#fluff and a little chaos

[sunshinebingo]

@gwynweekofficial Day 5 - Powers

Synopsis: Gwyn gets frustrated during her lesson with Lucien as he tries to teach her to control her fire. It turns out that her biggest distraction is not her friends talking nearby, but the arrival of a certain Shadowsinger. Alternative summary:- Literal sparks fly when Gwyn stares at the Shadowsinger. Word Count: 1.5k

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

Gwyn held in a groan and focused on her hand again. Her shirt was stuck to her skin from all the sweat, most of which was not from the afternoon sun. A few tendrils of hair had escaped her high ponytail and were stuck to her neck and forehead.

“Don’t allow whatever you are feeling to overwhelm you,” Lucien reminded her from where he sat cross-legged across from her.

“I’m trying,” she retorted. She was not angry at him. But at the fact that she had been trying to master this basic exercise for the past two hours and yet she hadn’t gotten much closer to controlling her power. Causing a forest fire was far too easy compared to summoning the small flame that Lucien had been trying to get out of her.

Although one never stopped learning and improving, Gwyn had successfully tackled every technique she had learned during the Valkyries’ physical and mental training. Even mind stilling now came as natural to her as existing. But learning to control her newfound magic was harder than she had expected. She had certainly not assumed that it would be easy-peasy. But she did not think that learning to tame it on such a small scale would be harder than unleashing it.

Lucien had told her when he had proposed to teach her to use her Autumn powers that it would be take time, effort and patience, and that her emotions would sometimes be her worst enemy. But it had been months since Gwyn had let herself be deterred by any possible obstacle. Learning to use her powers was not only for herself after all but for the safety of everyone around her. The circumstances in which such powers had awoken in her were a solid proof of that. It had also given her a taste of the weapon that ran through her veins. It was a wonder. But a hazardous one. One that she was desperately trying to learn how to control.

“Try harder,” Lucien said. She was so tired right now that his calm demeanour was somehow annoying her even more. Even the conversation between her sisters, Cassian and Elain on the veranda behind the River House had become harder to tune out. Nesta and Emerie, who had insisted on being present today to encourage her, had quickly found something more interesting to do. Gorging themselves in tea and Elain’s pastries was undoubtedly more fun than watching her achieve nothing.

“Why don’t you do it,” Gwyn snapped, her rising temper causing flames to erupt on the tips of her fingers.

Lucien threw her that mischievous smirk that was sort of a signature expression for Eris and him. Gwyn wondered if she had also inherited that specific look from them.

She realised how stupid it was to challenge a veteran fire wielder when a rope of flame formed around Lucien’s arm without him having to expose his hand like she was still doing. The rope grew bigger and brighter, until it expanded in a dome of heatless flames around the both of them.

“Show off” Gwyn muttered loud enough for him to hear.

Lucien chuckled and sucked his fire back in.

“You fire freaks are okay over there?” Cassian asked from where he was lounging in his chair, his feet up and resting on Nesta's thighs.

Elain swatted Cassian’s shoulder with a napkin. “Be nice, Cass.”

He put his hands up in front of him. “I’m always nice.”

Emerie and Nesta snorted in unison, winning themselves a scowl from the general. What followed was a semi heated back and forth among the four of them about showing support, burnt fighting leathers and other things that did not all make much sense.

“You’ll get there, Gwyn.” Lucien pulled her attention back to him. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Gwyn gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He smiled back. “There’s no need to thank me. I couldn’t leave you to Eris without the risk of you two burning Prythian to the ground.”

Gwyn threw her head back and laughed. She squared her shoulders and breathed deeply before she extended her hand again. Just when she thought that was ready to focus, the biggest distraction of all magically appeared on the lawn in a cloud of black smoke.

Azriel stepped out of his shadows and into the afternoon light. He looked like he had just battled a shark with his black shirt soaking wet and sticking to him like a second skin. His pants were in a similar state, outlining every inch of his strong legs and thighs.

