#coys💙

[thegameisaboutglory]

💛✨️💛

[psyxxchic]

[sonego]

after the tottenham hotspur masterclass yesterday night do you finally admit that you are a full blown spurs fan 🎤

...

i would deny everything but i know you have proof so. i guess i kinda like spurs ...

[sonspurs]

keeper and manager of the year i love youuuuu

[cityzenchick]

@sandy007 Schönen Montag, mein Freund – das ist Erlings liebevoller Blick, ja? 😍❤️💋

[twogyuu]

the unoriginal villain origin story [teaser]

Pairing: Jeonghan x fem!reader (ft. friend!Wonwoo)

Synopsis: In which Jeonghan and his friends recount the first time and the many "accidents" after that led to you 💙

Alternatively, throwback to the time you thought all the bleach he used to go blonde made him insane, but he was still equally wild years later -- and you were okay with it.

Genre: Fluff, crack, prequel to Wonwoo's Tasty Milk (and Cereal) and not just magic, dilf!jeonghan, uncle!wonwoo (he's engaged LOL), part university!au, part office romance (but not really?), mild E2L (they're not really enemies, but OC definitely trying to stay AWAY from Jeonghan at first), one-sided pining, he fell first but she fell harder and then he fell hardest(?) kind of story?,

Warnings: Profanity, mentions of food, one comment about Jeonghan getting reader pregnant (jokingly)

Teaser WC: 563 || est WC: ~8k

A/N: I should really make a masterlist for this anthology LOL.

. . . .

“So,” Leah starts with her mouth half-full, capturing the table’s attention. She’s quick to cover her lips and swallow her food before continuing. “I’m curious,” she points between Jeonghan and you, “How’d you two end up together? As long as I’ve known Wonwoo, you’ve been married.”

Immediately, Wonwoo snorts, nearly spitting out his dinner on his friend sitting across the table. Jeonghan scorns in disgust, frowning, offended as to why Wonwoo finds his fiance’s question amusing. In contrast, you seem to lose your appetite, silver fork clattering against your half-filled ceramic plate. You grow quiet, straightening your spine and avoiding eye contact like you were back in middle school, caught red-handed with a confession letter to your crush. 

“I honestly thought she was going to end up with Baekho – she loathed Jeonghan with a passion,” Wonwoo chuckles to himself as he redirects his chopsticks at your husband. “But Jeonghan knocked her up – that’s what happened.” 

“Okay,” Jeonghan is quick to interject. He raises his hands to cover his daughter's ears from Wonwoo's obscenities. Nina peers up at her dad innocentlu. sighing and shooting Wonwoo a bored, but annoyed look.“That’s not what happened – do you have to put it that way?” 

The other man only shrugs his shoulders, raising his palms to the sky playing coy and oblivious. 

Leah’s eyes flicker back and forth between you and your husband, then sweet Nina. Leah’s innocent smile slowly fading as you neither confirmed or answered. She isn’t aware that this was a sensitive topic for you and Jeonghan, and the last thing she wants to do is offend her fiance’s friends! The two of you just seem to get along so well and so in love, for lack of a better description, it’s hard for Leah to imagine much malice as to how you met and got together. Yet, this raises the additional worrisome, unfounded suspicion: Did you and Jeonghan just get married out of convenience?

No – that couldn’t be! Wonwoo is a sensible man; he wouldn’t be laughing if it was a pitiful marriage of convenience. 

“She didn’t hate me,” Jeonghan starts to explain. 

“She blocked your number after the blind date,” Wonwoo interjects. 

You met during a blind date?

“It wasn’t even our blind date,” Jeonghan quickly shoots back. He clenches his jaw, clearly getting fed up with Wonwoo’s teasing. 

This is certainly interesting for Leah . . . Jeonghan frequently annoyed Wonwoo, not that the latter gave the older gentleman the reaction he wanted, but it is rare to see Wonwoo get under Jeonghan’s skin. 

“It wasn’t, which makes it all the funnier,” Wonwoo comments, “In fact, she was technically,” Wonwoo holds his fingers up in air quotes, “‘my blind date.’”

“I was merely doing you a favor by tagging along – and it was free food!” you finally exclaim, frowning at Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo waves you off, smirking, “Jeonghan was down bad.”

Confused, Leah holds up a hand to silence the bickering. She shakes her head, “Wait, wait, wait – please start from the beginning. I didn’t grow up with you guys, so I’m so lost.”

