#You and him Saffron | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chu16a-blog · 12 days ago

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Dream x Reader - Dinner With a Goddess

Pairing: Dream x Reader

Warning: Spoiler season 2

Summary: ehehe, the date

Part I - The Price of Mercy

Part II - Dinner with a Goddess

Part III - Coffee, Confessions, and Choking

Part IV (End) - The Dream He Dared to Shape

The Waking World was noisy that evening.

Rain whispered over neon signs. The air tasted like pavement and electricity. The restaurant sat nestled on a cobblestone alley in Edinburgh,one of those places you didn’t find unless it wanted to be found. The windows glowed gold, flickering with candlelight, and through them came laughter, clinking silverware, and the smell of lobster poached in saffron butter.

Dream stood outside, silent.

He was in a sharply tailored suit, black, of course, with silver threading barely visible except under candlelight. His cloak was gone. His posture was impeccable.

His hair, however…

Wild as always.

He had tried.

He’d stood in a mirror and, somewhat hopelessly, attempted to press it down, coax it to behave. But after five minutes of failed manipulation (and one moment where it seemed to defy gravity entirely), he’d given up.

It curled in that ever rebellious way now, the front fringe falling just past his brow, soft and chaotic.

He stared at the brass handle of the door like it might bite him.

Then you opened it.

And for a moment, time did a little twirl.

You were radiant, of course, elegant and sharp, dressed in black silk and a smirk. Not flashy. Not trying. Just right.

And you smiled at him like you’d already won something.

“Look at you,” you said, eyes trailing up and down. “It suits you. That whole tortured elegance thing. Hair’s as hopeless as ever, though.”

He stiffened instinctively, hand drifting up as if to flatten a curl.

“I attempted to… tame it.”

“Don’t,” you said, leaning in with a faux whisper. “It’s half your charm.”

Dream’s body locked up as you casually adjusted his lapel with an elegant touch that lingered a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re breathtaking,” you said, voice casual. “I’d eat you instead of lobster, but I doubt you’d taste as good.”

He froze.

Completely, utterly froze.

You arched an eyebrow, watching the way his pale ears turned pink.

“Did I break you already?”

He coughed lightly, looking away. “I — was not expecting —”

“Flirting?”

He nodded once, as if admitting defeat.

“Oh, darling. We’re just getting started.”

The maître d’hôtel welcomed you with a knowing look, clearly assuming you were some mysterious power couple escaping paparazzi. You were shown to a private booth by the window, dimly lit, cozy, romantic.

Dream sat across from you stiffly. Too still. His fingers hovered above the table, unsure where to rest.

You opened your menu.

He did not.

You peered over. “You do realize you have to order, right?”

Dream looked visibly distressed. “I do not… normally eat.”

“I know. But tonight you do. Deal’s a deal.”

He picked up the menu like it was an ancient curse tablet, eyes flicking nervously.

“This… dish includes butterflied crustaceans marinated in… passionfruit glaze?” he asked.

“Exotic, sensual, messy. Like a good dream,” you said. “Or a very bad decision.”

His hand faltered.

When the waiter came, you ordered with practiced ease, then turned to Dream, your voice lilting: “I’ll have the lobster. Medium heat. Citrus butter on the side. And the elderflower spritz.”

Dream blinked. “You said that very quickly.”

“I’ve read the menu a lot. I’ve been planning this for weeks.”

“You… are truly excited for this.”

You looked at him. Smiled, this time without teasing.

“Yeah. I am.”

He blinked again. That answer seemed to rattle him more than the flirting.

Dream, after an awkward pause, mimicked your order exactly.

“Excellent choice,” you said, voice full of mirth.

“I simply… trust your judgment,” he muttered.

The main course arrived in a quiet ballet of silver trays and whispered enchantments. The lobster was no brutish shell to be cracked; it had been delicately prepared, butter-poached to perfection, and arranged artfully atop a velvet, smooth bed of golden risotto, flecked with edible pearls and slivers of moon, glazed with herbs.

Dream stared at it like it might come alive and accuse him of blasphemy.

You, however, lit up the moment it was placed before you. Your eyes shone with unmistakable delight, hands practically hovering with excitement.

You noticed his hesitation, smirked, and reached into your small evening bag.

“I came prepared.”

You pulled out a tiny sachet of shimmering sugar stars, iridescent, clearly magical, and with a theatrical flourish, sprinkled a few over your glass of wine.

Dream tilted his head, curious.

“Improves the flavor,” you said seriously, “and ensures you dream of good things.”

He blinked.

“Is that a promise or a curse?”

“Why not both?” you replied airily, tapping your glass against his. “To magical seasoning and slightly irresponsible life choices.”

You took a sip, smug.

And then it happened.

A lone sugar star, stubborn and sparkly, had stuck itself to the tip of your nose.

