is dully felt. Ozians are aware something happened at the palace, but they’re not sure what and who did it. In that instance it was easier to just blame everything on the Witch and rile up the public. (This narrative falls apart after Morrible tries to make for a power grab. Ozians will learn that it was she who hurt Glinda).

When Glinda can finally stand again, she’s in no shape to work. Of course that doesn’t stop the Wizard from having Glinda stand out on her balcony and address the worried masses.

From here on out Glinda doesn’t cover up any of her scars, only her demeanor. Even if she wanted to cover her back, it’s too large and touching the entry point sends a jolt that feels as sharp as when she was first stricken. She’s riddled with constant pain and walks with a limp, but when in public she acts like everything is peachy and is full of smiles. Glinda does this mostly because the people need a leader and if she shows her true ailments, there’s bound to be a threat for power by those taking advantage. Years down the line she’ll eventually retreat within the palace, unable to physically do much anymore but drink in an effort to numb the pain.

[autumn-sweet-fae]

Jayvik time-travel fix-it Concept

So with the anomaly transportation theory gaining more support, let me pitch this to ya’ll:

Jayce and Viktor holding the acceleration rune stone between them in the chaos of the anomaly one second, and then standing together in Jayce’s old blown up apartment, with Jayce’s same acceleration rune stone bracelet held between them the next.

The two fall into each other, hugging and crying at both being alive together and being back before all their mistakes could be made.

They’re both restored to their younger selves, but also forever changed by their connection to the arcane. Viktor can still feel the arcane within him, not the consuming void of the hexcore, but a new awareness and understanding of the world he didn’t have before. He could also still feel the tethered connection to Jayce, those iridescent fingerprints reemerging in a glow when the connection is tugged, but otherwise hidden.

Jayce can still feel the phantom pains of his anomaly infected injuries, the webbed scars following into this reality, even though the bone itself never suffered the break. Jayce himself cannot sense the arcane as well a Viktor on his own, but when he tugs on their connection he can feel it through his partner.

And so here they are, two young scientist turned mages, sitting in the center of Piltover, a city that has no tolerance for any such magics.

It’s Jayce who suggest they leave for Zaun, take what they can carry and find a little place in the undercity to hide away, until they can figure out what they want to do next. Viktor finds himself agreeing, as there’s no way he can face Heimerdinger again without the Yortle clocking his dramatic change of character, if not his outright connection to the arcane.

Viktor would think of getting in contact with Vander, the man he found within the beast. He deeply regretted what he had done to Vander in their past life, and hoped he and Jayce might be able to help him in some way. After all, it makes sense for two runaways to seek to build an allyship with the leader of the Lanes, for both protection and potential work in the short term.

It’s in this moment then that Viktor is slapped with the realization that this is the very night Vander dies.

Refusing to let such a thing come to pass, to let Vanders beautiful dream for Zaun and his family be shattered once again, the two would start brainstorming what they could possibly do to prevent such an out come. It doesn’t take long for them to come to one troubling conclusion….

To instead ally themselves with Silco through using Viktors past connection with Dr. Reveck.

-

Later, when Vander discovers Vi’s plan to turn herself in, Vander and Benzo rush to stop her, just as they had in the main timeline.

Except here, no one comes for them. Not Captain Greyson and her Enforcers as they had expected, and not Silco and his goons either. Instead, the night goes on, and Vanders family is safe, not yet aware of the strings being pulled around them.

Until the next day, when Captain Greyson arrives for a privet chat. She carry’s two documents with her. One, the confession from Vi. The other, a warrant for the arrest of two wanted men who had gone missing last night. After stealing all the confiscated equipment from the lab Vanders kids had robbed.

She demands that Vander use his pull over the Lanes to fine these missing fugitives, and in exchange, she’ll push to have the search for his people dismissed. After all, one of the missing men, Jayce Talis, was the same man that lived in that apartment. And Viktor? A potential traitor to the academy and Piltover, to have no doubt helped a disgraced mad scientist like Talis steal back his illegal research and then smuggled him out of the city to his homeland of Zaun.

The Hound of the Underground will do what it takes to protect his family.

The hunt is on.

(Additionally, Viktor eventually wearing Silco down to rethink his takeover plans and maybe even Communicate with Vander. While Vander is getting back his spark to fight back against Piltover again between more arguments with Vi and maybe a confrontation with Jayce.

Viva la revolution + Zaundads couple counseling)

[blizardstar]

Me when Ashton Greymoore is denied honorable and meaningful self-sacrifice, and now must face the reality that they MUST keep living after it’s All Over

[moreaujeans]

IM FREEEEEE

[miodiodavinci]

there’s a more correct way of saying it though

[octoooo]

Im turning Demon Slayers into Pokemon & you can’t stop me >:)

I don’t even have that many characters 100% figured out. But why should that stop me? I’m excited about this mini au

Anyway here are my thought so far. Some of them I’m still debating, so I’m open to ideas <3

*=unsure/subject to change

Hashira:

Giyuu: Primarina

Shinobu: Ribombee

Mitsuri: Tinkaton

Sanemi: Zangoose*

Gyomei: Garchomp/Golurk (leaning towards Golurk)

I’ve got so many ideas for Muichiro smh

Like,,Dewott bc water & personally I love Dewott so I’m biased. But also shiny psyduck (it’s blue + head troubles + powerful if its headache is bad enough (at least in the anime). Spinda is kinda a crack idea, but it’s worth mentioning.

Obanai: Seviper

Tengen: Milotic/Golisopod (leaning towards Milotic)

Kyojuro: Arcanine/Infernape (leaning towards Arcanine)

Kamaboko Squad:

Tanjiro & Nezuko: Zorua

Zenitsu: Pichu

Inosuke: Riolu*

Kanao: Eevee (later Leafeon)*

Senjuro: Growlithe/Chimchar (depends on Kyojuro)

Genya: Zangoose*

[adrift-in-thyme]

So how would First react to being a griffin if he was turned into one? I could see him liking it but also being annoyed lol

Yeah he’d definitely be annoyed lol. More about the fact that he’d been transformed than the actual form though. And he would disapprove of the shadow crystal. But the form? He’d think it was pretty awesome lol

[mintmentos]

If they cancel strictly now I’m gonna lose it

[exopelagic]

this election feels so hollow even though it’s likely ostensibly gonna be a good outcome. labour really just sucks fucking ass rn huh

[teabookgremlin]

fucking love how it went from “yeah sorry we don’t have room for you in the schedule” to “sorry there’s no one available to cover for you when you cannot work a shift” in a month

[switch]

you ever think about how many facets of moriarty indirectly or purposefully played into the very interesting ambiguity/implication of whether or not he was real or made (him not having a canon birthday which admittedly isn’t unique to him but feeds into the other things, saying on multiple instances he was made to be evil, him saying twice he doesn’t remember much of his younger life which hadn’t been written about, one of the big pivotal character beats in his event being him saying who knows if he was real but he doesn’t care) except he was also just indirectly hard-confirmed as having been real via outside text and a chain of three other goddamn characters’ lore which existed beforehand anyway. like. regardless of which option you prefer what was the fucking point of any of that. that’s like a quarter of his otherwise legitimate character beats just made borderline pointless? frustrating? because they’re absolutely not actually going to reconcile the two, unless you want to pull a 900 iq “he’s bluffing about this for indiscernible motivations that will also never be addressed” copium bit i guess. they were not cooking.