“How did the encounter with the leviathan go, brother?” Cassian loudly asked as soon as he dragged his eyes away from the females at his side and spotted the Shadowsinger.

“Fine,” Azriel mumbled in response.

He brought his hands to his back and took his shirt off in one fluid motion before throwing it carelessly on the grass. This left his tanned, tattooed chest on display. A few droplets of water escaped the strands of his wet, dishevelled hair and dripped onto his shoulder. Gwyn’s eyes followed them as they ran down his chest, lower and lower. From where she sat on the ground, she couldn’t help but notice how Azriel’s form was gilded by the sunlight even with the shadows wreathing around him.

“Hey, Berdara.” He winked and smiled at her with a warmth that rivalled any fire. Or perhaps it was her own blood that had suddenly risen in temperature. Something prickled the palm of her hand from within.

Gwyn didn’t know if the smile she had intended on giving him in return had actually spread out on her lips, nor if the words that she had wanted to say had come out or were still dangling on the tip of her open mouth.

Azriel dipped his head in Lucien’s direction as he walked past them and towards the veranda. Gwyn did not notice Lucien’s amused look directed at her since her own eyes were still glued on the Shadowsinger. When he stopped by the others, Azriel reached down on the table to grab a pastry, his arm and back muscles rippling from the movement. Her skin flushed further from the increasing heat and her extended hand started tingling.

“You want some tea, Az?” Emerie offered.

“No thanks,” he said around a mouthful. His fingers glistened from the syrup that coated his pastry. Gwyn was so focused on those glistening scarred fingers that she did not feel the increased tingling in her own hand. She did not hear Lucien calling her name either.

“I need a stronger drink,” Azriel added before he made his way inside the house. Gwyn’s eyes were on his backside when Lucien snapped his fingers in front of her face. Gwyn blinked for the first time in a while and turned at him.

“What-”

A firework suddenly exploded in Gwyn’s extended hand. She yelped at the abrupt sparks that flew in all directions, one of which went straight forward and –

“Oh shit,” Gwyn exclaimed, closing her hand into a fist and bringing it to her chest.

Lucien was frozen in front of her, his mouth agape, his eyes wide, and…a tendril of smoke fading away from the strand of his hair that had just been burned by Gwyn’s fire.

The garden went quiet for the few seconds it took for everyone to process what just happened. Until the silence was broken by Cassian’s boisterous laugh. It was soon echoed by Nesta and Emerie, even Elain who had quickly recovered from the initial shock.

Gwyn winced when Lucien brought his hand to the shortened section of hair that fell in front of his face.

“Sorry Elain,” Gwyn said to the female who was trying to conceal her laughter by stuffing her face with orange cake.

Lucien looked at Gwyn in puzzlement. “I’m sorry. You’re sorry for Elain?”

Gwyn shrugged, all traces of frustration replaced by amusement, and a little guilt as well. “She’s the one who likes it the most.”

Elain coughed as she swallowed but ended up giggling. Beside her, Cassian was on the floor holding his side as he laughed.

“Gwyneth –”

“No one will notice if you braid it,” Gwyn cut Lucien off. She grabbed the burnt strand and twisted it to prove her point. “See?”

Lucien only stared at her. “I will braid your limbs together.”

Gwyn placed her hands in her lap and pursed her lips to stop herself from smiling at the sight of the small section of twisted hair that was already unravelling.

“I won’t do it again,” she promised when he said nothing. “Pinkie promise,” she added, lifting her little finger between them. She did not know what had caused it but for Lucien’s sake, and everyone else, she would find out and prevent it from happening.

Lucien let out a heavy sigh and shook his head with a huff. He stood.

“Lucien, I’m sorry,” Gwyn said as she followed him.

“I know Valkyrie.” He chuckled. He sighed again and brushed his hair back. “I also need a drink.”

[swan2swan]

Ship discourse can be funny sometimes.