Unaware, you reached for your lobster fork and began dissecting your meal with graceful precision, offering commentary about the butter's scent, possibly stealing his portion, maybe requesting seconds.

Dream’s gaze lingered.

At first, in observation, as he often did, clinical and quiet. But then it shifted. He blinked once. Again. His eyes softened.

There was something undeniably regal about you: poised, powerful, beautiful. And yet, here you were, sparkling like a festive idiot, entirely unaware.

The juxtaposition was…

Utterly disarming.

And then, it happened.

He laughed.

A warm, surprised laugh, not polished or calculated. It just escaped, like breath he’d been holding without realizing.

You froze mid-sentence. “What?”

Dream tried to compose himself, shaking his head gently, lips still curved.

“You… have something on your nose.”

You reached up instinctively, brushing it away, only to spot the faint shimmer stuck to your finger.

“Oh no.”

He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth told everything.

You narrowed your eyes. “You let me sit here, rambling about butter, glittering like a festive cupcake?”

“You seemed so confident,” he said, voice full of amusement. “I didn’t dare interrupt.”

You huffed, dabbing at your face with a napkin, though you were already laughing, too.

“You’re worse than I thought.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Don’t get smug. You just laughed for the first time in a century. That’s my win.”

“Mm,” he murmured, smiling again. “Perhaps.”

And for a moment, just a quiet, flickering beat, you saw something rare in him.

Not cold detachment. Not tired wisdom.

Just joy.

Simple. Present.

And the air around you changed.

He was still the King of Dreams. Still shadow and story and depth.

But now… he was real. Here. Laughing. With you.

And something inside you warmed in return.

Later, after dessert (he reluctantly tried the chocolate soufflé, then requested a second one), you were both leaning back, full, content.

The conversation had turned quiet. Not awkward. Just… easy.

You were mid-sentence when you caught it.

He was looking at you.

Not with confusion. Not with fear.

But with something… else.

And then he said it:

“You smile differently when you’re not pretending to be terrifying.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Your eyes soften. The corners of your mouth lift less sharply. It is… enchanting.”

Your stomach did a very annoying little flip.

“Are you flirting with me, Dream?”

He tilted his head, calm. “Am I succeeding?”

You actually blinked.

He smirked.

You stared at him. “You just, did you just-”

“I believe you called it ‘getting started.’”

Oh no.

You looked away, suddenly aware of how warm your face was.

“Are you blushing now?” he asked, voice silk.

“Don’t push it, Sandman.”

He leaned a fraction closer across the table.

“Would you bite me if I did?”

You gaped.

“Excuse me?!”

“You said earlier you would. In jest, of course.” He smiled, mischievous and infuriating. “Or perhaps not.”

You narrowed your eyes, hiding the fact that your heart had flipped so hard it could sue for whiplash.

“I liked you better when you were scared of me.”

“I still am,” he murmured. “But now I’m also… curious.”

Oh this little,

You reached for your wine, masking your fluster with a sip.

“This was a mistake,” you muttered.

“On the contrary,” Dream said, smiling faintly. “It may be one of my better choices.”

And you had no comeback.

Not one.

Outside, the rain had stopped. You walked side by side, slower than necessary.

Your hand brushed his once.

He didn’t pull away.

“So…” you said at last. “Did I change your opinion?”

“Of you?”

“Of dating.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Both.”

“And?”

He looked at you. Night sky in his eyes. A hint of warmth at the corners.

“I may require… a second opinion.”

Oh gods, you were definitely blushing.

#dream x reader #dream x y/n #dream x you #dream imagine #dream of the endless #sandman imagines #sandman x reader #the sandman #morpheus imagine #morpheus x reader #morpheus #morpheus x you #morpheus x y/n #x reader #fanfic

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ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

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ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Three: pig

tw: dub-con, mentioned threats of non-con, mentioned/implied bestiality

To the victor belongs the spoils, but Ghost has no use for mere trinkets.

A man of his status requires something of sustenance—meat and blood, something warm and fresh to dig his fingers into, and he finds that in you. Tender offals spewing from a gored deer, viscera tainting his skin no matter how long he scrubs at it. A warrior is not complete without proof of his vitality; without the conquered to trail behind him as a reminder of the pecking order.

That’s what this feels like—your ripped, sodden chiton clinging to your body as you stumble behind him through the halls while he struts as if the palace layout has been burned into the back of his hand since he was born; as if he’s lived here his entire life. A birthright finally passed down to him. Servants gawk carefully from the corner of their eyes, ensuring that they do not test your new lord too vigorously with their gaze. You hold your bosom tighter, water squelching from the fabric and dripping down your stomach.

No—the pecking order is still the same. You’re still at the bottom. Fresh food. A toy for your new warlord.

After all, who wouldn’t be curious about the freak without a tongue?

