#take me to war (honey I dare you)

[mo0nbugs]

How am I physically supposed to be able to go about my work with Take Me To War by The Crane Wives stuck in my head? I need to be screaming in the rain

[drgoober-md-phd]

Pleaseeee someone take me to war i literally dare you I'll be so good ill burn the garden down to ash and I'll wrangle all the beasts please I'll break anything you want just pleaseeeee let me stop swallowing my words

[fanficistherapyandcanonismybitch]

Suddi passing off control of a planet she accidentally won off on Jaster and possibly restarting the Mandalorian empire, but who cares cause at least it’s not her problem:

[catastrofries]

i want the words,"I'll be the sweetest thing to ever scare you." carved into my bones.

[unknownarmageddon]

its giving it will come back to me

WHAT THE FUCK

[angelfishe]

>> 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

Yandere genshin men x reader ( GODS AU ) Characters : diluc, kaeya, alhaitham, kaveh, zhongli, Childe, wriothesly, neuvilette.

The most desired goddess of them all, beloved and hated by many for their beauty. an ethereal being whose mere presence captivates mortals and gods alike. Your touch can inspire devotion, and your gaze alone has driven kingdoms to war. But among your admirers, a few stand out—gods who don’t just worship you, but obsess over you. Their love is consuming, possessive, and inescapable.

Inspired by Greek mythology, the reader is inspired by Aphrodite

DILUC ( GOD OF FIRE AND RETRIBUTION )

A god of fire who embodies both destruction and renewal. He is worshiped by warriors and those seeking revenge against the corrupt. His followers believe that while his flames burn away evil, they also cleanse and bring rebirth. Despite his cold demeanor, he deeply values justice and protection. Your husband in contract.

Diluc’s love is like an unrelenting flame—it burns fiercely, searing away anything that threatens to take you from him. He believes that only he can truly protect you from the dangers of the divine and mortal realms alike. If another god dares to court you, he will see it as an act of war. His devotion is suffocating; he would burn entire cities to the ground if it meant keeping you safe and by his side.

Diluc is not blind. He sees the way other gods look at you—with longing, desperation, even defiance. It infuriates him to no end. He already won you, already made you his. What more do they want? His flames burn with rage at the mere thought of someone trying to take you away. If anyone dares to overstep, he will make an example of them—turning his divine fury upon them until they are nothing but ashes.

"You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone but me. Why risk your heart with those who will only betray you? I will guard you, worship you, love you... even if I must destroy the world to do so."

KAEYA ( GOD OF DECEPTION AND SECRETS )

A mysterious and cunning god, known for his silver tongue and ability to manipulate fate. He is neither entirely good nor evil, often testing mortals with riddles and half-truths. His followers pray to him for guidance in uncovering secrets—or keeping them hidden. Some believe he knows the answers to the world’s greatest mysteries but only shares them for a price.

Kaeya doesn’t just love you—he owns you. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. His love is a twisted game where he ensures you’ll never escape him, even if it means lying, tricking, or breaking you. He whispers sweet words, poisons the thoughts of others who dare approach you, and ensures that no one but him truly understands you. If you try to resist, you’ll soon find that every path leads back to him.

Kaeya loves a challenge, and what’s more thrilling than stealing the Goddess of Love from her own husband? He knows Diluc watches him with fire in his eyes, but that only makes the game more enticing. He’s always near, offering honeyed words, whispering promises of a love sweeter than flames. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to run away, to escape with someone who truly understands you?

"Marriage is just a word… isn’t it. does marriage truly mean love? Or is it just another contract, another chain? If you ever find yourself bored with that brute I'll promise you a night of passion… you know where to find me"

ALHAITHAM ( GOD OF REASON AND KNOWLEDGE )

A god who values intellect above all, often challenging mortals to think for themselves rather than blindly follow others. His temples are filled with scholars and scientists seeking enlightenment.

Alhaitham does not believe in fate, yet his obsession with you defies all logic. He has studied every aspect of your existence, analyzed every interaction, and concluded one undeniable truth: you were meant to be his.

Your marriage to Diluc? An incorrect equation. A mistake. A flaw in the grand design. He is patient, methodical—unlike the others who act on impulse. He won’t challenge Diluc with brute force or desperate pleas. Instead, he will plant doubts, whisper truths, and dismantle the foundations of your love, piece by piece.

"Love is not about passion or fire—it is about compatibility, understanding, and permanence. And by all rational measures… he is not your match. I am."

KAVEH ( GOD OF ART AND ARCHITECTURE )

A passionate and emotional god who values artistic expression above all else. He blesses architects, poets, and dreamers, urging them to create beauty in a harsh world. However, he often struggles with his own perfectionism, torn between ideals and reality. His temples are among the most breathtaking structures in existence, filled with intricate designs and stories carved into stone.

you are a masterpiece—the ultimate muse, the divine inspiration that makes life worth living. His love is suffocating in a different way: he needs you. Without you, he is nothing. He would carve statues, build temples, and dedicate his very existence to you, no matter the cost. But his devotion is unstable—his jealousy and desperation lead him to tear down anything that threatens to steal your love from him.

To Kaveh, your marriage is an absolute heartbreak. He sees himself as the only one who can truly understand you, truly cherish you. He paints murals of you in secret, builds shrines in your honor, whispers prayers of devotion. Every word from his lips is drenched in longing.

"I could have built you a palace fit for a goddess… Instead, you are trapped in his cage of fire. If only you had chosen me…"

ZHONGLI ( GOD OF CONTRACT AND KING OF THE GODS )

A god-king who rules with both wisdom and an iron fist. Unlike his more passive form as the God of Contracts, an unyielding monarch who commands the earth itself. His laws are absolute, and defying him leads to destruction. It is said that mountains bow to his will, and the very ground trembles when he speaks.

Zhongli, the King of the Gods, does not ask for what he wants—he simply takes it. He has ruled over divinity for eons, shaping the heavens and earth to his will. And you? The Goddess of Love and Beauty? You are the only being who has ever tested his patience.

Your marriage to Diluc is a mistake, a flaw in destiny that he will correct. He has watched, waited, given you time to understand the inevitable truth: you were always meant to be his. Yet you continue to resist. It is almost amusing.

"Mortal concepts like marriage hold no power over gods like us, my dear. You belong to me, as you always have. It is not a matter of choice—it is divine law."

CHILDE ( GOD OF CHAOS AND WAR )

A god of endless battle, unpredictable and relentless. He tests warriors by dragging them into brutal conflicts, favoring those who fight with heart over those who fight with strategy. Despite his violent nature, he values family and loyalty above all else. His followers believe that the sound of crashing waves is his war drum, calling them to battle.

Love is a battlefield, and he is willing to fight for you. He has never backed down from a challenge, and your marriage to Diluc is simply another war to win. He constantly challenges Diluc, hoping to defeat him and claim you as his reward. His devotion is as violent as it is passionate.

He grows frustrated when you defend Diluc, but that only fuels his desire to prove himself. To him, you belong to the one who fights hardest for you.

"What’s a piece of paper and some vows compared to real devotion? When I carve my love into the battlefield, will you still deny me?"

WRIOTHESLY ( GOD OF THE UNDERWORLD AND DEATH )

A god who rules the underworld with an iron yet fair hand. He does not seek cruelty, but neither does he tolerate injustice. Those who are cast into his domain are given a chance to redeem themselves—but only if they prove their strength and integrity.

You are the warmth in his cold, dark domain, the one thing that can soften his hardened heart. Unfortunately his duties in the underworld has made great a divider between you and him being together, the last time he saw you was your wedding day with diluc and he watched from the shadows seeing the one he loved the most being taken.

He respects the contract between you and diluc but what about him, he always fantasizes being with you but now you're in the arms of someone else maybe if he could find ways to bind you towards him being unable to leave the underworld maybe that's the only way to finally have you.

"Mortals and gods alike fight for your love, but only I am willing to keep you safe—forever. Even death will not take you from me."

NEUVILETTE ( THE SOVEREIGN OF WATERS )

Neuvillette is not merely a god—he is the first water, the primordial ocean from which all things were born. When the heavens and earth were still divided, he existed as an endless sea, a formless deity whose essence gave life to rivers, rain, and the tears shed by mortals. Legends say that his very presence dictates the balance of the world—when he weeps, storms ravage the land; when he is calm, the seas turn to glass. He is justice incarnate, not in the way of laws, but in the way water finds its path, carving through mountains and drowning kingdoms alike.

As the Primordial God of Water, Neuvillette is not one to be ruled by fleeting emotions—or so he tells himself. He has existed since before time, before love itself was given a name. He has seen kings rise and fall, empires swallowed by the tides, and yet… When he learns that you, the Goddess of Love and Beauty, have chosen another, he does not rage like the others... He weeps.

Neuvillette does not hate your marriage. He does not fight it, nor does he curse it. But he watches. He waits. Because fire will always burn itself out. And when that day comes, he will be there—as he always has been, and always will be.

"You have only to step into the tide, and I will take you where you truly belong."

[floatyflowers]

Dark Platonic Mother! Cleopatra x Reincarnated Reader

Getting Reincarnated as the daughter of Cleopatra was the last thing you expected to happen to you.

The woman had you with a lover and decided to pass you off as the daughter of her first husband, Ptolemy XIII.

Let us get one thing straight, you were proud to be Cleopatra's daughter, as you saw her intelligence and chrismatic nature.

Being her first child, her overprotective attitude showed as you grew up.

She seduced Julius Caesar and Mark Antony to secure your safety.

There's no denying that you are her favourite child.

You tried to convince your mother to take different paths to avoid her demise.

But in the end, the paths still led to her demise.

However, the last female Pharaoh of Egypt decided to take you with her, refusing to leave you in the mercy of Augustus Caesar like the rest of her children.

Cleopatra’s gaze burned with a frenzied intensity as she clutched the your trembling hands, her voice trembling with emotion.

"My dearest daughter," she whispered, her tone a mix of desperation and conviction.

"Rome’s chains will not touch us. If Augustus dares to take us, we will not give him the satisfaction of parading us as spoils of war. You and I are above such humiliation, we are divine!"

Her grip tightened, her nails pressing into your skin, and she gestured toward a small, ornate chest on the table.

Within it lay the deadly asp, coiled and waiting.