Like those corny rom-coms, you and Jeonghan turn to look at each other at the same time, exchanging a knowing, tired look. There’s a bashful tinge to your expression; interestingly, the corner of Jeonghan’s lips quirks up in a crooked, smug smile. 

Sure, you may have resisted (NOT hate) him at first, and Wonwoo can make fun of him all he wants, but it’s Yoon Jeonghan who won in the end.

After all, you're sitting next to him at the dinner of your shared home as his wife and Nina's mom after all.

[lumienyx]

Hi! Could you write some soft BDSM featuring gn Tav?

i saw 'soft BDSM' and my brain immediately went to lightning play, i have no excuses sorry. hope you enjoy💙

soft shocks

Rating: E | Pairing: Astarion/Tav, Astarion/Reader | Words: 1,321

Tags: Gender-Neutral Tav, Smut, Plot What Plot, Light BDSM, Blood Drinking, Established Relationship, inappropriate use of magic, lightning play, listen Astarion gets… creative in the bedroom, that's it that's the plot

Read on AO3 or continue under the cut ↓

~~~

You feel the first kiss of pain against your hip, a sizzling sensation trailing soft shocks along your skin. 

The moan comes unbidden, and you find yourself leaning into Astarion’s touch, chasing that tantalizing feeling of pain and pleasure bleeding into one. Flashes of lightning flicker around Astarion’s hands, a gentle sting following in their wake up your sides as his fingers move to hover above your chest.

“All right, darling?” Astarion asks, even as a smirk tugs at his lips. “I warned you it would hurt.”

“’s amazing,” you gasp, your voice straining with want. “Please.” The magic still reverberates along your skin with a welcome warmth after the momentary soreness.

“I do so love it when you beg.”

“Ah. ”

It's not electricity that pulsates through Astarion’s fingers now as he starts playing with your nipples—there’s just the heat of magic coating his hand. But even just the promise of pain sets you alight with tingling thrumming along your limbs. He squeezes, and tugs, and caresses as you writhe under his weight, relishing the cool skin against yours which runs white-hot in comparison. You press your hips against his, pleading silently now as coherence slips away. All that’s left for you to voice are wanton groans and breathy gasps amid barely understandable whispers for more and please.

Astarion only grins at you, satisfaction and mischief lighting up his eyes. 

He kisses you then, tender and languid in contrast to his touch. 

He teases your lips with his tongue before pulling away, too quick for you to catch him back into a kiss you crave more of. 

You moan as he mouths down to your neck to place playful and painful bites that almost sink into your skin but not quite, while his hands set the rest of your body on fire. 

There's the lightning shocks that follow Astarion’s touch as he strokes the inside of your thighs, the bottom of your belly, your hip bones, anywhere and everywhere save for where you want it most. And maybe your begging is enough for him—maybe it’s too much—but Astarion grants your wish soon enough, at least in part. He times the bite on your neck that finally does break skin with a featherlight electric shock right above your groin that stokes your arousal even more. So much so that it's the absence of him inside you that hurts most, not the sting of lightning and not the bite. 

And as he drinks, you hope he leaves another, deeper mark. Evidence of his claim on you. You lean into his mouth, feeling the fangs lodge in further, harder. You feel light-headed already, and it's too much yet not enough. It’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, how your body yearns to fight for survival while your mind craves to give in to Astarion completely. 

You love how he drinks so deeply and hungrily from you, how his zeal betrays the coy smirks and the teasing, revealing just how much he wants you, too. The thought draws a chuckle out of you—and you get a flare of lightning along your side in retaliation as Astarion withdraws. 

“Whatever is so amusing, sweet love?” There’s a teasing hint of a playful threat in Astarion’s voice, even as he breathes somewhat shallowly. “Do share.”

His hands still thrum with magic as they’re stroking and kneading where he knows you’re most sensitive. There’s barely any presence of mind left in you to talk, yet you manage, 

“Wondering how long you can keep this up before you lose control,” your voice weak and trembling. Honestly, it does always sound so much better in your head.

Astarion huffs out a laugh in turn. “As long as I need to get you to beg.”

“I already did!”

“Maybe.” Astarion leans in to mouth the words against your ear, making the sensitive skin there prickle from the cool breath. “I’d like to hear it again.”

“Astarion—”

“Again.”

“I…” Surrender is sweet when it’s him that you fall to, completely unarmed against that piercing gaze. “Please.”

“Please what?” Astarion drawls, voice low and silken, almost a whisper.

His pupils are blown so wide there's just a thin red rim around them, his face slightly flushed from the blood he’s drunk, lips parted and streaked crimson. His eyes show it all—he’s lost in the pleasure just as you are lost in him.

“Please, please, please fuck me.”

Astarion doesn’t make you wait anymore—maybe he can’t, either. He makes such short work of getting rid of his trousers and mounting your legs on his shoulders, you can’t help but think maybe there's a chance he can get lost in you, too.

You've long been ready for him, aching with it. That simmering heat is now fire searing from your core to every nerve in your body as Astarion slides inside you, agonizingly slow, as ever careful not to hurt even as you both crave the connection. He stretches you wide, fills you perfectly like you were made to fit one another. You pull him closer, urge him deeper, and he says something about you being oh so eager—but you’re too far gone now to discern the words properly. 

The only sound you really hear is just the raw, crispy-sweet cadence of Astarion’s voice. 

The only sensation you can focus on is all the places your skin touches his. 

His lips once more paint your neck with lightning-bright kisses. There are the hands digging into your hips, no doubt lovingly bruising them for tomorrow. There’s the feel of him buried deep inside you, fucking into you faster and harder with each thrust.

You’re completely gone by then, split in-between tingling touches, sharp kisses, searing bites, and the slick slide of Astarion’s cock inside you. It feels so hot—too hot, too good—overwhelmingly so. He whispers sweet nothings against your skin and all you can answer with are broken moans and whimpers.

The release hits you hard and sudden, knocking the breath out of you as you clench around Astarion and dig your nails into his back. Your limbs seem to lose all control, trembling and twitching as you ride it out. But Astarion is still moving inside you, the friction building up the heat all over again. You squeeze your eyes shut against the onslaught—you can’t—you’re too sensitive—you want to tell him, but all that comes out is another choked groan as your body keeps singing with the orgasm he doesn’t let end…

“That fast, darling, really?” Astarion’s voice is the first thing you hear when you come to. Then your heavy panting mingling with the stray whimpers that still escape as you shudder from the aftershocks. “Still with me?” 

“Mm,” you try, still catching your breath. “Think so.”

A cool hand covers your cheek. Astarion runs his thumb against your lashes, coaxing your eyes to open.

“I did promise to take you apart, didn't I?” Astarion tries for a coy smile but you see the desperate need glinting in his eyes, the slight trembling of his hand that’s gripping you by your side. Like he’s hanging on to the last vestiges of his control. 

You're only coherent enough to reach up for a messy kiss, thrusting your tongue into his mouth and savoring the closeness, the taste tinged with hints of salt and iron from your own blood. He’s still hard and heavy inside you, shifting as you move but staying motionless himself, waiting for your next move. You purposefully tighten around him, then, satisfied by the muffled groan it earns you. You grip him by the waist, pulling him closer, impossibly deeper.

“I believe,” you whisper against his lips, “you promised I’d forget my name by the time you’re done with me. I still remember mine,” you tease him.

“My sweet.” Astarion’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “I'm only just getting started.”