Still, it is nice to pretend that you are something else for a split moment when Ghost brings you to the room that was once Shepherds throne, now turned into temporary storage. A small band of soldiers sort through various items, all seemingly taken from the palace itself. They garner swords, daggers, bronze shields and thin armor. Pottery, artwork, banners. Sandals, himations, shredded chitons and silk. Two men banter in the corner over a gold bracelet, while a larger group picks at the tip of a sword, degrading its creator for how dull it is.

If you pay close enough attention, you can almost still smell the blood that was spilt here yesterday—it almost stains the stone floor beneath the chair.

Eyes begin to wander when you’re brought to the center of the room. You’re still dripping, chiton running cold against your skin as Ghost begins to rummage through a pile of textiles. Prismatic linen against his skin, he intermittently chooses an item and holds it up to your body, eyeing the size of the cloth against your figure before either tossing it back into the depths or slinging it over his shoulder.

Eventually, there are five different garments shoved into your arms. Beautiful floor length peploses of saffron and rust, a chiton of delicate hyacinth, and two himations, beautiful shawls of seafoam green. You stare in awe at the delicate embroidery that laces the ends of the fabric. Geometric squares, delicate flowers of daisy and anemone, and sharp angles that remind you of the brightest stars in the night sky.

Gifts. That’s what Ghost says they are. He tells you to dress yourself how you please, and then dismisses you with the order to do whatever you wish for the day.

He leaves you with his soldiers, citing work that must be done within the city, alone and standing in the midst of their mess, stunned. Having no way to voice your concern, you simply do what you do best—follow your leader, your emperor; your new lord.

You spend your day the only way you can think of; down in your cove. It is a task climbing down there with your new peplos, but the moment you donned the cloth you knew you could never take it off. It is soft against your skin. Soaked to the brim with expensive dye and decorated with a craftsmanship you’ve never seen in your old, plain chitons. The pale sand is warm against your bare feet, and you spend many hours combing through the shoreline, tickling seashells as they pop up to kiss the soles of your feet.

When the sun heats you too much, you strip yourself free of all clothing before dipping beneath the waves. Kelp wraps around your ankles like loving chains meant to keep you in the only place you ever felt at home, and you float on your back and stare at the azure sky as the tide wills your body where it pleases. Then, when dusk begins to paint the sky with mulberry, you slink out of the water, bones having turned into liquid, and you lay on the rocks next to the starfish caught in tide pools until you are warm enough to drag yourself back to the palace.

Still, you are a creature of habit.

Come morning, you are in Ghost’s chambers again, now with a new peplos and your hands ready to serve. His body lays motionless in his bed, and you find yourself stealing glances as you go about your work. Crooked nose, almost parted lips, bare chest rising and falling with his breaths. He groans when the sound of sloshing water echoes from the basin and you see his body pulse beneath his animal hides as he turns on his side, dark eyes stricken with pink.

“No. None of that,” he dismisses. Pausing, you place your pitcher down before turning to fully face him. His face is heavy with lassitude. It pulls at his gaze and it trembles in his arms as he motions for you to walk toward him. “C’mere, little mouse.”

Obeying, you approach his bed, yet you are still surprised when his fingers wrap around your wrist and drag you downwards. As if falling into the hells, you collapse against the mattress and turn to liquid when he begins to maneuver you how he wishes. Bent on your side, head on his chest, arm wrapped around the back of your head as he lies flat on his back, breath huffing from his lungs.

“I was up half the night settling quarrels with your people,” he grumbles. “It’s only fair that one of their own aids me in sleep. At least you squawk less than them.”

The rattling in your chest rivals that of a family of horses trampling through open plains with unforgiving hooves. You think Ghost might feel it as he pulls you closer, body sinking into the linens, exhaling a soft chuckle before his dark eyes flutter shut and you’re left as a prisoner in his grasp.

Curious hands wander over your body just before his snoring overtakes him. Thick fingers paw at your waist, the dip in your hips, the soft pudge of your stomach. Just before his slumber devours him, he mutters something about how you are softer than silk—softer than anything else he’s ever touched before.

Ghost’s heartbeat sounds like war. It’s the pulsing of drums promising impending doom. It’s the throbbing in your mouth after your tongue was stolen from you, leaving behind nothing but rot and ichor. It’s the beating of your mother’s fists inside of the brazen bull, fruitlessly attempting to escape her sealed fate. Still, it sounds like solace, because war is the only comfort you have ever known.

Eventually, it lulls you to sleep; stuffs your skull full of cotton until your thoughts are just as fuzzy as your body. Dreams come sweetly like honey, but the smell makes you gag as your mother drizzles it on bread and holds it for you to eat. You always speak in your dreams. Though, it is rare that anyone ever understands you despite it. When you tell her you cannot stand the texture of honey in your mouth anymore, she only smiles and pushes it to your lips.