Cleopatra’s eyes shone with determination as she drew the you closer, her words laced with a terrifying calmness.

"Together, we shall ascend to the gods. You belong with me, forever."

You stumbled backward, your heart pounding in terror as Cleopatra’s words sank in.

"No! I don’t want to die! Please, Mother, we can escape! There has to be another way!" You pleaded, tears streaming down your face.

The idea of experiencing death once again, a foreign, unimaginable concept for someone pulled from a different world sent you into panic.

Cleopatra, however, dismissed your protests with a soft, almost pitying smile, as though the your fear was a child’s naivety.

"Hush now," she murmured, stroking your cheek with a tenderness that only deepened the dread in her heart.

"You don’t understand yet, but you will. This is the only freedom left to us. The gods will welcome us as one."

Desperation clawed at you as Cleopatra reached for the asp, her movements slow.

You fell to your knees, clutching Cleopatra’s skirts, your voice breaking as you begged,

"Please, don’t do this! I’m not ready, I don’t want to leave, I need to be here for my siblings"

For the first time, Cleopatra hesitated, her hand trembling as she looked down at the your tear-streaked face.

For a fleeting moment, something human flickered in Cleopatra’s gaze, doubt, perhaps, or sorrow.

But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the unyielding determination of a queen who believed she was saving her beloved daughter from a fate worse than death.

"You don’t need to be afraid," Cleopatra whispered, pulling the reader into a suffocating embrace.

"We are leaving this world together. You’ll thank me when we are free."

However, when the asp bites you then Cleopatra...you miraculously and barely manage to survive.

𓅁 𓅂

When you woke, the oppressive weight of Cleopatra’s arms was gone, replaced by the cool silk of Roman linens.

The air felt heavy, and the low murmur of distant voices sent a shiver down your spine.

Slowly, you opened your eyes, your body weak but alive, and saw a figure seated beside your bed, his presence radiating authority. Augustus.

His smile was unnervingly calm, his piercing eyes watching her as if you were a prey ensnared in his trap.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Augustus said softly, his voice like honey laced with venom.

He leaned closer, his hands clasped as though he were greeting an honored guest, not a survivor of a tragedy he orchestrated.

"You’re even more exquisite than I imagined. Cleopatra spoke of you so often, a divine child, she called you, her most precious treasure."

His gaze darkened slightly, a possessive edge creeping into his tone.

"And now, you’re mine." Your heart raced as you struggled to sit up, your body shaking under the weight of exhaustion.

Augustus reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a mockery of Cleopatra’s tender touch.

"You don’t need to fear me, I will protect you, as she couldn’t. No harm will come to you… so long as you remember who owns you now.”

[michellesneptune]

What makes You irresistible according to Your placements?

‼️The placements I had in mind while writing this post are Venus, Mars and Rising but it’s entirely possible for you to resonate if e. g. it’s your dominant sign/planet or Sun/Moon or if you have a lot of certain energy in your chart so please take what speaks to you <333

♈︎ Aries Mars and possibly other placements (Venus and Rising) have the most deliberate and intentional movements. They approach things with this confidence that gives the air of “I know exactly what I’m doing”. And I’m talking about the smallest things: how they grab objects, how they walk into a space with perfect posture, how effortlessly focused they seem. You keep your eyes on the prize. You’re irresistible because you never look back. Their energy is so gathered, you know? I could watch them do anything for hours.

The bodies seem almost sculpted. The arms, the collar bones… You can see it in their eyes that they’re ready to start a war, whenever. Margot Robbie has this placement and she’s literally the Barbie. The standard. There is no one feature that’s out of place. Supermodel vibes. Sharp, nothing is a coincidence. A little intimidating even. The popular one at school, the captain of the team. The face card dares you to try and compete with them. One look and they could start a fire.

♉︎ Taurus placements (Rising, Venus and Mars, possibly others) remind me of gold jewellery, dark chocolate and Dolce & Gabbana. You want to bury yourself in their skin. The scent of the body is naturally attractive. People are drawn in an almost animalistic way. Taureans approach everything in an earthy and natural manner which makes them so effortlessly lovable. The paradox here is that they don’t need any of the materialistic stuff in order to seem luxurious. They would be the luxury even in a potato sack, stripped of everything tangible. Because the secret’s in the aura. The gifts from Venus flow in their blood, like black honey, slowly.

They seem so plump, like ripe fruit. You can’t help but want to pick them, own them. They don’t even have to do anything, the sole existence is enough. Full lips, long lashes, thick (often wavy) hair, beautiful neck, soft skin. It’s like they’ve been created with the destiny of becoming the muse. They are born rich, certainly not in the monetary way — it is not something money can buy — I mean natural beauty and attributes. They radiate sensuality. Spending time with them is like eating a three course meal at an excellent restaurant, on a warm evening after 8 PM in Naples, during the middle of summer.

♊︎ Gemini placements steal your heart with a twinkle in the eyes and a mischievous smirk. Their energy is very juvenile and they often look a lot younger that they are. This makes me think of Cher (a Gemini Venus) saying she’s almost never had her heart broken. When asked why by the interviewer, her response was simply: “I’m cute😄”.

Flirtatious little devils. The hands are very attractive here… makes you… wonder… what they can… Anyways, they’re very intelligent, obviously, but it’s more about what actually matters, knowledge usable in real life, they’re utilitarian in that sense. Street-smart, if you will. They won’t try to impress you with academic skills. They simply always listen, never limited by set-in-stone beliefs about what’s fascinating. If you manage to catch their interest, they will remain attentive. And then, when you least expect it, they surprise you with how much they know your mind, how well they remember its nooks and cranks. Enough to make you laugh like no other. Enough to make you fall. Hard.

♋︎ Cancers (personal placements, also moon conjunct ascendant) are certainly NOT the crybabies of the zodiac. They’re extremely strong and I believe it’s rooted in huge emotional intelligence. They will SEEM inconspicuous but, trust me, they know exactly what they’re doing. One second you’re just talking and it’s all casual, then in one blink of an eye, you’re laying on their couch, cuddling and drinking the hot chocolate they’ve made you, while you vent about your father. If you let them take care of you, there’s no coming back, you’ll always want more. My boyfriend is a Cancer mars and he always cooks for me. I’m tied to him forever by taste buds.

As for the body, the chest area is always extraordinarily attractive. The women here may appear to have had an augmentation, even. Also, TALK ABOUT CANCER EYES. They’re usually big (or just stand out), watery and expressive. Starry-eyed. It’s like looking into a galaxy. It reminds me of a hot day at a beach when the waves glimmer in the sun. Women have something maternal about them and men make you want to have their babies. Either way, you won’t be able to resist because they are resourceful and emotionally sharp like no other which makes them irreplaceable.

♌︎ Leo people are extremely charismatic. They know how to talk the talk and they know that they’re exceptional. You’ve probably heard about the lion’s mane and it’s true: the hair is fabulous. They’re confident like Aries, but with more flair. They’re divas. Driven by ego and it’s hot. They bring stardust wherever they go. Samantha Jones from SATC!! Sassy and extravagant but still a fan-favourite. Brave and loyal, can’t help but become obsessed.

They tend to be bossy but I don’t mind following a leader who knows what they’re doing. The spotlight follows them and shines a vivid light on insecurities of others and that’s why haters are driven to take them down. Leo rules heart, it feels as though they radiate magnetic energy created from their circulation through the skin. Being around you is like being around an A-list celebrity. Unapologetic and very talented. You want what they have, even if you’re not exactly sure what that is.

♍︎ The amount of Virgo-y people I’ve had a crush on over the years… Timothée Chalamet is a Virgo rising and I remember when we were all obsessed with him. He’s a great example of how I perceive you guys. He’s calm and laid-back in a way that is a little intimidating. Makes people want to impress you and do right in front of you. You command discipline, because those are the standards you hold yourself to. You would never make a fool out of yourself, because you are composed and mindful. You tell intelligent jokes and you always look clean.

I need to emphasise the bone structure! The cheekbones!!! (Uma Thurman and Bella Hadid are also Virgo risings). It gives the face an ethereal touch, like a high-fashion model. Virgo Mars, from what I’ve noticed, have beautifully shaped bodies, especially the stomach. It’s not uncommon for them to have a perfect six-pack. They resemble a Greek statue you’d stare at in a museum. Your discipline, beauty and brains make others ready to do almost anything in exchange for your approval.

♎︎ Libras are definitely the most charming of the signs. They’re baby pink, glossy lips and Bambi eyes. They give you flirtatious looks and smiles, kind of like Gemini but more shy and feminine. They’re really subtle and will have you wondering at 3 AM whether it was romantic or just friendly. Obviously, they have a taste for stirring things up behind the scenes. They’re innocent and guilty at the same time. They’ve got no idea what they’re doing, yet they just manipulated you into falling in their trap. You turn others’ hearts into a storm and disappear. Thief of Hearts by Madonna.

They’re more cute than sexy, but being cute seems to make them sexy? I hope you know what I mean lol. They’re classically pretty. The features are balanced, nothing’s exaggerated. Nicely shaped brows, small nose, clear skin. However, there’s this sadness to them, and tranquility. Homesickness for another world in their eyes. I HATE the notion that Libras are shallow and superficial. People rarely describe them as full, actual individuals. Truth is that they’re smart, funny and make amazing partners! People fall in love with the versions of themselves that they’re with Libra, because you know exactly how to bring that best side of them!

♏︎ Scorpios are a portal to another world. You’ll recognise them by heavy, magnetic aura, impossible to go unnoticed. It basically speaks for them. They’re often quiet thus each word actually spoken out loud seems like gold. But the eyes and body language will communicate multitudes, only if you observe closely. They seem an inexhaustible source of energy. Once you taste it everything in your life re-evaluates.

Scorpio placements have the best sense in fashion! Many of them possess a closet full of high-quality designer clothes. I’ve noticed that the darkness in scorpionic natives always seeks some kind of way out. It’s either black eyes or very thick dark hair. The area around the eyes seems dimmed and shadowy. Even with light blue eyes, they could have a distinctive limbal ring. They invented being irresistible. Please just suffocate me with your darkness already.