~~~

thank you for the read💙 would love any and all feedback if you liked it :3

tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

@satanicspinosaurus, @tallymonster, @tragedybunny

[timeslugarts]

Second Pass.

Part 2 of my Vera x Vox fic (part 1 is here)

A/N - Oh man, I wrote this ahahahaha I feel like I've been working in this forever! I'm so pleased, though. I hope all of you enjoy it! FINALLY Vox knows her name. No beta, and like tell me how I did? The nerves for posting my writings are always so high with me.💙💖

Nsfw 💖💙

It has been a week, ONE WEEK, and Vox was still scouring the databases for the bitch that took his wallet. She had taken his wallet, for fucks sake. His. Wallet. This was more than just whatever money was inside, but about the principle of the matter. Of he, a great Overlord of Hell couldn't keep sinners in line than what good was he. He had to find her and make her pay.

"Oi, Vox!" Velvette's clipped tone snapped him out of his reverie.

"Not now Velvette darling." Vox spoke smoothly, but unmistakably irritated.

"Oh, are you still trying to find that tasty little thing that played you?" Velvette smirked haughtily at him. "You know if you wanted help, all you had to do was ask?"

Vox turned to glare at Velvette over his shoulder, "do you know something?"

She grinned and leaned on his desk, "I may or may not have gotten my hands on the guest list from Val's secretary."

"Val doesn't know?"

"Of course not! What do you think I am, stupid? And that secretary definitely won't be saying anything anytime soon." Her grin was malicious now.

"Oh Velvette I could kiss you!"

"Ew."

Vox stood up as Velvette handed him the guest list. Handwritten, weird.

"Anyways, I need a favor, Val trashed my fabrics closet after last night's little Angel mishap, so I need a whole new."