Grip like tongs on your tongue. Knife meant for flaying. Blood spilling like juice.

Forever scorned—a little girl so desperate to sing.

You wake to Ghost’s fingers in your mouth. Gentle, hardly invasive; he doesn’t even push them past your teeth, just keeps them behind your lips to feel the way you instinctively suckle on it. He knows you’re awake when your actions cease.

“I am a soldier, little mouse,” he says, pads of his index and middle fingers rubbing against your front teeth. “I can’t stand politicking.” Groaning, his body twists, elbow digging into the bed to prop himself up, torso curling over yours, hips rolling over your thigh. He is naked, and you feel the bite of his warmth through your peplos. “But I keep tellin’ myself it’s worth it, if it’s for you. My little treasure. All for me, yeah?”

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth, he drags them down along your chin, dipping to your throat, and then lower. A thin trail of saliva is left in his wake until it runs dry, and the rough calluses of his fingers trace between your breasts unheeded.

“Dunno why I find myself so infatuated with you,” Ghost admits, though he speaks more as if he’s talking to himself than to you. “Maybe it’s because we’re not too different. You’re the only one in this fuckin’ city who understands me, yeah?”

His words mean nothing to you, and still you nod. Your eyes are locked onto his lips and how they dance as he talks.

“My name is Simon.” It’s a blunt reveal. Something that leaves your mind spinning. Ghost is a name fit for him—something you would not be surprised to hear that his mother herself named him—but his true title softens your aching heart. Simon smirks as he leans forward, nose knocking against yours. “I trust you enough not to tell anyone.”

Then, he seals this revelation with a kiss.

Simon’s lips are heavy against yours, chin rubbing against your own just as his thumb brushes your cheek. Never before have you had anyone embrace you in such a way, and you’re not sure how to react. So you lay there motionless as your ribs attempt to keep your fluttering heart at bay.

It only worsens when his tongue slips into your mouth. It’s an action that brings along the very stars themselves with it, sizzling and sparkling to life what you once thought was long dead. Your mouth opens wider, cheeks hollowing out in order to bring more of him in, throat bobbing in anticipation, but he halts your endeavor with a chuckle as his mouth breaks free from yours with a quiet smack.

“Greedy girl.”

After that, you cannot leave Simon alone. Not now that you know his name. Not now that you’ve gotten a taste for his tongue.

He enjoys it. At least, you think he does. He never allows you to trail far behind him when he’s running an errand somewhere within the city, always keeping a hand on your back. When he sits with his men, he ensures you’re next to him, if not damn near in his lap, arm snaking around your waist, hands quietly toying with you when the war talk riles him up too much.

It’s gotten to the point that people now regard you with some sort of authority as if you are brimming with power and wealth. But don’t you look the part with your purple peplos and hand tugging on the arm of the vicious dog who now leads your city? Soldiers greet you with salutes and bows, and even the servants have begun to follow suit. Heads lowering. Knees bending.

Still—there are others who know you as you are.

A worm, groveling in dirt.

That life finds you again when you wander into the kitchen, having been sent away by Simon to fetch something to eat when he was too concerned about your growling stomach to focus during his meeting. Before you lies a medley of breads, fruits and vegetables, oils and salts—nearly anything your mind can imagine. The aroma is nearly enough to trick your mind into believing you’re tasting it for yourself. Garlic, onion, chives, sun dried tomatoes.

Your stomach growls, but the want is not here. The joy is bland. The action is a chore. It worsens when you spot a small jar of honey.

Pale orange refracts the streams of sun slicing through the windows, and you stare at the liquid with contempt. When your tongue was ripped from your mouth, it was the only thing you could eat for weeks. You’d slather it on the tip of your fingers, then smear it along the open wound within you, rubbing it along the tender skin and pray that the antimicrobial effects would save you from infection. Each time you remember the way it coats the roof of your mouth, or how it sticks to your fingers, you shiver.

Still, you fill your plate with kinder memories. Grapes, bread, butter—anything soft. Anything your traitorous throat can swallow. Then, your mind wanders to Simon, and you grab extras. Apples, cured meat, cheese. You’re nearly weighed down by the cluster in your hands. This is the most greedy you’ve ever felt, yet no one gives you a second look; not in your attire, not with your newfound status.

No one except Caenis—the one who remembers you from before.

The one who remembers you for what you are.

Hands occupied, you nearly clash into her when you exit the kitchen. She stands tall and proud as ever, delicate fingers holding a fat pitcher of water against the side of her hip. For a moment, fear clouds her eyes. You suppose that’s what most of the servants feel these days—something you ought to feel, too, in your newly conquered city. Then, her eyes wander, golden like the metals from the earth tracing your body, reading the embroidery on your peplos, naming the color of the woolen fabric in her head. Then, fear melts into rage, and her lips press into a tight line as she glares at you.