��︎ Sagittarius rules over exaltation and so its natives are bigger than life. They’re often tall and agile. What I find most endearing about them is the laugh — loud and confident. I’ve noticed many of them to be extremely successful academics. Most great philosophers had sag placements. They’ll open your mind first and then legs…

They’ve been everywhere — and I mean spiritually, emotionally and physically. Perpetual journey for new sensations. Will you manage to keep up with them? Hell no. But you’ll die trying. Imagine being able to clearly hear someone laughing contagiously in another room but you can never access them, never able to join them in the laughter. That’s what being with them is like. You think you know where their thoughts are, truth is they’re already fifty miles ahead. Reminds me of Robin from How I Met Your Mother changing her mind about Ted for the 9583927 time, and Ted always chasing what he cannot have. They’ve got very beautiful legs, possibly because of constant running from boredom and commitment…

♑︎ Capricorn placements remind me of the Evil Queen from Narnia (please take this as a compliment). Also, at this point I’m convinced that they CARRY the modelling industry. Naomi, Kate, Shalom all have cap placements and they will always be legends and role models. They’ve acquired success and got to the top not just because of a pretty face, but because they’re masters of carrying themselves with professionalism and class. They’ve utilised it to create an image, a brand, a high-profile career.

And so what makes you alluring is the confidence in yourself, the sharpness which very much manifests in your physical features. Your beauty dares to ask openly: what’s in it for me? You’ll accept only if the offer is good. Sleek, often tall and intimidating. You like to surround yourself with powerful people and build an aura of unavailability. You know you deserve best and you won’t ever let your natural predispositions (like beauty and business-oriented mind) go to waste. People may call you greedy but they can’t argue with stone cold LEGACY.

♒︎ Aquarius possesses the spirit of exclusivity™. They’re true rebels by blood and you will NEVER understand the shit that they’re on. They have a knack for deciding what’s in and what’s out light years ahead of the general public. You know those memes saying: I’ve actually liked this/listened to that music centuries before you? Yeah, that is Aquarius energy personified. They’re just cool. They CANNOT be copied. Ever. And when you think you’ve succeeded in pulling off their aura or style, honey, they’re on sum else already.

Zendaya is and Aquarius rising and notice how everyone just knows exactly who she is and loves her, even if they’re not into pop culture at all. You couldn’t be ordinary, even if you tried. It comes so naturally to you, expressing yourself in literally any shape or form will always result in creating something one-of-a-kind. You could feel insecure sometimes, wondering why you just can’t fit in, but that is the only way that genius works. That is the only way to stir up a revolution. People cannot resist trying to mimic your vibe.

♓︎ Pisceans resemble porcelain dolls. They also remind me of Cindy Lou from the 2000 Grinch movie. The big eyes and long lashes, dainty features, rosy cheeks. Seeing the good in everything, often to their own detriment. Their movements are slow and mesmerising. Neptune makes everything a little blurry so they look like an impressionist painting.

You guys carry real vulnerability in your eyes so it’s easy for others to spot your good soul. Sadly, people will try to take advantage of this. They project their dreams and fantasies onto you and become obsessed. Troubled, broken and hurt people see you as their refuge, their sanctum. No matter who you actually are, they believe that you can heal them, fix and understand. They want you all to themselves. You possess a compassionate aura and can easily tap into someone’s vibrations, understand their vibe and act like a chameleon. That’s why people don’t want to let you go, you’re unforgettable.

Thank you so so much for reading <33 It’s probably the last post before I go on a break from tumblr… My last words on the drama: calling out blatant ai use in our community should be the standard. Period. I’ve never told anyone to off themselves. The rest I consider to be absurd at this point.

Ad meliora tempora!

Your Michelle~

[vibeswithdivs]

study me?

The soft hum of the ceiling fan circled overhead, gentle and rhythmic, barely louder than the open window that let in the evening breeze. Somewhere outside, the city was winding down — car horns distant, people quieter, the day folding in on itself like laundry at the end of a Sunday.

You sat cross-legged on the edge of the hotel bed, a borrowed t-shirt hanging low on your shoulder — one of Oscar’s — and a microfiber towel still wrapped around your head like a soft turban. Your fingers were paused over your toiletries bag, eyes flicking between the tiny array of bottles you’d packed and the stubborn ache crawling up the back of your neck.

It had been a long day. Not the bad kind — just the quiet, slow-draining sort that leaves your body asking for softness. You wanted clean sheets and a warm hoodie. You wanted peppermint tea. You wanted someone to take care of you, just for a few minutes.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to be that someone.

Oscar’s voice floated from the small kitchenette near the window, muffled slightly. “Babe, are you still alive in there?”

You gave a lazy groan.

He peeked his head around the corner, eyes landing on you instantly. “Still battling the towel, I see.”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

Oscar grinned — that quiet, lopsided kind of grin he saved for these off-grid moments when the world wasn’t watching. He was already in his sweatpants, curls slightly damp, sleeves pushed to his forearms as he padded over with two mugs in hand.

“Tea,” he declared, holding one out to you.

“Did you put honey in it?”

“Would I dare not?”

You took it from him, nudging his hip gently with your knee as he sat beside you. The bed dipped under his weight, and his body heat instantly curled around you like a second blanket.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sipped. He watched you over the rim of his mug.

Then, your shoulders slumped forward with a tiny huff. “I don’t want to do my hair.”

Oscar looked down at the towel. “You have to?”

“If I don’t, I’ll wake up with a bird’s nest. Or worse — a bird’s nest with frizz.”

He blinked at you. “Is that… a level in your hair hierarchy?”

“Yes,” you said solemnly. “And it’s brutal.”

He laughed softly, setting his mug on the nightstand.

“Can I help?” he asked.

You snorted. “You want to help with this?” You tugged the towel off dramatically and let your damp curls fall out, heavy and wild and sticking in every possible direction. “This is a commitment. This is war.”

Oscar stared at your hair like it was a challenge issued directly to him.

“I like your hair,” he said, like that was enough.

And maybe it was.

You raised an eyebrow, cautious. “You sure? There’s leave-in conditioner involved. And a wide-tooth comb. And—”

“I’m in,” he said, standing.

You blinked. “You don’t even know what ‘plopping’ is.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m a fast learner. And I’m very coachable.”

You giggled despite yourself. “Okay. Let me get my stuff.”

Five minutes later, you sat in front of him on the floor, back to the bed, your knees tucked up as you sorted through your curly-hair arsenal. Oscar sat cross-legged behind you, sleeves pushed higher, a look of comically intense focus on his face.

“Okay,” you said, holding up the conditioner. “First step. This goes in everywhere. Then we detangle.”

He took the bottle from you like it was a sacred object, squirted a generous amount into his palm, and hesitated.

“Do I just… go for it?”

“Gently,” you said, half-laughing. “I’m not a horse.”

He spread the cream through his hands and began working through your curls, slowly and carefully. His fingers started at the ends, just like you’d taught him, curling around each section like they were made of glass. You felt the weight of his hands as they combed through, the gentle tug of knots giving way under his touch.

The room was quiet. Just the soft drag of fingers through hair, your own breath slowing as you relaxed under the feeling.

“I didn’t think you’d be so good at this,” you murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

Oscar chuckled. “You underestimate how much I study you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Study me?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, rubbing the cream into another section. “I mean, I watch you do this all the time. Plus, I like your curls. They’re kinda… you.”

Your throat caught for a second.

“Also,” he added with a sheepish grin, “I’ve watched a few videos.”

You blinked, twisting around. “You what?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “That time in Monaco, when you said your diffuser broke and your curls were being annoying? I looked up a few curly-hair tutorials that night. Just in case.”

Your heart squeezed like someone had taken it between their palms and held it gently.

“Oscar…”

“I just wanted to understand,” he said simply. “You spend so much time taking care of it. It’s part of you. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

You turned back around, suddenly shy.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Comb time.”

He took the wide-tooth comb from your hand. “Same thing?”

“Start at the ends, work up.”

He did, slow and careful, the plastic slipping through your damp strands with small snags here and there. When he hit a knot, he didn’t yank. He paused, used his fingers first, untangling with a kind of quiet patience that surprised you.

At one point, your head dropped forward, eyes closed.

His fingers moved through your curls like they belonged there — gentle, focused, reverent.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

Then you whispered, “You’re really good at this.”

Oscar hummed. “Might change careers. Start a curly hair spa. No talking, just detangling.”

You laughed softly, the kind of laugh that curved inward, warm and sleepy.

When he finally finished, he set the comb aside and ran his fingers through one last section, twisting a curl gently and letting it spring back.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

You turned around slowly to face him.

Your curls were soft and springy now, damp ringlets framing your face in loose coils. He reached up and brushed one back, letting his thumb trail along your temple.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For caring. For learning. For being… you.”

Oscar’s eyes searched yours.

And then, very gently, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. A warm, lingering kiss that said I’m here. I see you. I love every tangled bit of you.

Your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt.

“I’m gonna do your hair next,” you whispered into his chest.

He laughed. “It’s all yours. Though fair warning — my curls are high maintenance.”

You looked up at him.

“I think I can handle them.”

He smiled, pulling you closer, your curls brushing against his jaw, soft and full and untamed — like love, like trust, like the quiet kind of devotion that grows when no one’s looking.

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon’s sweet wife - pt two

part one here

It was only that Saturday that Kyle, Johnny, and Price really realized how much you had tamed and domesticated the big behemoth Simon was.

The first thing? When you lightly scolded Simon for having no manners when he didn’t properly greet Kyle, Johnny, and Price all standing at the doorstep. You even gave him a look: the kind that said “You know better.”

“Yeah Si, you heard her!” Johnny teased, snickering like a kid poking a bear through the bars of its cage.

However, it was only later into the breakfast that they really saw it.

“What was that?” Kyle nearly choked out to ask, orange juice going down his throat the wrong way.

“Simon was the one who helped me plant my flowers outside! Even suggested we get some daisies,” you said so casually, like it wasn’t world altering information.

All three of the men looked between each other, then at Simon. Who huffed at their dumbfounded faces, giving a brief nod like it physically pained him to admit it.

They had a hard time wrapping their heads around the image of Simon, the big, burly, death stare slinging man— willingly planting flowers. Daisies, no less. Even harder when you showed them proof. Photos. Multiple ones. 

There he was, crouched in the soil, sleeves rolled up, wearing the same deadly serious stare he used to take out targets, except now it was for aligning marigolds and lavender like flower placement was life or death.