"Oh absolutely, anything you need." Vox really wasn't listening, already scanning through the list of names and aliases until one stood out.

Spitfire Demon.

He just knew it had to be her. Quickly going over to one of his many computers he typed the name in, a shifty photo and vague details appeared before his eyes. The photo was unmistakably her, her little blue flames glowing brightly and mucking up the view.

The only note that really stood out to him was added by Val.

NEED.

Vox could only assume he meant as an actress. How long has Val known about this woman and why is Vox just now finding out about her? He was a media empire! He should have more dirt on her than this bullshit. Along with Val's note was a list of presumably bars. Shit like, The Inferno Room, Lucifer's Lounge, and of course The Shit Hole.

This seemed like as good of a place as any to start his search, it was only until the night grew dark that he decided to slip away and zip through the wires until he came to his first stop, The Inferno Room.

Vox dusted off his jacket before entering the bar.

Why is she always hanging out in these disgusting places?

He spotted her almost immediately back pressed against the bar and a man looming dangerously close. He had her arm in a vice and seemed to be pulling her to him. Her little flames fluttered angrily around the guy, maybe trying to push him away, but to no avail.

The jingle of the door gave Vox away, however the only person to look up was her. Recognition flitted across her features and instead of the shock he was hoping for, a coy smile took place on her lips instead.

"Oh dear," she tutted at the man, "I did tell you my boyfriend would be showing up." She gave a brief nod in Vox's direction. The sinner looked over his shoulder and saw for the first time Vox in all his glory.

He had to play this up, he had to be the one to teach her a lesson, not this random asshole. So, for the pure sake of entertainment, he put on his best debonair smile and looked at his little flame.

"Is this man bothering you my dear?" He said cooly, sliding up next to her.

"V-vox, Mr. Vox, uh sir." The sinner was very aware of who he was which made this little play all the more fun for him.

The asshole had thrown her hand down in a panic and took a hesitant step back. Instead of making a break for it, she surprised Vox by pressing herself against him, his arm instinctually wrapping itself around her waist. She smiled gently up at him and he felt his heart stutter. The words she spoke next got him even more excited.

"He absolutely is, sweetheart." She batted her lashes and he squeezed her tighter to him. It almost felt real, they felt insync, like an actual couple. His grin turned manic at her implications, his eye widening, the rings of mind control turned on the poor asshat who just happened to mess with the wrong girl at the wrong time.

"Wait no I-" but it was too late, the sinner had looked into Vox's eye and was trapped. Now he would do anything, eat off the floor, give him his watch, kill himself. Dumb minds were so susceptible to his little power, it's what made being an Overlord so easy here in Hell, everyone was so ready to put their faith in anything. Vox briefly glanced at the woman at his side.

Maybe he'd try this on her later.

For now, a bit of fun wouldn't hurt. "You heard the lady, dog, maybe you should try being less annoying and more entertaining. How about a dance?" And just like that the lowly sinner started to dance, arms flailing about, no sense of rhythm, just hopping up and down. Almost like a monkey.

"Oh, isn't that interesting." She purred at his side, Vox's chest swelled a little with pride at that. "Maybe we should have him take his clothes next?" She grinned, languidly stroking her fingers up and down his back making him shiver.

"You heard the lady." Vox nodded his head to the still dancing man who had begun to sweat. Before the words left his mouth the sinner, without stopping, began undressing in the middle of the bar.

He was attempting to take his pants off while still hopping and dancing about. He had fallen multiple times now, once face flat on the floor breaking his nose. Blood poured freely from his nostrils. He was covered in sweat and blood, tears leaked from his eyes, he was starting to look disgusting, Vox grimaced at the pathetic sight.

On que, as if reading his mind, his spitfire whispered, "This is getting a little boring don't you think? We have other more fun things to do." She grabbed his hand and laced her finger through his. Vox looked down at their hands, thoughts racing through his mind.

Wasn't he supposed to be doing this to her? Why was she so comfortable around him? What was he supposed to do?

With everything racing through his mind he finally landed on, it was just a wallet, and gripped her hand tighter and followed as she began to lead him out of the building.

Vox let himself have one stray look back at the sinner who was breathing so hard now, hyperventilation was probably right around the corner. He looked down at the woman next to him and blinked. The sound of a neck breaking mixed with the jingle of chimes could be heard as they pushed open the door and made their way outside.

"I know a lovely little place, hidden on the outskirts of town. Very quiet, perfect for a little rendezvous." She had walked ahead of him pulling him along.