“Look at you. You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?” she asks facetiously, each syllable dripping with ire. “Oh, of course you can’t answer me. Kissing the new lord’s feet still hasn’t grown your tongue back for you, I see.”

Though your legs yearn to flee, you do what you always have done. Turning to stone like the statues in the garden, you stand there and take her berating the same way as you have always done.

“Everyone’s noticed. You pleaded your innocence so much that day your wretched parents were snuffed out, but look at you now, bedding with The Ghost and following him like some well trained bitch.” There is movement behind her. Quiet, and swift like a diving eagle—it’s Simon; you’ve learned to recognize him anywhere. Curiosity pulls at his face when he rounds the corner in the corridor and spots you. You’ve taken too long. Fingers curling into your plate, you attempt to step around Caenis to meet your lord, but she only chuckles and slaps it out of your hand, sending your food clattering to the ground. “You might think it’s fun to pretend that you’re anything other than filth, but we all see you for what you really are.”

Her throat catches on the last word she speaks as Simon’s foot swipes at the back of her knees, sending her pitcher shattering on the ground as she follows behind it. Caenis’s lambasting is silenced with a squeal as he runs his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back as the fresh well water wets both her chiton and your feet. It swirls with the bread on the floor, softening it until it’s soggy—a true waste of mush.

“I am sick of this city’s kvetching,” Simon sighs. Caenis sends her hands backward, fingers pulling at his grip in her hair to get him to relent, but she freezes the moment she realizes who has a hold of her. Her face blanches. “Your tongue is wasted on you.”

With his free hand, Simon retrieves a small knife sheathed in the side of his chiton and proudly displays it in the pale glow of the sun. Caenis whimpers as he twirls it, toying with her, and it’s nearly enough to get you to feel sorry for her.

“Perhaps I should relieve you of it,” he muses before looking up at you. “What do you say, little mouse? I think her tongue would be of greater service in your mouth than it is in her own.”

For a split moment, you entertain the idea. This notion that you may yet have a tongue to sing with. Something to stitch yourself up with so that you may be whole again.

Then, you remember a time when a soldier cornered you outside of Shepherd’s chambers. Truly, he was handsome. The quintessence of strength and beauty, he sneered at you for a solid five minutes speaking of your wretched hideousness, how no one would ever want a woman as ugly as you, that he had thought of raping you just for his own pleasure but decided to get that relief out of a pig instead.

Some time later, you caught Caenis with that soldier outside of the bath house. She was kneeling before him as he pulled his chiton up over his stomach, taking his cock into her mouth. Though you are not sure how true his claims were, all you could think about is how he must taste like pig.

You do not want a swine flavored tongue.

When you shake your head, Simon smirks before stowing his blade. “The only reason your blood is not on the floor is because of her,” he mutters to Caenis. Then, he releases her with a heavy shove, forcing her hands to brace against the wet floor as she sobs. “Remember that the next time you open your mouth.”

Wide eyed, you stare down at her as you watch her shoulders shudder and head bow as if silently begging for your forgiveness. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see in a woman like Caenis, always so prim. So proper. So above you.

Simon then reaches out his hand, taking yours into his own, before leading you away from the mess at your feet. His warmth and rage are palpable as it bleeds into you, but still, you cannot help but smile as Caenis’s pules echo off the corridor walls behind you.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

#ilium writing #sr ilia #it;sw #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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murmurmurl · 10 months ago

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girl who was trained to be a murder weapon but now has to work a 9 to 5

#(saffron)#this is basically what happens #shes not happy about it #murl murmurs #murls ocs #its so funny to me #youre told to kill a guy #find out hes your brother that you thought was dead and ur sister #and now you have to work at a shitty restaurant with him and his weird furry of a friend #the owner of the restaurant probably posioned someone at least a couple times

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herpsandbirds · 16 days ago

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Hello hope you are well, I would like to request some flies please, criminally underrated group of animals considering not only how diverse they are but also how funky a lot of the species are. Feel free to include some larvae if you'd like, I feel like their larvae are equally as cool as the adults but are rarely talked about, if you can't include fly larvae though just some funky adults is completely fine. Thanks and love the blog

Ok so I am going to take this time to show people MY FAVORITE FLY...