But apparently, you were the only one not picking up on the tension thick in the room. Kyle and Johnny both doing their absolute best to keep it together, failing when a laugh or snort slipped past their lips. Especially when they looked up and saw their lieutenant shooting them that infamous “don’t you fucking dare” glare.

Maybe you didn’t notice the tension because the Simon they were flabbergasted to meet was the only one you’d ever known. You didn’t know their version of Simon— the one that slit throats in enemy camps like it was second nature. The one who came back from missions soaked in blood, silent and untouchable.

You only knew this version. The man who watered the garden without being asked. The one who sat at your kitchen table and grated cheese while you stirred the pot. The one who cracked jokes.

A conversation later, you were getting up for more honey for the delicious biscuits you made, the ones the men had practically gone to war over seconds of. You laughed when they bickered, told them there was plenty to go around, and even more for next time.

Returning to the table, honey wasn’t the only thing in your hands.

“Here’s some more juice for you, Si. I got a different brand from the store this time since you said the last one upset your stomach.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek so effortlessly, like you did it a hundred times a day and he thanked you in the softest voice they’d ever heard leave his mouth.

The second your back turned and you mumbled something about grabbing napkins from the kitchen, they pounced.

“Little Simon’s tummy gets upset over the big bad orange juice?” Johnny taunted in a babied voice, nearly wheezing.

“Christ, Simon. You’re whipped, aren’t ya?” Kyle laughed, raising his drink in a mock toast.

Sure, they were teasing. But beneath it, they were also proud. Quietly, deeply proud. Because Simon, who once refused medical attention after getting a slash wound just to avoid “being fussed over” now told you when something didn’t sit right in his stomach. He trusted you that much.

“You better treat that lass in there right, aye?” Price said, patting his shoulder with a proud smile.

And he did. Always did. Even before the teasing and warnings about not screwing it up.

Flowers every Wednesday. Date nights every week without fail. Every decision, every breath, rooted in loving you properly.

And eventually, he found the courage to ask you to be his wife. Dropping down to one knee with that same stoic look on his face except his eyes were soft. Vulnerable.

All three of the men came out from their hiding spots, Johnny and Kyle jumping up and down like teenage fan girls at a concert, cheering like lunatics. Price stood nearby, cigarette dangling from his mouth along with a lopsided smile, awkwardly recording on his phone like a dad learning how to use tech.

Because their cold hearted lieutenant, ghost of warzones, butcher of men finally got his heart warmed by the only person who ever made the world feel soft again.

Once his sweet lady.

Now his sweet fiancée.

And soon to be, his sweet wife.

ignore the fact the last part was called his sweet wife and in this was he’s asking her to marry him low key forgot in part one they were already married LMAOO

tags ^^ (@lovelyliv0

[mahalachives]

This Is Why We Can’t Have Diplomatic Visits

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader (mated-pairing), minor reader x Eris

Genre: Crack Humor, Unserious, Canon-Compliant (ish)

Summary: When a diplomatic dinner in the Autumn Court takes a turn, a few too many glasses of wine—and Eris Vanserra’s smug face—lead you to publicly threaten him on Azriel’s behalf. What follows is an escalating war of petty letters, unsolicited gifts, and one extremely scandalous painting. Azriel is jealous. You are chaotic. Eris is entertained. And the Inner Circle is placing bets.

It started with wine.

Not just any wine. Autumn Court wine—potent, honey-sweet, and designed to hit like a chariot on fire. You’d only had two glasses. Three if you counted the one you “borrowed” from Mor when she wasn’t looking.

But it wasn’t the wine that did it. It was Eris.

He’d leaned back in his golden chair, flicking imaginary lint off his jacket, and said, in that voice that oozed smarm and superiority.

“Spymaster. Still hiding behind shadows and secrets? Tell me—do your little spies send love letters, too?”

Azriel didn’t flinch. He never did. Just stared, quiet and lethal, like he was already planning where to bury the body.

But you flinched. And then you stood.

Fast.

“Alright, you flaming ginger string bean,” you said, slamming your goblet down. “That’s it.”

Everyone at the table froze.

Even Rhysand blinked.

Feyre whispered, “Oh no.”

Cassian mouthed, do it, while Nesta smacked him.

Azriel’s voice was quiet, deadly. “Y/N. Sit.”

You didn’t.

“You’ve got some nerve, Eris Flame-Me-Up Vanserra,” you slurred, pointing at him like an accusatory ghost. “You don’t get to talk to Az like that. Not while I’m here. Not while I have working limbs.”

“I am merely speaking—”

“I will feed you to your own court’s sentient trees,” you cut in. “How dare you insult the love of my life when he’s literally ten seconds away from shadow-smothering you into next week.”

Eris blinked. “Love of your—?”

“That’s right,” you snapped, wobbling slightly as you turned to the room. “I’m his mate. His mate. Which means I’m contractually obligated to throw hands when someone comes for him. I will fistfight a High Lord’s son, I swear it.”

“I am a High Lord’s son,” Eris said mildly.

“Perfect. That means I get extra points.”

Rhysand choked on his wine. Mor was wheezing.

Azriel, still seated, rubbed his temples. “I need to get her out of here.”

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to lunge across the table. Azriel caught you mid-launch, shadows wrapping around your waist like a seatbelt.

“No murder tonight,” he murmured into your ear as you flailed. “You promised. Remember the chart?”

You paused. “…I forgot about the chart.”

He shadow-walked you right out of the room, bridal-style, as you shouted behind him, “Tell Eris his hair looks like expired cider!”

(Later in your shared rooms...)

You lay face-down on the bed.

Azriel sat beside you, silent, until you peeked up at him and muttered, “You mad?”

He sighed. “No. But next time, maybe let me handle the diplomatic incidents.”

You grinned, cheek smushed into the pillow. “Yeah. But you can’t deny it was hot.”

His shadows twitched.

“…Maybe a little.”

The next morning...

You were halfway through your hangover tea (Azriel’s special brew—spitefully effective and probably brewed over the bones of your enemies), when a knock echoed through your suite.

You blinked at the door. “Did you order breakfast?”

Azriel looked up from his perch at the window, sharpening Truth-Teller like he was fantasizing about Eris-shaped practice targets. “No.”

The door creaked open before either of you could reach it.

And in walked a servant. Carrying flowers.

Not just any flowers. Fiery red, golden-tipped Autumn Court blooms. A bouquet the size of a small wyvern. Tucked inside was a silver card with your name on it.

Azriel was on his feet in a blink. “Is that—”

You snatched the card, flipped it open, and promptly choked on your tea.

To the Spirited Mate of the Shadowsinger, Your defense was both reckless and deeply entertaining. Consider me intrigued. — Eris Vanserra (P.S. His brooding is a bit much, isn’t it?)

You slapped a hand over your mouth. “Oh my gods.”

Azriel snatched the card out of your hand like it offended the air.

He read it.

He blinked once.

Twice.

“…He flirted with you.”

“He did.”

“He flirted. With my mate. After you threatened him.”

You beamed. “I think I impressed him.”

Azriel looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief at once.

Azriel, deadpan: “I will end him.”

You: “Please don’t. I want to see if he sends chocolates next.”

(Later that afternoon.)

Cassian nearly fell off the roof when he saw the flowers.

“Wait—wait—he sent you a bouquet? Like a come-hither bouquet??” he hollered.

You nodded solemnly. “Apparently, threatening political figures while intoxicated is a turn-on.”

Mor snorted wine through her nose. “You have to frame that card.”

Azriel, pacing behind you, muttering, “I’m going to set his hair on fire.”

You leaned back and grinned. “You jealous, Az?”

His shadows twitched. “I am offended on a spiritual level.”

“Don’t worry,” you said sweetly, grabbing his belt and tugging him close. “You’re still my favorite broody bastard.”

He glared, then kissed you hard enough to shut you up.

Cassian: “Gross. Az, do that in private. Or at least wait until I’m done throwing the bouquet off the balcony—!”

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

You found Azriel hunched over the desk in your shared study, shadows swirling like angry cats, quill scratching furiously on parchment. He didn’t look up when you entered.

You peered over his shoulder.

Dear Lord Eris,

Thank you for your recent gift.

It is always a joy to be reminded that the Autumn Court has mastered both combustion and desperation.

Combustion and desperation? You clapped a hand over your mouth.

I assure you, the letter continued, that my mate is not accepting applications, suggestions, or flame-adjacent flirtations. She is, as you might have noticed, spoken for.

By me.

P.S. Your hairline is retreating faster than your moral compass.

“Az.”

He kept writing.

P.P.S. If you send one more gift, I will return it—on fire.

“Azriel.”

He didn’t stop.

P.P.P.S. My mate says hello. She also says your flowers were basic.

“AZRIEL.”

He blinked up at you, shadows pausing mid-scribble.

You snatched the letter from his hands. “You’re writing to him? Like some kind of spiteful pen pal?”

“I am responding diplomatically,” he said flatly.

“You called him desperate with a receding hairline.”

“I lied about neither.”

You stared at him. “You signed it P.P.P.S. Az.”

He crossed his arms. “If he wants to play games, he should at least know I play better.”

Three days later...

It arrived in a crate.

A massive, magically-sealed crate, right in the middle of your shared living room. Wrapped in velvet. Stamped with the Autumn Court crest.

Azriel stood in front of it with arms crossed and a look on his face like someone had personally insulted his siphons.

You blinked at the shipping label.

“…Why is it addressed to 'The Mate of the Shadowsinger'?”

Azriel growled. “Because Eris is a walking provocation with a god complex.”

Rhysand strolled in, already grinning. “Is this the painting?”

You whipped around. “Wait—you knew about this?”

“Oh yes,” Rhys said, summoning wine. “Eris sent me a copy of the concept sketch. Asked if it was too much. I told him to go bigger.”

You: “Rhysand!”

Azriel: “He dies. Today.”

Cassian burst through the door with popcorn and a chair.

“Wait for me to sit down,” he said. “I need to see Azzy’s face.”

Mor followed behind him with her phone. “I’m recording this for posterity. Also, Feyre’s demanding updates.”

Nesta: “You people are sick.”

You: “Nesta, you’re holding a betting slip.”

Nesta: “Your point?”

Azriel hissed under his breath and yanked the crate open with a sharp crack of shadow.