Vox wasn't sure what he was doing. He really wasn't sure what was going on at all. He just killed someone because she batted her pretty eyes at him. He had no problems killing someone, but doing it so willingly for someone else just because they said please? What was that!?

He had to remember why he was here, this bitch took his wallet! Him! The Vox! One of the Vees!

They were approaching yet another grungy looking bar and Vox couldn't help but chuckle.

"Is something funny?" She twirled around to face him. Eyes bright, little flames dancing gently, an eyebrow arched.

Vox pushed her into the side of the building, caging her in with his arms. "Are you taking me here to rob me blind again? These gross bars seem to be your m/o."

Still she didn't seem startled; she only looked up at him through lidded eyes. Vox had to ignore the heat that went to his crotch.

"On the contrary kitten," she placed her hands on his chest. "I plan on paying you back." She took a finger and lightly traced the edge of his screen. Vox raised his own eyebrow to match.

"Lead the way." He whispered, breath already heavy with want. "This better be good, you stole quite a bit." He resumed his pace next to her.

"Oh hush, you have more than enough to make up for it being the great Vox of Voxtech after all. " She nudged him with her hip.

"So you did your research?" He asked, cocking a brow.

She laughed, it was musical, like bells. "Only after the fact," she grinned, "if it wasn't for your ID I wouldn't have thought otherwise."

"Can I have that back by the way? It's kind of important."

"Hmm," she tapped her chin in mock thought. "Only if you're good."

They pushed through the doors into the new bar, this one was filled with smoke and low music that thrummed in one's chest. She smiled and waved at the bartender who waved back.

Vox rolled his eyes, "is there a skeezy joint in town that you don't know?"

"I only know the good ones, the ones with dark corners for sharing dark secrets." She grinned, pushing him into a small room.

There wasn't time for questions, the wallet was the last thing on Vox's mind as he stumbled on to the small bed.

She locked the door and turned the lights low, her flames brilliantly shining in the dim lights. Her ponytail was the first to go, instead of falling around her shoulders the blue of her hair gently wafted around her, almost like a halo.

Her black dress fell to her ankles and Vox had to stop himself from choking. Her pink flesh was so tantalizing and the lacey black undertakings she wore were just begging to be torn to shreds. If she had used his money to buy them he couldn't even be mad, they looked so good on her.

"Your turn." She whispered as she straddled him, fingers making their way to his bowtie and slowly undoing the knot. Once that had slipped from his neck and onto the ground she began shrugging him out of his jacket which she unceremoniously threw to the floor. The tightness in his pants had started to become uncomfortable, she was moving so slowly. He decided to help, moving his hands to quickly undo the buttons.

She slapped his hands lightly. "Ah ah ah, I told you I was going to pay you back. So just relax." She replaced his hands with her own and began working her way down. With each little bit of his skin that appeared she would kiss it gently.

Vox laid his head back and tried to steady his breathing. Sex with Val was fast and rough, it was almost like a business transaction in it of itself, they only ever fucked if one of them needed relief. To have someone move so slow and touch him so softly was making his heart race.

After removing his shirt she finally, finally, got to the button on his pants. His dick was so hard by now it was embarrassing, the tent in pants was very visible and she licked her lips at the sight.

"It would seem you definitely need someone to take care of you darling."

"I absolutely do not need any-" he groaned as she grabbed at him through the fabric. The pressure finally gave him some relief.

"What were you saying?"

"Fuck-zt you." He panted out. She popped the button on his trousers and paused, raising an eyebrow and looking up at him.

"Shut up!" He blushed, his boxers clearly visible with tiny TVs peppering the fabric.

"I think it's cute." She cooed. Anything Vox was about to say got stuck in his throat as his dick finally sprung free. Rock hard and leaking precum the cold air causing him to his.

She lowered her head and placed a gentle kiss on the tip. Tongue swirling around and lapping up the precum that had spilled. Vox inhaled sharply. Her hand grabbed the base of his cock as she licked a long stripe from the bottom to the top before taking him in her mouth in one fluid motion. Instinctually he bucked up into her mouth. She felt so fucking good, so warm and wet.

He groaned as she tightened her grip and began sucking him off.

Fuck she was really good at this part. The feeling of her tongue moving around him in her mouth, the movement from her hand. Her other hand was wrapped around his hip, keeping him in his place. His claws were on either side of him, tearing at the sheets, as he moaned and panted.

The slurping noises she was making were so lewd and the way she was looking at him, Satan alive he had no control over himself. Before the band could snap she removed herself, Vox whined at the loss.