Saffron Robber Fly (Laphria saffrana), HIM EAT TASTY BEETLE!!!, family Asilidae, SE TX, USA

This species is thought to mimic the Southern Yellowjacket. Other robberflies in this genus, some of which are called Bee-killers, mimic various bees and wasps.

photograph by Greg Lasley

Trinity County, TX, USA - photo by Don Verser

EAT A TASTY BEETLE!, GA, USA - photo by John Lampkin

EAT A TASTY BEEFLY!, SE TX, USA - photo by Greg Lasley

#robberfly #beekiller #laphria #fly #dipter #asilidae #insect #entomology #animals #nature #north america

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dollyswishingwell · 2 months ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ I’ll think for you

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, manipulation, dependency, power imbalance, forced domesticity, isolation, a tiny bit infantilisation, this is me getting yall slowly used to dark content

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They shaped you to be exactly how they want

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You used to be so independent. So opinionated, so decisive. A skilled hunter of the Deep Space Hunter Association, Graduated top of the academy. And now?

You’re a delicate little thing wrapped in lace and pearls, sitting in Rafayel’s lap at a velvet booth in the most exclusive restaurant in the city. His hand strokes slow circles on your bare thigh, keeping you calm as your wide, pretty eyes flit nervously over the menu.

Not because you can’t read it. But because, “Raffy,” you whisper softly, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, “…I can’t pick..”

He beams. Oh, you sweet, helpless thing. “Mm, my baby wants the saffron lobster risotto,” he murmurs against your temple, curling a lock of your hair around his finger. “You always get pouty when the rice is undercooked anywhere else, remember?” He tucks the menu away without you even touching it. “And we’ll share the strawberry mille-feuille after. No cherries. I’ll kill them if they bring cherries again.”

You nod obediently, letting him order for you, your fingers fidgeting with his sleeve like a lost child. You don’t even notice the way the waiter looks at you with pity. Or is it fear?

Rafayel doesn’t mind. He lives for this. For your dependency. For the way you look to him like he’s your entire world, because he is.

You don’t shop anymore unless he’s there to tell you what’s pretty.

You don’t eat unless he feeds you the first bite.

You won’t even open the curtains without asking him if it’s okay today.

And when you’re home, swaddled in your frilly little outfits, toddling after him barefoot in your designer slippers, asking “Raffy, can I put ribbons in my hair today or are we staying in?”, he nearly collapses from how cute you are.

You can’t function without him anymore. And he made sure of that. Sure, It took a while to get you to this state but he managed.

Rafayel hums softly as he spoons the first bite into your mouth. “That’s it, sweet girl. Good, isn’t it?” His smile deepens when you nod happily, your lips still parted a little for another bite. “See? You don’t need to worry about anything. Just let Raffy take care of it all.”

His voice is so soft, so gentle. But beneath it is that familiar edge of obsession.

If you ever did try to choose something without him now,

If you ever said, “I think I want—” instead of “Raf, What should i—?”

he’d smile at you just the same.

But the look in his eyes would turn terrifyingly cold.

Because you’re his. Utterly, helplessly his.

And he won’t let you survive without him.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Your life is so easy now. No stress, no pressure. Just floating through luxury in silk nightgowns and diamonds, curled up in Zayne’s lap in the garden pavilion or lounging in the marble tub he has drawn for you daily at 7pm sharp. He handles everything. He decides everything.

You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything anymore.

And he made sure of that.

⸻

You’re out for dinner with him, very rarely, only when he says it’s safe enough, and you’re clinging to his arm, face half-hidden in his shoulder as the waiter approaches.

“Have you two decided?”

You blink at the menu like it’s written in another language. You didn’t even read it. You looked at Zayne the moment you sat down, your hand resting lightly on his thigh under the table, eyes wide and waiting.

He glances down at you briefly, one of his hands sliding protectively behind your back. “She’ll have the roast duck. Glazed, no herbs on the skin. And the red wine reduction on the side, she doesn’t like it poured over.”

He doesn’t ask you. He knows.

You give a little hum and lean into him, relaxing instantly. “Thank you, Zaynie…” you whisper against his collarbone.

The waiter leaves. Zayne stays silent for a moment, sipping his drink, then gently shifts your chair a little closer to his. Always keeping you within arm’s reach. Always watching you.

“You didn’t even glance at the menu,” he murmurs, tone unreadable.

You blink up at him like a kitten caught doing something wrong, but you can’t tell if he’s displeased.

Zayne watches the way you shrink slightly, how your lips pout just faintly. His hand reaches under the table and settles possessively on your thigh.

“…Good,” he says after a long pause, his voice soft and deep. “You shouldn’t be thinking about things like that anymore.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting across your cheek. “You’re not built for decision-making. Let me handle it.”

And you do. Always.

You wake up when he tells you.

You eat what he places on your plate.

You wear what he’s laid out on the bed each morning, with the jewelry box open for you like a princess.

When you feel anxious, you bury your face in his chest and ask softly, “Zay, what should I do…?” — and he holds you like you’re breakable, whispering, “Just follow me. That’s all you ever have to do.”

He’s spent years making sure you rely on him so fully you wouldn’t last a day without him. And the way you smile when he decides everything for you? Like being cared for is the only thing you’ve ever known?