The velvet fell away.

Everyone stared.

It was a painting. A life-sized, oil-painted portrait of Eris Vanserra, lounging on a chaise, completely shirtless. Smirking like sin.

Wearing a robe.

Not just any robe.

A robe made of Azriel’s shadows.

You choked. “Oh my gods.”

Mor dropped her drink.

Cassian fell out of the chair.

Nesta whispered, “He committed to the bit.”

Rhysand, between wheezes: “Look at the brushwork. He used actual shadow magic to give it texture. It’s…magnificent.”

Azriel was frozen. Face blank. Siphons pulsing.

“…He stole my shadows,” Azriel said, voice flat. “He stole my sentient, living shadows and turned them into a bathrobe.”

You: “Technically it’s a cape-robe hybrid, but yes.”

Azriel turned to you slowly. “You are not helping.”

You swallowed a snort. “I’m sorry. I’m panicking. My coping mechanism is commentary.”

Rhysand wiped a tear away. “Can we hang it in the River House?”

Azriel: “I will burn it.”

Cassian: “NO. This is history.”

Azriel, quietly: “He signed it.”

You all leaned in.

At the bottom corner, in crimson ink:

To Azriel, with admiration. Your shadows look better on me. — E

You: “…You have to kill him now.”

Azriel: “I’m writing a second letter.”

Cassian: “Make it a sonnet.”

Rhys: “Make it a duel.”

Azriel vanished into his shadows, already plotting vengeance.

You stood there, blinking at the painting. "...I kind of want to keep it."

Two days later...

You were eating breakfast when a letter appeared in a swirl of shadows and glitter.

Glitter.

That was the first sign something was deeply wrong.

Mor peered at the envelope. “Is… is that a glitter bomb curse?”

You blinked. “Azriel knows how to do that?”

Rhysand, sipping tea: “He’s been studying with Amren. She’s very proud.”

The envelope was addressed to:

To Eris Vanserra, Lord of Autumn, King of Flamboyant Delusions.

You opened it carefully.

Inside was a single glamoured photo.

You gasped.

So did everyone else.

It was Azriel.

Shirtless. Covered in shadows and golden siphon light. Standing in the training ring like a bat-winged revenge model.

Arms crossed. Wings flared. Muscles rude.

And across the bottom, in elegant Night Court script:

“Thanks for the inspiration. I decided to try robes too. Mine actually fit.”

Cassian dropped his toast. “He made a revenge thirst trap.”

Rhys was howling. “This is the most aggressive form of flirting I’ve ever seen—and they’re not even flirting with each other!”

Mor fanned herself. “I’m not even into Azriel and I need a moment.”

Nesta blinked. “Send it to Eris twice.”

You were speechless. “Did he… pose for this??”

You were so close to getting away with it.

The Eris painting? Hidden behind your old training gear.

Azriel’s shirtless calendar? Laminated. Hung on the inside of your closet door. Discreet. Artistic. Totally justified.

The flower crown? Just a seasonal craft project gone awry. (You may have hot glued it to his head in the July page.)

But then Azriel found it.

You came home to find him sitting on the bed.

Silent. Staring at the open closet.

The calendar dangled from his fingers.

His flower-crowned portrait smiling back at you like an idiot with a six-pack.

You froze.

He didn’t look at you.

Just said, flatly:

“…You laminated me.”

You opened your mouth. “That could’ve been anyone.”

His head turned slowly. “You gave me dimples.”

“They’re accurate!”

“There are sparkles on my abs.”

You folded your arms. “What do you want from me, Az? You looked hot. I have eyes. I commemorated the moment.”

“You hot glued a floral tiara to my head.”

You stepped closer, hands on hips. “It’s not a tiara. It’s a statement.

He stared at you for a long, long moment.

Then:

“…What’s the statement? That I moonlight as a whimsical forest prince?”

You grinned. “Exactly. A deadly, brooding, morally ambiguous flower fae.”

His shadows twitched. His jaw worked.

Then—slowly—he stood.

Crossed the room.

Picked you up without warning and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“AZRIEL!”

“You’re going to explain to my face,” he said, walking toward the bedroom, “why I’m September and March in your calendar.”

“BECAUSE YOU PEAKED TWICE.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“YOU’RE LUCKY I DIDN’T MAKE IT A STICKER BOOK!”

He slammed the door behind him—laughing.

End

This oneshot is unserious, and It had no direction whatsoever. Enjoy the chaos. 🩵

[fanficistherapyandcanonismybitch]

Buir Drorler before going off to erase this random scientists entire life and work from the galaxy because a potential bu’ad has an issue with them:

Surprise!!!!! I’m not dead. For any of yall who read my fic and see this…keep an eye out. I’ve got plans in the work and hopefully a chapter this weekend.

Also apologies for being gone since April. Life got weird for a minute there. But I’m back baby and with so much new content planned out!!!!

For anyone who sees this and is like why is this on my feed…go check out my fic I guess🤷‍♀️

[cyclicalcrow]

take me to war, honey i dare you/ i’ll be the sweetest thing to ever scare you

placing my bets for a Gem Wild Life win

[marscardigan]

war of hearts — chapter i. meet the realm’s delight

series masterlist

summary: royal au. ellie williams had a reputation as one of jackson’s most skilled spies. no matter the cost, she always accomplished her missions, and never dared to fail. everything changes when she is ordered to assassinate the only daughter of the wolves’ king. the lines blur. and the mission that should have been easy and fast, becomes anything but.

word count: 3.3k

Spring came early that year.

Outside the castle walls, the city hummed with life. The market square was bustling with merchants selling all types of meals and fine silks, their voices rising with laughter. The scent of fresh bread drifted through the streets. Children wavered between the stalls, their shrieks of joy getting muffled with the voices of their parents.

Inside the palace, however, the sounds of the city were only a distant melody. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, scattering patches of red, blue, and green onto the polished floors. Servants bustled about with hurried footsteps, balancing trays of wine and fresh fruit, their whispers echoing faintly against the high ceilings.

But in the eastern wing, where no urgent matters of the court reached, you lounged in a sunlit chamber, draped lazily across a cushioned chaise. No duties weighed upon your shoulders yet—no council meetings, no diplomatic pleasantries, no tiresome lessons in proper decorum. It was one of the privileges of being a princess, free from the immediate burdens of ruling, yet surrounded by luxury and expectation.

The walls were adorned with shelves overflowing with books, their spines worn from use. A great hearth crackled with a low-burning fire, a lingering remembrance of the fading winter.

A tray rested nearby, holding a goblet of expensive wine and a plate of honeyed figs, untouched for now. The scent of lavender drifted through the room, carried by the gentle breeze slipping in from the open balcony doors.

The tranquility of the morning was disrupted by the steady rhythm of boots against the pavement. You didn't bother to rise from your comfortable sprawl to know who it was, but you still shifted your gaze toward the doorway as the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

And there she was. Abigail, your father's most trusted knight, and your personal guard. She was clad in her usual armor, the gleaming silver polished to perfection, and her sword belted securely at her waist. Her blonde hair was tied back in a practical braid, revealing her sharp features, her expression composed.

"Your Highness," she greeted, inclining her head slightly. She had always been formal with you, no matter how many times you told her to drop the titles. However, you both knew there was a friendship underneath all those pleasantries.

You hummed in response, reaching for a fig from your tray, twirling it idly between your fingers. "Abby. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her lips twitched slightly, almost amused, but she remained composed. "Your father has requested your presence in the council chamber."

"Oh. What for?"

When she heard the smallest concern in your voice, she hesitated. That alone made your stomach twist. Abby was not one to falter. "The Scars are growing impatient," she said at last. "The streets are already whispering rumors about an upcoming war."

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, oblivious to the sudden chill in the room.

You studied Abby carefully. There was something different in her posture—not quite fear, but something close. A heaviness in her stance, a tension in the way her hand rested near the hilt of her sword, as if she expected violence to erupt at any moment.

"Take me to him," you finally said, standing.

Abby hesitated, just for a moment, before giving a single nod. "As you wish." She turned on her heel, leading the way.

You didn't know how you, of all people, were asked to be there. But soon that question would be answered by the king itself.

The council chamber was as cold when you entered. All the men turned to look at you, their gazes shifting uncomfortably beneath their cloaks. Some of them, men who had known you since you were a child, looked away entirely. As if they were ashamed. As if they already knew the burden about to be placed upon your shoulders.

Silence appeared to be welcomed then. Only one man remained unaffected. Your father sat at the head of the council table, his posture unwavering, his chin tilted slightly upward with command. King Isaac Dixon was not a man easily shaken.

He called out your name, his voice low and steady. You stepped forward, keeping your expression carefully neutral, and hiding your nervous hands behind your gown. "Did you want to see me, Father?"

"Sit with us," he instructed, motioning to the chair nearest to him.

You obeyed, as Abby remained by the door, but her eyes never leaving your figure. Isaac exhaled through his nose, folding his hands together atop the heavy oak table. "I trust you've heard the rumors."

You met his gaze evenly. "If you are referring to the whispers of war, then yes."

A low murmur rippled through the councilmen. You ignored it. The king inclined his head. "Then you must understand the gravity of our situation."

You did. You wished you didn't, but you did.

"The people grow restless," he continued. "Fear festers in their hearts. Fear leads to doubt. And doubt—" he glanced at the men seated around the table, his voice hardening, "—leads to disloyalty."

You remained silent, your nails biting the soft flesh of your palms.

"This war is inevitable," he said, matter-of-factly. "We cannot prevent it. But what we can do is control the narrative. We can give our people something else to focus on. Something grand. Something that will shift their attention away from the looming threat outside our walls."

"The realm needs hope." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "And nothing inspires hope quite like a royal wedding."

Your stomach twisted. There it was. You willed yourself not to react, not to let the horror creeping up your spine show on your face.

Isaac leaned forward slightly, his hands still folded together. "We need alliances. Strong ones. Wealthy ones. Noble families with power, with armies. Families that will not hesitate to stand at our side when the time comes."

A marriage for protection. For power. Not for love. You swallowed, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue.

"And what if I refuse?" The words were quiet, barely above a whisper.

The room stilled, Abby as well. For the first time, your father's expression shifted—something colder settling into the sharp angles of his face. "You will not."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a command— It was simply fact. Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Isaac eased back into his chair, his features smoothing once more. "To make this more… palatable, we will host a masquerade ball. A grand affair, one that will bring all the noble families from the neighboring realms under our roof."