"Tut tut, no whining here," she climbed on top of him, legs stretched on either side of him, "momma's here to take care of you." A slight snap of her hips had him groaning, the friction was too good.

He looked at her through a hazy of lust, drool dribbled down her chin, Vox lazily lifted his hand and wiped it away with his thumb. She wrapped her hands around his own, pulling his thumb over to her mouth and sucking on the digit.

"God you're so hot." He continued to move his thumb so traced the shape of her plush lips, so black and soft. She leaned into the touch hair spilling over to the side, he reached his claws out to touch the blue fires only to find that it was soft and warm. It didn't hurt at all.

He was so focused on the feel of her hair that when she pushed down on his dick he let out a pathetic choked moan. He could only be embarrassed for a second before she started rolling her hips against him. He could feel himself throbbing inside her, the delicious stretch of her walls around him. He may be stuck in Hell, but he could pretend that Heaven felt like this.

She picked up the pace and started to bounce on his lap. He let out a garbled, "close." His breathing was labored, his screen was glitching and small sparks of electricity were flying off of him.

As she continued to move her hips she leaned over and whispered "Alright, now be good for me and cum, don't worry, I can take it all."

That sent Vox so far over the edge. He could feel himself release inside of her, filling her up, her walls clenching around his dick as she came with him. She moaned and he swore it was the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

They were panting, she was leaning over him breathing into his shoulder the warmth from her breath dancing over him. His claws stroked her sides as also tried to calm himself down. Lifting her leg and tucking her body into his, she snuggled close. Vox wrapped his arm around her as they lay quietly, her fingers tracing nonsensical shapes on his chest. It was nice, peaceful.

A little blue flame danced into his sight, Vox stuck his hand out and it zipped in between his fingers finally hovering lightly over his palm. Just like her hair it was warm and soft, almost like a thick mist.

"What even are these?" He whispered in the dim lighting.

She only yawned in return and snuggled deeper, "I'll tell you about them some other time."

If his head had been with him he would've understood the implications of that statement, but instead all he did was hum in acknowledgement. His eyes were heavy, and his little blue flame was already asleep at his side. He looked down at her sleeping form, her hair gently drifting about her face. Her small fires had died down, only producing a subtle light, as if they too were sleeping. Vox pulled the covers so they were underneath them making sure they were comfortable and snug. Vox grinned to himself as he slowly drifted off next to his little flame.

When he awoke he was almost disappointed to find the bed was empty, but he couldn't say he was surprised.

After finding almost all his clothes he noticed on the bedside table was his wallet, and on his wallet a hastily scribbled note.

Borrowed your jacket, promise I'll give it back next time

XOXO Vera

And underneath that was a phone number. Vox looked hard at the note.

Vera.

He finally knew her name. His little blue flame, his Vera.

[thegameisaboutglory]

3 points ✅️

Cleansheet ✅️

Villa in the mud ✅️

Happy fucking Sunday

[c-losur3]

438 words, pining idiots to slightly less idiots. Dick doesn’t know how to tell you, the person he does patrol with, the girl he’s grown from sidekick to solo hero with, that he kind of, actually, loves you. So, when he finally considers the idea of confessing, he’s a nervous wreck, and you become a nervous wreck by extension. >> No names mentioned, just soft nickname variations of 'star'. Open ending (?)?? You tell me how you want it, and I'll continue.

There’s something about how you ground him in fights. Soft tap on his shoulder as you take out a sharpshooter about to take aim. You may be wearing gloves, but it’s still your signature warmth. You know each other better than you know yourselves. So much so, that he knows all your tells and you know his.

He knows of the rare times when you need to fall to your knees and cry. You know when leadership takes its toll on him, weariness hidden behind a facade of confidence and smiles. Tonight's not much different. It's one of those strenuous patrol nights with Dick. You can tell he’s worried about something as you handcuff another pickpocket to a lamppost, eyebrows furrowing as he fiddles with his escrima sticks.

You give him a silent look, your own eyebrows raising as you stand and face him. Oh. You know that look. “Talk to me.” You plead quietly. This may be the one thing that breaks that small daydream you've had since your teenage years. That dream where you both are together.

But dreams, as you've long accepted, are still dreams. You can settle for loving him from afar. And either ways, why ruin a perfectly good dynamic? “You know I couldn’t tell you. It’d make things awkward, star.” It’s always been this way, cat and mouse, kitten and robin, whatever you want to label it.