Zayne would never admit it aloud, but he lives for that look.

You’re not just his housewife. You’re his porcelain doll, the soft and helpless girl he locked away from the world just to protect and control.

And he loves you like that.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It’s subtle, with Xavier.

So soft you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve sunk into him, how utterly dependent you’ve become.

You don’t remember when it started. When your “What do you think, baby?” turned into “I don’t know unless you tell me.” When your curiosity, your opinions, your sense of direction, all slowly dissolved into him.

Now, you’re just his. A sweet, soft-spoken housewife who waits by the window for him, dressed in his favorite pale colors, your hair styled just the way he likes, your entire world revolving around when he comes home.

You don’t even know what you like anymore unless Xavier whispers it in your ear.

⸻

You’re out with him, rare, but he allows it. Only in quiet, secure places. Tonight, you’re seated across from him in a secluded booth at a lantern-lit garden café in the upper rings of Skyhaven.

There’s a pretty dessert menu in front of you. You tilt your head at it like it’s written in another language.

“Xavi,” you murmur softly, tugging at his sleeve with both hands, “…what do i want?”

He smiles at that. Not in mockery. Not in amusement. In devotion.

“You want something warm,” he murmurs gently, sliding the menu away and taking your hand, long fingers threading through yours. “Something gentle. Not too sweet.”

He strokes his thumb along your wrist as he places the order. You lean forward, pressing your cheek against his hand as if to say thank you for thinking for me, again.

You always look to him before making any move. You won’t even stand up without asking, “should I follow now?”

He picks your dresses.

He braids your hair in the morning.

He brushes your teeth for you when you’re sleepy.

And when you’re nervous about anything, even something as small as picking the scent of the room diffuser, your first instinct is to turn to him and whisper, “What would make you happy…?”

And he always gives you an answer. Always, so quietly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to guide you.

Because you’re his pretty housewife. His soft little wife who doesn’t need to think. He’s the one who bears the burden of decision. You just have to smile, stay close, and let yourself be loved.

“You’re happiest when you let me think for you,” he whispers against your temple one evening, as he tucks you into the massive bed in your penthouse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart… I’ll never let the world confuse you again.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You don’t make decisions.

You don’t even pretend to anymore.

You flinch when someone asks you, “Paper or digital receipt?”

You hesitate in boutiques, waiting for Sylus to tilt his head before stepping toward the display.

Even at home, you sit quietly beside him, legs tucked under you, waiting for him to decide what you’ll eat, wear, watch, or do.

Not because he forbade you.

But because he’s so perfectly, ruthlessly conditioned you not to.

⸻

Tonight, you’re seated beside him at a private luxury tasting hosted by an ally syndicate. Glittering cityscape behind you, violins playing faintly. You look divine in the dress he chose. The one with the daring back and delicate sleeves that makes you look more like a prize than a wife.

A waiter steps forward. “And for the lady?”

You blink, clearly startled. You hadn’t been paying attention, just tracing lazy shapes on Sylus’ thigh, face resting against his shoulder.

Sylus doesn’t even let you speak.

He lifts his wine glass without looking at the man. “She’ll have the truffle risotto. No onions. She won’t touch it if she smells even one.”

The waiter hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. Sylus gives him a single glance, cold, razor-sharp. That’s all it takes. The man practically bows and disappears.

You blink up at Sylus. “I didn’t even realize I don’t like onions…”

He smiles, so smug, so fond, so terrifyingly pleased. “You don’t. You used to pretend you did. For appearances.”

You didn’t even remember that.

But Sylus did. He remembers everything. He’s constructed your new life down to the minute. You don’t have to know anything. He’s already decided what you should.

And it’s so easy to let go.

⸻

You once stood against him as a force. A powerful figure with opinions, ambitions, sharp edges. Took him a while to break you down but now you’re a perfect little thing in designer heels and soft perfume, standing half a step behind him and gripping his sleeve like a doll.

And he loves it.

“You used to challenge me,” he’ll murmur while brushing your hair, voice velvet-slick. “Now you ask me which hand to wear your rings on. How far we’ve come, my little bride.”

You’d never survive without him. Not because you couldn’t try.

But because he made sure you wouldn’t want to.

Why would you?

When Sylus gives you everything you could ever want, except freedom?

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You’ve been his since you were four years old.

Even then, Caleb was the one who brushed your hair, tied your shoes, and chose which dress you wore on school days. Even when he was just six, he took responsibility for you in a way that was unnatural. Fierce. Obsessive.

So now, as his wife, you don’t lift a finger without him.

You don’t have to.

Because Caleb has spent every waking moment of his life making sure you wouldn’t know how.

⸻

You’re seated beside him in the Skyhaven Officer’s Club, plush and extravagant, your legs swinging beneath the table, perfectly dressed in the soft pearl chiffon gown he picked out for you. His gloved hand rests on your lower back, keeping you steady and close.