A masked ball. A spectacle to parade you before potential suitors. Your fingers dug into the velvet of your gown, hidden beneath the table.

"You will dance," Isaac continued, as if this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "You will charm. And you will make your choice by the night's end."

The weight of the words pressed against your ribs, suffocating. A choice. That was what he was offering you. But not truly. The choice had already been made.

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to remain composed. "And if I do this," you said, voice carefully measured, "you believe it will be enough to distract our people?"

Isaac studied you for a long moment. "They will have something to celebrate," he said. "That is all that matters."

Another silence. You didn't look convinced, but again, it wasn't your choice to make.

"They love you. Once the war comes, and you are newly married, they will want to protect you. They will fight for you. Die for you."

Then, reluctantly, you lowered your head in something close to acceptance. Isaac nodded once. "Then it is decided," he said, turning his attention back to the council. "The invitations will be sent at once."

The murmurs started up again, the men already discussing logistics, preparations. As if you weren't even there.

You felt something inside you crack. But you did not let it show. Instead, you sat there, spine straight, hands resting neatly in your lap, and heart quietly breaking inside your chest.

The council meeting had been ended for hours now. The nobles had dispersed, their voices trailing down the grand halls as they busied themselves with preparations.

You had remained seated long after the men had gone, your posture rigid, hands still neatly folded in your lap. The weight of it all pressed upon you, the mere thought suffocating.

And then, finally, when the last murmurs faded beyond the heavy doors, your father spoke. "You are upset."

It was not a question. You exhaled through your nose, tilting your head slightly toward him. The golden candlelight flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows along his jaw.

"I am not upset, Father."

A lie. He smiled, as if he could hear the falsehood in your voice. "You never could deceive me, little one."

You almost scoffed at the endearment. Isaac leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table. "You think I am cruel."

You stiffened. "I think nothing of the sort."

Another lie.

"You are my daughter. My only daughter; not by blood, but by something much stronger. Do you believe I would send you into this blindly? Do you truly think I would place you in any harm willingly?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown. "It is not harm that frightens me."

His brow lifted slightly, intrigued. "Then what is it that frightens you?"

You hesitated, but only for a moment. "A future that is not my own."

A pause. Then, Isaac sighed, shaking his head. "You are still so young." His voice softened, as if speaking to a petulant child. "You do not yet understand the ways of the world."

You clenched your jaw, but you said nothing.

"I have protected you," he continued, voice lower now, measured. "Since the day I married your mother."

At the mention of her, your throat tightened. And he noticed. He always noticed.

"I have done everything for you," he pressed. "Sheltered you. Kept you safe from the horrors beyond these walls. From the men who would see you as nothing more than a pawn."

You swallowed, hard. "And yet, you now hand me to one of them."

Isaac exhaled sharply through his nose, as if exhausted by your defiance. "How come you still think this is about you?"

That startled you. "What?"

"This is not about you, child. This is about our people."

A cold, heavy silence settled between you.

"They need something to hold on to," he said. "Something to celebrate. Do you understand? War is at our doorstep, and a kingdom cannot be ruled through fear alone. They must have hope. And you will give it to them."

Your lips parted, but no words came. His hand found your shoulder, firm and steady.

"You will be safe," he promised. "You will be loved. You will have everything you could ever need."

You stared at the empty goblet before you, not daring to face his gaze. "And what of what I want?"

His fingers tightened, just slightly. "This is what you want."

Your breath caught in your throat. Because the way he said it made you doubt yourself for a moment. Hadn't he always taken care of you? Hadn't he always given you what you needed? Hadn't he always known best?

Your silence must have pleased him, because his grip loosened, a softer expression crossing his face.

"I know this is difficult," he said, his voice lowering to something almost tender. "But you will see, in time. You will see that I everything I have ever done is to protect you."

You exhaled, long and slow. There was no point in fighting it. There never had been. Isaac gave your shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

"The ball will proceed as planned," he said. "It will be a grand affair. A night to remember."

Your lips pressed into a thin line, the words feeling like a cruel joke.

"I promised your mother I would take care of you" he added, already moving toward the door. "And that is exactly what I am going to do."

And then he was gone. You sat there, staring at the candle's wavering flame. And despite everything, despite the dread sitting heavy in your chest, you felt the faintest echo of his voice in your mind.

This is what you want.

And you wondered how many more times he would have to say it before you finally believed it.

Before Abby could knock at your door, a muffled moan escaped from inside. Her brows lifted slightly. A quick glance down the hallway confirmed there were no wandering servants, no prying ears to hear it. A slow smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she settled back against the wooden door, arms crossed over her chest.

Minutes passed, and the door finally creaked open, and from the dimly lit chamber emerged one of your companions—a lady of noble blood, her cheeks all flushed. She barely met Abby's gaze as she hurried past, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her nightgown.

Amusement flickered in Abby's expression, but she remained silent, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut behind her.

The scent of lavender and sex lingered in the air. You sat before your dresser, running a silver brush through your messy hair.

Abby took a step closer, her smirk widening. You met her gaze through the reflection of the mirror, eyes still laced with the hazy satisfaction of your earlier indulgence.

She could still see pearls of sweat running down your forehead, how tired you looked.  And still, you managed to look as alluring as always.

"I trust it was worth your time?" Abby mused, leaning against the post of your bed.

A slow, languid smile spread across your lips. "Believe me, it was."

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "I hate to intrude on whatever fantasy you've made up for yourself, but Lady Charlotte is married."

"And yet," you hummed, setting down your brush and turning to look at her, "she still comes to my bed when she is needy."

Abby exhaled through her nose, her gaze dropping to the floor for a fleeting moment. She knew of your lovers—all women, most of them married, some of them not. She also knew the weight of this knowledge. It was a secret that, in the wrong hands, could destroy you. And yet, you had entrusted it to her.

"Lucky you," Abby murmured, tilting her head. "Your father's knights spend their days fighting for power, and you—" she gestured vaguely toward the bed "—collect it underneath your silk sheets."

You let out a soft chuckle, rising from your seat with slow, deliberate grace. "Power comes in many forms, Abigail."

Abby fought the way her stomach twisted at the sound of her full name on your tongue. Your gaze flickered over her, sharp and knowing. "And tell me, did you come to scold me for my indulgences, or is there another reason you stand in my chambers?"

The teasing tone in your voice did not stop her from straightening. The humor faded from her features swiftly. "I came to talk to you about council met with your father this morning," she said, voice low.

That caught your attention. Your expression remained poised, but Abby knew you well enough to see the shift in your stance, the way your shoulders squared as though bracing for impact.

“And?” you prompted.

"Invitations will be sent before dawn."

You swallowed, hard. Suddenly, you felt dizzy, and you had to sit on your bed. Eveything was happening so fast, and you wouldn't be able to stop it, not this time.

Abby looked at you, her blue eyes drowned in concern. But your facade turned warm again, before she could even express her distress. Both of you sat there, in silence, knowing how everything would change after that ball.

"Let's just hope the people are happy about the announcement."

The dim glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the wooden beams of the tavern. The Tipsy Bison hummed with the murmurs of men exchanging gold and frauds in equal measure.

Ellie Williams sat at a table near the back, half-hidden by the flickering light. A deck of cards rested in her hand, her fingers idly shuffling them as she leaned back in her chair, one boot propped against the table's edge. A game had just ended in her favor; her winnings—a small pile of silver coins—rested beside her. She had played without much interest, more for the satisfaction of watching the older men bristle when they lost to her than for any real need of coin.

The chair across from her creaked as someone lowered themselves into it. A heavy presence. Familiar. "Ellie," came the gruff voice.

She exhaled slowly, not bothering to look up from her stash of cards. "Joel."

He studied her for a moment, dark eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his worn hat. Then, without a word, he slid a folded letter across the table. Ellie regarded it with disinterest at first. Only when she noticed the wax seal—a deep crimson imprint of the royal crest—she paused.

Her brows furrowed. "What's this?"

Joel sat back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "An opportunity."

Ellie picked up the letter, feeling the weight of it, the expensive parchment thick beneath her dirty fingertips. She turned it over, breaking the seal with a flick of her thumb.

Then she snorted. "A masquerade ball?" She cast him an amused glance. "Didn't take you for the dancing type."

Joel remained unimpressed. "It's not for me. Read further."

Ellie's smirk faded as she scanned the invitation more carefully. The name of the kingdom was one she recognized. Their armies were strong, ruthless. But they were at war.

Her fingers drummed once against the table before she looked up again. She seemed insulted by it. "You want me to attend this?"

Joel inclined his head. "Not as a guest, obviously."

She arched a brow. "Then as what?"

He was silent for a moment. "As a hunter."

Ellie set the letter down, interest finally piqued. But she tried not to let it show.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp. "War is on the horizon. The Wolves and the Scars are ready to rip each other apart, and when that happens, their gold will spill just as quickly as their blood." He leaned forward slightly. "Isaac's desperate to keep his people from turning against him after everything that happened. He needs alliances. Soldiers. And he's using his daughter to secure them."

"A royal wedding. A union to distract the people and gain favor among the noble houses."

Ellie's frown deepened. "And where do I come in?"

Joel's voice was even. "You take her."

Silence settled between them. Ellie stared at him, waiting for a hint of jest. There was none.

"You want me to abduct the princess," she stated, more to hear it aloud than to seek confirmation.

Joel only nodded. Ellie let out a low whistle, leaning back in her chair. "Gotta say, old man, that's ambitious—even for you."

"She's the king's precious treasure," Joel said. "If we take her, Isaac will pay. And if he won't, someone else will."

Ellie considered this. A princess was no small prize. Wars had been waged over less. If she was delivered into the wrong hands, she could be used as a weapon, a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game far greater than herself.

"And if she resists?" Ellie asked.

Joel's gaze didn't waver. "Then you kill her."

Ellie studied him for a long moment, the weight of the words settling between them. There was no hesitation in his tone, no room for debate. She pondere her options, and realized she had done worse things for less payment.

She glanced down at the invitation once more, tracing the elegant script with her thumb. A masquerade. A grand event filled with nobles, music, and wine. A perfect place for a thief to slip in unnoticed.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Well," she mused, tucking the invitation into the inner pocket of her coat, "guess I'd better find something nice to wear."