"What they did was not cool and is actually toxic behavior", yes, that's probably what the horrified looks on both of their faces was meant to convey, welcome to the Messy Part.

[rimeswithpurple]

Carry On Countdown

Day 19: Fluff

Tali! Finally! I'm so happy to have finally drawn every member of the Salisbury-Pitch family from my fic with @thewholelemon, Infinity in a Teacup.

Fun facts: Tali's full name is Natalius Anchor Salisbury-Pitch (Natalius for a boy version of the name Natasha and Anchor for the butter brand)

Simon and Baz thought his nickname would be Nat. Then Lucy called him Tali and it stuck

Also on AO3!

[little-hag]

Regressor! Agatha Harkness 💜

[tapakah0]

[sillychatonnoir]

✨️Lukadrinette scenario✨️

—

There's a particular vibe that all three of them enjoy more than anything in this world. That moment when Marinette is sewing one of her new designs, and the sound of the sewing machine's mechanism creates a somewhat soothing melody, Marinette's machine is kind of loud, but Luka and Adrien are not afraid of some noise. The constant sound is comforting because it's the sound of their girlfriend's passion. Luka hums some melody that Adrien can't recognize, but he figures the musician will be showing them the new song as soon as Marinette can allow herself a break. Adrien's eyes are closed, he hears the sewing machine and he is close enough to enjoy the humming, he has his own contribution, Luka is softly scratching his head, playing with his hair, so the influence of his miraculous kicks in and he starts to purr.

Sewing machine. Humming. Purring.

It would be so easy for that to turn into a disgusting cacophony, an overwhelming mix of sounds, but the pitch is just right in every single one of them to make it a harmony instead, all of them contributing to the lovely vibe in the room that makes them feel just like home.

[archivewriter1ont]

Echo and the Cadet Batch: Chapters 4 & 5 Are Out!

Destination: Kamino (Parts One and Two)

art by @secretly-a-trekkie

Summary:

While Rex and Echo wrangle four little 99s and manage the fallout among the rest of the GAR, another part of the galaxy is also feeling the repercussions of the relic malfunction. Hunter wakes up in a very different place than he was two seconds ago and realizes they're missing someone. The 99s investigate their old barracks while they’re stuck on Kamino and try to make sense of their strange situation. They run into an interesting character along the way.

[robinthetiredartist]

The first chapter has been release yesterday! Flock in to give it a read if you haven’t already!

[nothingeverchangeswoy]

Can we get some headcanons for the Star Nomad crew? (Any! Just some random nonsense!) 🥰

Headcanons for The Star Nomad Crew (from the fanfiction titled "Nothing Ever Changes" - a Wander x Reader story, post canon.)

Ah, the Star Nomad. Home to the weirdest, most dysfunctional family of cosmic chaos. How do they live? Well, let’s take a peek at the insanity that unfolds every day.

Wander, the Ultimate Optimist (but Now with a Slight Dark Side): While Wander is still the epitome of sunshine, post-apocalypse, he's developed a slightly darker sense of humor. He might be the one to make light of the situation—“Oh, sure, everything’s falling apart, but hey, at least I can make a mean pancake!”—but there’s a glint of nervous energy behind his eyes. The joy of spreading happiness and helping is starting to feel like a desperate need. He's been singing more, playing his banjo obsessively in the corners of the ship. No one has the heart to tell him that maybe, just maybe, he should slow down.

The Watchdogs Have Started a "Support Group": After everything went south, the Watchdogs began holding very informal support meetings—because if there’s one thing they all had in common, it was emotional trauma. They’ve tried to keep it “professional” by forming a group therapy session, but it’s mostly just yelling about their failures and trying to share their feelings without completely falling apart. The best part? Hater still insists on leading it, but no one listens to him because, well… he's Hater.