It’s been a game of chicken, awkwardly, tooth-rotting sweet actions and words. Until one of you decides to back away. Childish squabbles have always ended with picnicking over the rooftops of Wayne Manor, a game of how to admire the view.

The familiar nickname flows from his lips, coined after your first meeting, a shooting star lighting the rooftop when you first met. It’s softer this time though. Almost gingerly said, as if he himself is unsure of his next steps. Unusual with the charming and coy boy wonder you’ve grown up with. You hum, letting it slide as you notice the sky breaking in hues of the rosy oranges and pinks. A giveaway that your nightly patrol is up. "Tell me when you can, 'kay?" You pause, tacking on carefully as you walk past him, hand on his shoulder. "I'm always here to listen, boy wonder." He simply smiles, and even if you can't see his eyes, you know that the blues of his irises are smiling with it. It's real and genuine, and it makes you feel at ease like it's always been.

"I will. See you soon, star?" He questions, a hopeful smile working its way onto both of your expressions. "Always." >> This is what happens when I get 30 minutes of a good nap accompanied by a craving to see open endings. Additionally, this is a reworked version of the asks I've sent @idyllcy. I'm still so sorry for the inbox spam WHAHAHA. Thank you as always, hope you enjoy! 💙

[psyxxchic]

What is your favorite thing about each of your partners?

Thank you, I'm so glad you asked!!

Starting with Luke (because I think it will fluster him that I'm starting with him, and he is very cute when he's flustered)- my favorite thing about him is his aptitude for seeing different perspectives and for communicating those in a way that it makes others see outside themselves. I think a large part of that comes from the fact that he exudes a patience and compassion that makes it feel like a guiding hand rather than criticism. He also has excellent taste in movies and tv shows and makes an amazing bed to cuddle against while we watch things.

Dwayne is, in all things, extraordinarily passionate. When she feels things it's with her entire body and soul, no holds barred, and I admire that so much. She inspires me to be braver in opening myself up to emotions I don't have much practice letting out, and more than once she's helped me through them firsthand (even though I know the challenge that was.) As much as I love watching her extend that passion to others, being the target of it is nothing short of miraculous.

I always have trouble deciding what my favorite thing about Tolya is because it changes minute to minute with every new aspect of them I think about. At the moment... my favorite thing is their growth, how far they've come and how they're embracing a future that seemed so elusive for such a long time. There's so much strength in that, in choosing to look ahead and do the work of building a solid foundation for that future, in trusting that it will be there for them, for us. They also have, and I can't stress this enough, squishy paw pads on their very holdable hands.

[azsazz]

Lips of an Angel (Part 3)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the song ‘Lips of an Angel’ by Hinder. Azriel left you for Elain. After finding out that he has a child he didn’t know about, he’s furious.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1,121

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Notes: Literally so short but hopefully it’s worth it. 💙

_________________________________________

Rhysand feels Azriel before he even arrives.

There’s a dark static in the air, charged like lightning ready to strike. The shadows of the room grow darker around him; seeping through the cracks of every floorboard, crawling down the corners of the walls, painting them in long, black strokes. Tendrils of anger soaked night billow in from the slats of the framed windows like thick fumes, as if Azriel is trying to smoke him out.

If Rhysand could understand their inky whispers, he thinks they would be screeching.

He feels his own powers reacting, zipping through his blood in excitement, eager at the chance to play. It’s his inner beast, calling and clawing its way up his throat in response to the dark power of his brother, trying to intimidate him.

His shadowsinger is looking for a fight.

Tendrils of black climb up the sides of his oak desk like an amoeba seeking a host, pincers ready to grab on and not let go. He has to plant his palms flat over his work to keep them from getting swept away in the tornado of rage.

Rhysand’s eyes glow violet as the faelight is swallowed by the onyx shadows. His heart beats unevenly in his chest as he waits, spine stiff and body frozen in his chair, the creature within him threatening to burst forth from his chest as he waits for Azriel.

The shadowsinger winnows into the room, splintering through his shadows with ease. They’re wailing like lost souls, coiling around Rhysand’s limbs to trap the High Lord in his spot should he try and pounce. He’s breathing harshly, well past the point of seeing red. His siphons are glowing the brightest he’s ever seen, thrumming with a newfound power he’d been hiding within himself for far too long.

Seven blazing blue beams are consumed by the wall of black he’s met with when he appears in Rhysand’s office. They’re vibrating with so much power Azriel’s half convinced that they’ll shatter like his aching heart.