[wendichester]

Hi! Can you do one showcasing all the ways the reader protects/watches out for Dean. He’s always the afterthought for everyone because they just expect him to lead and be strong. Your last response about his version of Heaven probably being bittersweet had me sad! So, reader putting her foot down for her man, please! Reminds him he’s hers and not a soldier, not expendable. When someone comes up with a plot that requires him to sacrifice, she speaks up for him tells them to F off

read the heaven bit first .ᐟ

so first off, let's clarify the core dynamic here: 𖤐 dean is everyone's weapon or leader, but never their priority. it's always let's save the world, instead of let's keep each other safe. 𖤐 everyone is just used to him sacrificing himself because that's his default setting. 𖤐 you ( aka reader ) flip the damn table and say not anymore. it's the prompt he's not a weapon, he's mine and i'm lowkey totally here for it.

‧₊˚✩彡 the pattern that needs breaking sam loves dean but tends to go along with dangerous plans, trusting dean will handle it. cas is always focused on the mission, kind of emotionally stunted, tends to expect dean to endure because he has. mary and john? ugh. never really saw him--as said previously--saw a soldier, not a son. jack is a whole celestial being born with a messiah complex. thinks sacrifice = love because that was what dean and the others always showed him too. they all value dean, but none of them really protect him. because they think they don't have to. but you do.

‧₊˚✩彡 moments where you put your foot down 𓂃⋆ you speak up against the plans where dean is bait or the one bargin in as the distraction. and god damn the moment you do? everyone's stunned into silence. dean most of all. because he doesn't expect anyone to stand up to him--to stop the mission for him. 𓂃⋆ they always assume dean will handle dangerous people. but not you. "no. he's not your buffer. try talking to your own damn shady contacts." maybe you even go instead of him once and everyone's like oh, okay. 𓂃⋆ dean tries to pull the "if i don't come back" speech. you cut him off. "don't you dare act like you're a ghost in front of me. you come back. you always come back." you don't romanticize his self-destruction like others do. you hate it. 𓂃⋆ cas suggests an angelic solution that risks dean's soul. like, maybe siphoning something through him or binding him to a sigil. "use anyone else. he's not your empty vessel." cas looks conflicted. you stand between him and dean and he's flabbergasted like she's actually challeging a damn angel. 𓂃⋆ mary mentions all the things dean's good at and it's all war-related. "you ever ask him what he actually wants to be good at?" it's awkward. it's uncomfortable. maybe even explosive. but it cracks open something for dean. he's never heard someone challenge his family on his behalf.

‧₊˚✩彡 the emotional undercurrent of this: dean doesn't think he's allowed to be safe. he doesn't even notice when people don't choose him because it's so normalized. you saying "you are not theirs. you are mine." is like pouring honey on a lifetime of bruises. it's not just protective--it's possessive, but in a way that restores his sense of self. you're saying you're not just worth fighting for. you're worth keeping safe. every damn time.

They’re talking about him like he isn’t standing right there.

Like he’s just a checklist item. Like his life is a resource—burnable, forgettable, expendable.

Dean’s got that mask on. The one he thinks is subtle—stone face, arms crossed, jaw ticking every few seconds like a time bomb. You can tell he’s already accepted the role. The “if it gets ugly, I’ll take the fall” card.

You’ve seen this play before.

You hated it the first time.

So when Sam starts laying out the plan—meticulously, logically, with words like “timed entry” and “distract the hellhounds long enough,” and then casually drops Dean’s name as bait, your hands curl into fists without thinking.

“Sorry, what?” Your voice cuts in like a blade.

They blink. You never interrupt these planning sessions. You’re the quiet one. The observer. The one with a hand on Dean’s back under the table while the world maps out how to use him.

Sam looks confused. “It’s just that he’s the best shot we have at getting the demon away from the door. You know Dean—he can take it.”

Take it.

Like he’s a wall. Like he’s a gun.

Not a man.

Dean shifts beside you. He’s about to say “It’s fine”—you can feel it in your bones—but you’re already standing.

“No. He’s not doing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Dean tilts his head, looking up at you like you just spoke Enochian. You never do this. But now? Now you’re fire in a gasoline world.

“I’m serious,” you continue. “You all act like he’s made of Kevlar and pure damn luck, but he’s tired. He’s bleeding from that werewolf hunt yesterday. And I don’t care how good of a shot he is or how much ground he can cover—he’s not being used as a sacrifice so you all can sleep at night.”

Sam looks like you slapped him.

Cas shifts like maybe he agrees but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say it.

And Dean… God, Dean looks like you just gave him breath after drowning.

You step closer to him. You don’t even care how dramatic it looks. Your fingers find the edge of his sleeve, tugging it like a lifeline.

“He is not your weapon. He is not your armor. He is mine.”

The words hit the floor like thunder. No one speaks.

You kneel slightly and tap his knee, forcing him to look you in the eyes.

“You hear me, Dean?” you whisper, just for him now. “You’re not the one who has to go first. You’re not the shield anymore. Not when I’m here.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are glassy, like maybe no one’s ever said that before. Like maybe he forgot he was allowed to hear it.

You straighten back up and look at the room.

“Find another plan.”

And they do. They scramble. They rearrange. Because your tone is sharp and final and God help anyone who tries to touch him without your say-so.

Later, you’re patching him up on the edge of a dusty motel bed. He’s shirtless, bruised, quiet.

“You meant all that?” he asks, voice low.

You blink at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“I just… no one’s ever…” He trails off. Like it hurts to say it out loud. “It felt good. Hearing it. You fighting for me.”

You look at him—really look at him.

He’s so used to doing. Saving. Bleeding. Leading. Everyone thinks he’s bulletproof because he acts like he is. But you see the cracks. You kiss them. You love them.

“I’ll always fight for you,” you murmur, smoothing your fingers over the bruise on his side. “You’re not alone anymore, Dean. You don’t have to carry the weight. Not while I’m still breathing.”

He leans forward, cups your face like you’re the miracle. Kisses you slow. Deep. Desperate.

“Thank you,” he breathes against your lips.

You pull back just enough to whisper:

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll let me protect you, too.”

His voice breaks a little when he says, “I will.”

And you know he means it. For once.

[becertainlust]

HIS FAVOUR | Gojo Satoru

synopsis: In a world where men can become Courtesans, Courtesan Gojo is the crown jewel in a velvet box no one dares to open too quickly. Gojo Satoru—pale blue-eyed, silver-tongued, with a smile that drips honey and arsenic.

You, a low-ranking maid working in the same establishment, are meant to blend into the walls. Invisible. Obedient. Quiet. But Gojo sees you—and that’s where the trouble begins.

When a twist of fate forces you into his orbit, the line between servant and temptation begins to blur. He’s fascinated by your restraint, your silence, your eyes that look through him instead of at him like the others. And you—despite every instinct to stay out of his way—find yourself drawn to the man behind the velvet mask.

But there are rules in places like this. Power games. Watchful eyes. And secrets that can destroy the both of you.

Because in a house built on illusion, the greatest danger is truth

content: Romance, Gojo Satoru x reader, courtesan! Gojo, Gojo Satoru is whipped, forbidden love, Drama, Slow Burn, Slow romance, Graphic Violence

Follow up on my Ao3 page

CHAPTER ONE

With practiced ease, you rhythmically tapped the gold incense shovel against the matching seal. The fragrance of calm sandalwood and rich amber—elegant, grounding—drifted into the air, even before a flame was added. You smile lightly now, as the flame takes, and the scented fumes rise through the incense burner’s ornate cover, curling like whispers into the stillness.

This was your morning ritual. Every dawn, without fail, you scented the hallway with care, allowing the fragrance to lead the day like a silent overture. The maids stood respectfully to the side, hands folded, heads slightly bowed, as the familiar blend perfumed the air—warm, steady, composed.

Once the incense had taken its place in the burner pot, you stepped back, and formation began. You moved at the head, and up the wide hallway, the Four Delicate Flowers—graceful, tranquil—glided into place, their movements fluid as Poetry.

And then—he appeared.

Gojo.

You often wondered if this was what the great Haiku poet Matsuo Bashō meant with his piece "a bee / staggers out / of the peony." Because that’s what it felt like, every time he entered— An elegant disruption. A creature drunk on beauty, too wild to sit still, too exquisite to ignore.

He didn’t walk so much as unfold, all languid limbs and impossible ease, as though the world had been made too narrow for him and he found it endlessly amusing. His silvery hair caught the golden light in defiant strands, and his blindfold—a silken navy today—clashed deliciously against the serenity of the morning. You frowned at that. Internally. Outwardly, you didn’t flinch.

Not when his boots clicked just a little too loud against the polished stone. Not when his smirk, half-lidded and lazy, swept down the hallway as if it belonged to him.

He paused. Always, just before he reached you. Letting the moment stretch. Letting your composure be tested in that invisible tug-of-war he so loved.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. Not today.

“Good morning, Lord Gojo,” you intoned, bowing your head just enough to mark the gesture, not an inch more.

He tilted his head, a glint of something unspoken behind the veil of silk. “And a very fragrant morning to you,” he drawled. “You really do outdo yourself. The hallway smells like divinity and discipline had a child.”

A maid coughed lightly, stifling a laugh. You would address that later.

You turned, walking forward without offering him more than the barest nod. “The household moves on a precise rhythm, my lord. I trust you’ll keep pace?”

His chuckle was low, delighted. “You wound me. Haven’t I always kept pace with you, little temple bell?”

Your spine stiffened.

That name. That nickname, plucked from some long-forgotten moonlit festival and tossed casually back into the daylight like it meant nothing.

The Four Delicate Flowers gilded ahead, none betraying emotion, but the air seemed to still again—not from incense this time.

Gojo followed. Of course he did.

He always followed.

And yet… you never could tell if he was behind you.

Or circling. Or leading you somewhere you couldn’t see yet.

Like a bee, yes. Drunk on fragrance. Staggering.

But never lost.

Never harmless.

And certainly never just passing through.

After the procession concluded and the hall returned to stillness, you retreated to your private quarters. The incense still lingered in your sleeves and hair—faint sandalwood and amber, grounding you even as your thoughts threatened to drift where they shouldn’t.