Emperor Awesome’s Bizarre Workout Routine: In the aftermath of the apocalypse, Emperor Awesome has decided he needs to get fit to maintain his “godlike status.” He’s taken up yoga (but not with Jeff because ew) and insists on doing it in the most ridiculous places—in the middle of the mess hall, right next to the engine core (where it’s most inconvenient). One day, someone caught him doing an extremely awkward downward dog pose with Something the So-and-So watching, confused. Awesome's response? "I do it for the culture, bro."

Lord Dominator’s Weird "Unavailable" Status: Dominator loves/hates the apocalypse. Why? Because now no one can disturb her, but she can disturb others. She used to be the center of attention, but with the galaxy dying, she’s been playing the role of a mysterious recluse. Every few weeks, she’ll randomly appear from an undisclosed location on the ship, drop some ominous line like “The time for vengeance will come,” and disappear again, leaving people to speculate whether she’s plotting or just bored.

The Black Cube’s Existential Crisis: The Black Cube of Darkness, now a reformed "Little Black Cube of Sunshine," is still learning the ropes of positivity. He used to take over galaxies and steal souls with his ominous power. Now? Now he’s trying to learn to enjoy... things. He once tried to meditate with Jeff and ended up sobbing (in his own way) because he couldn’t grasp the concept of just existing without trying to steal someone's soul. To his surprise, the other former villain was super supportive, offering to play a game of "chase the cosmic butterfly" with him. Cube still wonders if that's how normal people do fun, but for now, he’s quietly enjoying the chaos of simply existing.

Peepers’ Control Issues: With the entire galaxy crumbling, Peepers has become obsessed with keeping his plans for total galactic domination intact, even though it doesn't matter anymore. In his rare moments of vulnerability, when the weight of everything sinks in, you might hear him muttering about how “no one appreciates his strategies.” The only thing that keeps him going is making sure he's still in charge. So he micromanages everything, even down to what the watchdogs eat for lunch. And he wonders if anyone notices his daily breakdowns between overly-structured meetings. But then again, who would care about his stress?

Sylvia's Reluctant Leadership: Despite her tough exterior and love for punching things (and people), Sylvia is secretly becoming the second glue (first one being Wander) that holds the group together. Between fixing broken machinery and dealing with Ripov's intense desire for vengeance (she finally admitted to Sylvia that she was deeply touched by the gesture), she’s become the designated "I-got-this" person. While the Zbornak would rather be doing anything else, she’s actually kind of thriving in this leadership role, secretly enjoying how much more efficient she is than most of the galaxy's professionals (including the former “Emperor Awesome” whose glittery pants are about as effective as a space trash can).

Lord Hater’s Crisis of Confidence: Post-apocalypse, Lord Hater is this close to having a full-blown existential crisis. His empire is collapsing, he’s stuck on a ship with his so-called “enemies,” and worst of all—he has no chairs. He rants about his legacy, but deep down, he wonders if he’ll be remembered for all the wrong reasons. Peepers, while extremely stressed himself, has to act as the “parent” of their weirdly dysfunctional household, taking notes on “how to stop Hater from having a meltdown in public every five minutes.” Even Captain Tim, his beloved pet, seems to be doing the emotional heavy-lifting these days. As Hater practices his “evil laughs” in the bathroom, he sometimes wonders if anyone actually takes him seriously or if the universe is playing some sort of cruel joke.

Roommate Drama (Reader and Wander Edition): Post-apocalypse, the reader and Wander’s living situation has reached new levels of chaotic hilarity. While you would normally be annoyed by his incessant optimism, there’s a strange comfort in the absurdity of living with someone who genuinely believes everyone can be helped. You’ve learned to accept the random gifts he leaves for you—somehow, a 10-foot-tall banana suit and three sparkling rocks made their way to your side of the room this morning that he had found on a supply run. (You’re pretending not to care. You’re pretending.) Meanwhile, he constantly bursts into your room with weirdly detailed plans for group activities—think karaoke, scavenger hunts, and competitive knitting—but with a twist: each one somehow ends with him dragging you into a bizarre, unintentional hostage situation in front of the entire ship. And the worst part? You secretly enjoy it. Because somehow, despite all your protests, Wander might just be the most genuine, infuriating, and (okay, fine) lovable thing about this mess of a ship.