The menu sits untouched in front of you.

“Baby,” he says lowly, voice calm, “read it.”

You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “I don’t know what I want,” you murmur shyly, fingers twisting in your lap.

“No.” His purple eyes cut to you sharply. “You don’t make decisions. I do.” He places a single gloved hand over the menu, slowly sliding it toward himself. “But I want to see if you even remember how.”

You go quiet. Embarrassed. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

He stares at you for a moment longer before softening, sighing under his breath. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, low and satisfied.

He orders for you. Cuts your food into bites for you. Swaps your glass of water when he sees the condensation has made it too cold. When the waiter brings a side dish that has even a hint of spice, he narrows his eyes and says, “My wife doesn’t eat that. Fix it.”

And you, so sweet, so dependent, you look up at him after every bite like you want praise for just chewing. It makes his chest tighten. He lives for this.

You ask him what to wear.

You ask if it’s okay to sit on the balcony.

You even ask if you’re allowed to use the pink lipstick he bought you.

He trains you into this kind of helplessness. Not through cruelty, but through constant, overwhelming control. Quiet discipline. Every time you make a decision on your own? He gently corrects you.

“Pips, that’s not your job,” he’ll say, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Your only responsibility is to look pretty and wait for me.”

And you do. You really do.

He’s raised you into this. His good girl. His housewife. His soft little thing that wouldn’t know how to breathe without him reminding you.

And that’s exactly how he wants it.

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look-over-yonder · 21 days ago

Text

Thinking about Mydei's hair.

It's softer than you might think. Mydei's hair is surprisingly well-kempt, although it still gets a couple knots every now and then; that’s inevitable. Due to how thick his hair is, Mydei’s hair tends to get matted easily while fighting, and it can be a pain for him to untangle. And so, in true warrior fashion, Mydei has slowly taken it upon himself to adopt and familiarise himself with the art of self care.

Mydei didn't grow up learning how to take care of himself properly; survival came first. It was only natural that his interests would align in things like cooking and exercise, however, it wasn’t until much later did he start to take up a formal interest in his appearance.

Even before he first came to Okhema, Mydei had always tried to stay clean. If he didn't, he'd be walking around day-to-day permeated by the stench of blood and sweat— so he was a frequent bather. But he didn’t do much else other than that, and he definitely used to look even more rugged than he does now.

Despite his efforts, it was Aglaea who first told him that he should try putting more care into his appearance. Tribbie chimes in agreement. However, Mydei didn't seem too affected by their griping. Then, a bit later into the day, Hyacine invites Mydei out to an all-girl's spa day at the bathhouse. Begrudgingly, Mydei accepts with a sigh. However, he soon begins to reflect again on his decision as the girls conspiratorially turn towards one another and begin to whisper a little too eagerly among themselves.

Mydei realises regret is a fickle thing. When he later asks what they were talking about, Castorice would only give Mydei an awkward smile. And so, he pushed the event out of his mind and distracted himself with his commitments and training, waiting it out to the point he forgot all about his dread— up until the moment they started to drag him in there. However, it was also there that Mydei learned just how popular this practice was for the denizens of Okhema. One that enlightened him on a previously unknown holistic approach towards self-improvement.

And ever since then, Mydei hasn't turned back.

While the smell of sweat never really leaves Mydei, there’s also another scent that clings to him like fire. It’s tangy, spicy— like nutmeg and saffron mixed together, but not quite. Underneath those fragrance notes is a tarty scent that reminds you of the lingering aftertaste of pomegranate juice coated with citrus. It's something you don't really get to smell very often unless you're around him. Because it’s his.

Mydei has a distinct smell, yes, but you are the only person he will let close enough to play with his hair whenever you want.

Mydei’s scalp is sensitive. Don’t tug or pull on his hair too much, even if you’re only trying to comb out a knot in his hair. Mydei becomes slightly more reactive when it comes to do with anything involving his hair, and he sees you pulling at it as a means to try and rile him up. But if that’s your intention— trust me. It works.

He likes it when people play with his hair, and yet, only a few people have ever really touched it. If you so desire, he’ll even let you play with his hair in public... With exception. He still has an image to upkeep as the crown prince of Kremnos, after all. But if Mydei is in a down or bad mood, let Mydei collapse into your arms. Then, run your fingernails through his hair, and let them lightly graze his scalp. He will melt.

Please tie up his hair. Please braid it. Please touch it!

Sniff his hair, and he might just die. While he won’t say anything about it, he will shoot you a look if you try it again. But there’s a noticeable pink hue now dusting his cheeks, one that would only continue to bloom and saturate in colour should your attempts persist. So please, be kind to him.

#honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader #yonder ☼ musings

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