You sat now beneath the latticed window, morning light dappling the low table set before you. The tray was prepared precisely as always—pickled plum, soft rice still steaming, delicate slices of sweet egg, and the miso with your preferred sliver of ginger root resting at the bottom.

You took your time, as you always did. One bite, one breath, one pause. Order, after all, was sacred. Until—

A tiny snicker cracked the air like a hairline fracture.

You glanced up. Mari, the youngest maid, stood to the side with her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels. To her left, Aya was studiously looking at the ceiling, lips twitching. Kiko, the tallest of the three, cleared her throat too pointedly to be anything but suspicious.

“…What is it?” you asked coolly, letting your chopsticks rest gently in the dish.

Mari grinned, all dimples and no shame. “Nothing, my lady. You just look very… focused. Like the rice offended you personally.”

“I am focused,” you said, lifting another bite. “It’s called mindfulness.”

“It’s called eating your emotions,” Aya muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Kiko added with faux solemnity, “Especially after someone’s Lord Gojo incident this morning.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You chewed. Swallowed. Set your chopsticks down with ceremonial grace.

And then, calmly, “The incident was that he arrived at all. Loud. Unwelcome. Unfiltered.”

“But pretty,” Mari said with a grin, not missing a beat.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t pretty,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

The maids howled—or would have, if they weren’t so well-trained. Instead, they all pressed hands to lips, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, she said it—she admitted it,” Aya sang in a whisper-shriek, dramatically fanning herself.

“I did not admit anything.”

“You did,” Kiko said, voice bright with mischief. “It’s okay, my lady. Even temple bells can chime for a pretty face.”

Mari, emboldened now, knelt beside your mat, her eyes shining. “Tell the truth. Do you light the incense hoping he comes around?”

You gave her a slow look. “If anything, I light it to keep him at bay. Perhaps next time I’ll try clove and mugwort.”

That earned another round of muffled giggles, but the mood had shifted—no longer teasing, but companionable, affectionate. These were your girls, your guards in the shadows, your second spine. They were allowed this softness. Even from you.

The day was set to be busy. More than 200 guests each day to cater to is no easy feat.  The most obnoxious collection makes haste on a Monday night.

Kiko began twisting her hair up, the way she always did before duty—tight coils pinned like armor. Mari reached for your robe, brushing imaginary lint from the sleeve before draping it over your shoulders with reverence more felt than shown. The sun had not yet created the ridge, but already, the air tasted of motion—hot rice, whetted blades, sandalwood smoke curling through the lattice windows.

A sharp knock at the outer screen broke the quiet.

“Enter,” you called, voice smooth.

A boy no older than twelve slipped in, eyes wide beneath a too-large helm. He bowed low, then raised his head just enough to speak.

“Madam Sora sends word—there is muddle from the southern lady who arrived with inquiry about Lord Satoru”

Your breath did not hitch, but Mari’s hands stilled on your sash.

“Here we go,” Kiko scoffed, already rising.

“She was turned from the Cypress Hall,” the boy went on, wringing the hem of his tunic, “but she insists she won’t leave until she’s been heard. Said her offering is—” he glanced up nervously, “of great feeling and worth.”

Kiko snorted. “If it jingles, it’s not love. It’s leverage.”

Mari smoothed your sash the rest of the way, more gently now. “Shall we escort her out?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

With a nod, Kiko disappeared down the corridor, the soft jingle of her blade rings trailing behind her like the rattle of warning beads.

You turned to Mari. “Have them bring her to the east veranda. No guards, no show of force. Just tea.” You paused, then added, “And incense. Mugwort. For clarity.”

Mari gave a faint smile, already anticipating the reason.

The woman was no longer content with the veranda.

She entered your office with the grace of someone used to owning rooms. Her robes were brocade—excessive in this heat—and her scent followed like a herald: lotus and saffron, expensive enough to sting.

You did not stand.

She did not wait for invitation.

Instead, she placed the lacquered box on your desk with the same finality a general might drop a war map. “A token of appreciation,” she said. “From my house to yours.”

You gave it a glance. The lid had already shifted slightly in transit—enough to show the glint of gold coins inside. Real ones.

“Bribery,” you said flatly.

“Assurance,” she corrected, smiling sharp. “I’m aware Lord Satoru is… difficult to reach. But influence, as you know, requires initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Influence implies understanding. Do you understand him?”

She did not blink. “I understand power. And men like him rarely bother with courtship. So I thought I’d make the effort… practical.”

Your gaze lingered on her for a long, silent beat.

“You think he can be claimed as a blade from the smithy. Paid for. Polished. Hung on your wall.”

“I think,” she replied, tone careful, “that you are the wall. And gold is a universal language.”

You stood now, slow and unimpressed. “Gojo Satoru is not some provincial swordsman looking for a patron. He is a storm wrapped in a smile. And not once has he been led by purse strings.”

Her smile faltered—just a flicker.

You stepped around the desk, closer. “He walks through your kind of coin like it’s dust. Try to purchase his regard, and you will lose both the gold and his gaze.”

She raised her chin, defiant still. “Then what does he respond to? Because I’ve seen how this house protects him—how you keep him hidden like a shrine relic.”

You met her eyes. “Because he is sacred to us. And like all sacred things, he answers to no one.”

Silence.

“I see,” she said, tone clipped. “Then consider the gesture withdrawn.”

“As you wish,” you replied.

She turned, spine straight, but her exit lacked the confidence of her entrance.

The scent of saffron lingered after she left—but it could not mask the faint, bitter curl of disappointment.

Mari stepped in moments later, expression unreadable. “Do we return the gold?”

You looked at the box for a long moment, then shook your head. “Deliver it to the treasury”

You lingered by the incense stand long after the woman had gone, fingers resting on the gold shovel, mind alight with a thousand unspoken words.

“You let her get under your skin,” came a voice, warm and weightless, like a smile sliding into forbidden places.

Gojo.

“I’m surprised,” he added, stepping into the light with the slow reverence of a man entering his favorite shrine. “You usually play these rejections like a koto—tight, clean, tuned.”

“She brought gold,” you said quietly.

“Tacky,” he replied. “If she knew anything about me, she’d have brought something shinier. Like honey.”

He was too close now. He always was. And yet the space between you felt like a battlefield neither dared cross.

You didn’t look at him.

Your fingers brushed over the incense grains in the shallow brass bowl, leveling the surface with idle precision. Each motion was controlled, casual—just enough to suggest indifference.

“Why have you come out?” you asked, voice even, gaze fixed on the soft gold shimmer beneath your fingertips.

He didn’t answer at first. Of course he didn’t. Gojo Satoru was allergic to straight lines—conversation, intention, emotion. Everything with him came in arcs and spirals, sweet detours that led you nowhere and everywhere all at once.

The silence stretched like silk—light, deceptive. And then:

“Can’t I simply want to bask in your company?” he said, with that draw like velvet dragged through mischief.

You scoffed softly, not unkindly. “Try again. But with less poetry and more honesty.”

A step closer. You felt it rather than heard it—his presence, big and bright and utterly irreverent. It always pressed into a space like it belonged, as though rooms were made to contain him, not the other way around.

You backed up, footsteps soft against the polished floorboards, a wordless protest—delicate, but firm. A quiet insistence that he not cross that invisible line you had drawn between presence and intrusion.

But he always pushed boundaries like they were made of silk.

Your hand brushed against warmth—solid, alive. The smooth line of his chest beneath the fabric of his robe. Your eyes lifted instinctively, catching the pale column of his throat, the relaxed set of his jaw, the quiet tilt of his head as if he were watching a candle flicker rather than watching you retreat.

Your gaze flicked up. Blue. Too much blue. His eyes were exposed tonight—no glasses, no blindfold, no layers to separate you from the searing weight of them.

And maybe that was the problem.

Your breath hitched. The contact had been brief, unintentional. But still too much. You withdrew your hand like it had been scorched, fingers curling in a half-fist before you forced them to still.

“You’re not supposed to be out as of now,” you said, quieter than you meant to. Not because you were afraid. But because something in his presence had always made noise feel unnecessary—irrelevant, even.

He blinked slowly, like a cat indulging amusement. “And yet,” he murmured, “here I am.”

There was no triumph in it. No smirk. Just the truth.

You tilted your chin, eyes narrowing. “You can’t keep showing up like this.”

“I don’t do it often,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “But when I do…”

“You upset the balance.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “I am the balance.”

“You’re the storm,” you corrected. “I’m the balance.”

The air thickened between you, scented with sandalwood and something unnameable—something distinctly him. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said suddenly, swallowing the tremor in your voice. “Why are you really here?”

This time, the silence between you felt different. Not weighted. Not heavy. Just… still.

And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“I’m tired of watching you pretend not to see me.”

You look out across the balcony into the red light district. No matter the day, it thrums with life—glowing, breathing, seducing. A siren calls for the lonely, the lost, and the damned.

You exhale, sharp and quiet, like the breath had been hiding in your lungs too long.

Still, you don’t face him. You keep your eyes on the glow below, on the bodies slipping in and out of doors like shadows with skin.

“And what,” you ask, voice steady but soft, “are the benefits of my gaze?”

Now the silence turns heavier—thick, alive. You feel it press against your spine.

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is closer. Closer than before.

“When you look at me, I feel like I exist.”

That stops everything. The lights, the music, the echo of sin below—it all fades beneath the weight of his words.

“And when you don’t…” he pauses, and the hush that follows is devastating. “I start to wonder if I ever did.”

You stand there for a moment, letting his words settle. Letting them reach the part of you that had tried so hard to stay untouched.

“When you look at me, I feel like I exist.” “And when you don’t… I start to wonder if I ever did.”

Your grip tightens on the railing. Then loosens.

Finally, you turn. Slowly. Your gaze meets his—not soft, not cold, but steady. Controlled.

“You need to get a grip,” you say quietly, no venom, just truth. “Not everything you feel needs to be acted on.”

He doesn't flinch, barely—but you catch it. His jaw works, like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t.

“You’re tired. And this…” you gesture to the space between you, the unspoken ache hanging in the air, “this isn’t clarity. It’s exhaustion wearing perfume.”

You step past him, calm and purposeful, the scent of amber and rosewater trailing in your wake.

“Go get some rest,” you add over your shoulder. “Before you make a mistake.”