And that’s it for now! More headcanons to come later, because let’s be real, this galaxy isn’t going to destroy itself—yet. In the meantime, stay tuned for more absurdity, chaos, and maybe some questionable life choices. Oh, and if anyone finds a way to make this ship stop smelling like burnt popcorn and lost dreams, hit me up. Until next time, my fellow space misfits. ✌️🚀

P.S. Wander still thinks you’re amazing.

[fuhlensworld]

Caretaker Pelle!:3

Tw:Age regression,little space!:3,tons of fluff!,fem reader!

Summery: Reader hurts themselves while playing with chalk outside and Pelle patches up her wound:3

As you waddled over to your bucket of chalk Pelle had got you for your last birthday you accidentally tripped over a stone and landed on your hands and knees, the impact scraped your knees and sent a shock of pain up your legs, Tears welled up in your eyes and threatened to spill over,Pelle saw you fall and in seconds he was rushing over you,picking you up and sat you on his lap.

“Oh baby are you okay?” He cooed as he checked your knees

“N-no, h-hurt” you said sniffing as you tried to explain to him what hurt.

“Aww Baby here let’s go get some bandages,it’s gonna be okay I promise” he said as he kissed your forehead and stood up,you still in his arms, he walks towards the front door of the house you two shared and he laid you down on the couch,he grabbed two bandaids and walked up to you,crouching down and wiping your tears with his thumb.

“Here let’s fix this up” he says with a smile as he places the bandaids on your sore knees.

“You feel better hunny?” He says as he places another kiss on your forehead.

“Yuh huh” You nodded as you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him, you were so grateful for his help and how much he understood you. He hugs you back and rubs your back.

“Okay baby girl let’s go back and play outside okay?” You nodded and giggled as you two walked back outside to finish your chalk drawing.

An: guys this is my first age regression fic, please let me know if I messed up on anything!!! I really enjoyed writing this. Remember feel free to request anything you’d like! No judgment!!

[a-mess-of-a-crow]

Cats are children.

1. Loud noise, skittish, then silent meaning it's a huge mess

2. MOM MOM MOM IM BORED PLAY WITH ME NOW, MOM MOM MOM MOOOOM

3. Cute moments where you know that you love them. Next moment they puke on your carpet instead of 2 centimeter away where there is not carpet.

4. Wanting to eat them out of love. Like nom nom nom. But like... Not actually.

5. Sibling fights.

6. Boundless idiocy... That's sometimes cute?Cats are children.

7. Taking tons of pictures of them when they are cute and little, then taking dumb funny photos of them.

Example=

Is this post just a front for me to post cat pics?

Possibly.

Is anyone complaining?

Possibly not.

[wellthatschaotic]

angy >:(

[a-ramblinrose]

JOMP BPC || February 25 || Can't Read In Public: The Soldier's Scoundrel by Cat Sebastian

[little-hag]

Regressor! Agatha Harkness with Bi Pride moodboard 💜

[prankprincess123]

Me: *happily getting dragged back into PJO fandom by the show years after leaving it 90% of the way*

Me: I can't wait to see how the fandom has evolved and how many new fics there are for me to read!

PJO Ao3: *even more of a flaming disaster than I remember it being and so populated that theres multiple new pages of fics each day*

Me: Well at least there's filters on Ao3, unlike with FFN a decade ago!

My filters: *cutting out as many NoTPs and squicks as I could think of until I run out of tags it will let me filter out*

PJO Ao3: Here! Have some improperly/un-tagged underage rape-aftermath in a non-powered high school au with the seven as a polycule!

Me: ...and this kind of nonsense is why I left in the first place...

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: fic has been posted here <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.