Betrayal hangs heavy in the air and its putrid scent chokes Rhysand as it mixes with Azriel’s smoldering fury. Fingers sharpen into dark claws, scraping against the desk, tearing through the thin documents with ease and digging into the thick wood. It’s as much restraint he has, for if Azriel does not remove his shadows, he will take matters into his own hands.

Azriel’s furious as he realizes, the apples of his cheeks red with rage. He’s panting like a feral hound but acts as their master as he calls his shadows to him. They melt against Rhysands wrists, pinpricks of acid against his tan skin as the obey.

A shadow snakes its way back towards Azriel, weaving its way around shaking hands curled into tight fists. It rests at his shoulder like a crow, its caw of war is something even Rhysand can make out clearly.

Violet eyes meet blazing gold, a war between two brothers.

Rhysand had to give it to his spymaster. He could see how the male was spiraling, even without having to look into his mind. He had nearly felt the realm shift on its axis when his nightmarish powers released, sleeping throughout the city like icy death.

“What’s on your mind, Azriel?” Rhysand questions. His tone is the same coolness he uses when talking to Beron or Tamlin. It’s never been directed at Azriel before and it only makes him angrier, wings tightening and shadows hissing threats in his ears.

“Don’t play coy, Rhysand,” his shadowsinger spits. His fingers twitch, begging to uncurl and reach for the familiar cool hilts of his swords. He hates it. Hates that Rhysand is taking the easy way out and putting on his front as High Lord, making it known that he is the true ruler, instead of acting that as an understanding brother.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” The enervated lilt to his voice sharpens as he catches Azriel’s slight movements, his instinct to carve answers from the flesh of his brother. But Rhysand is no fool and he will not be treated as such.

He’s toying with him, of this Azriel knows. Waiting to see how he reacts. If he was a better male he would sit down in the plush chair across from his brother and talk about it. But he’s not. He’s steaming mad and Rhysand knows this. The beast lurking beneath his skin transforms the emotions to feral rage. Azriel blinks the red from his vision. Once. Twice.

Rhysand understands exactly why he’s here because the darkness has reported no other bodies within the River House with them. He’s sent his mate and his son away, sensing his burning wrath through whatever mental bonds he shared with them.

Protecting his mate and his kin.

Something Azriel has never gotten the chance to do, because he hadn’t even been aware he had a child of his own.

His stomach twists and the flare of outrage nearly shoves him over the edge. Acid rips through his organs and up his throat and Azriel takes a shuddering breath as he pulls on the reins with all his might. The darkness inside of him feels like that of a crow, picking at the cracks in his armor like a sledgehammer with its beak, slowly chipping away at his hold.

He growls at the feeling in his chest, a hot knife to his heart as he thinks about what Rhys has kept from him, from what he’s done to you, to his son.

“I have a son.” The admission alone both soothes and angers him. A storm of warmth and bitter darkness battle for power.

Rhysand only hums, and the darkness wins out.

Azriel bares his teeth, speaking before his brother deigns to respond with an indifferent goad that will only make him more furious. “Why didn’t I know, but you do?”

Watching the stars wink out of the violet skies that are Rhysand eyes should scare his beast away, but it only reacts to it, the gold of his eyes swirling with black shadows.

“You never realized or asked about what we were doing when you weren’t around because you were too busy with your head shoved up Elain’s skirts. Maybe I should appoint a new spymaster,” Rhysand rasps lowly, and they both flinch. A brutal admission that sends shame zinging up his spine. His knees nearly give out with it and he growls like a rabid animal in response, Rhysand’s power and his shadows swathing the room into complete black.

They’ve fought in his darkness before, and now, as Azriel launches himself across the large desk, Rhys is ready, his own beast waiting for him with raised fists.

[winkwonkwankwenk]

Hi Wink! I was wondering if you could write a POV of Gojo where his partner sacrifices themselves to protect him?

(hope this works, love your writing💙)

Glad you're enjoying my writing!!

Word Count: 1k

Pairing: Gojo x Fem!Reader

SFW (Suggestive? Slighty Steamy )/NSFW

You’re warm.

“You look tired.” Your hands caress his cheeks as he watches you cook, “Rough mission?”

You and Gojo had been dating for a few months now, long enough to have moved in together but not long enough to get married. He’d bring it up every so often and tease you when you got flustered. You wished for more moments like that, more moments with him, but he was out saving the corrupt world.

“How’d you know?” He grumbles, leaning into your touch. Your hands are soft against his skin, soothing.

“Because you came in sulking.” You giggle as you push his blindfold away from his eyes. “Go rest, the bags on your eyes are going to turn purple if you keep pulling all-nighters.”

“But I have to-”

“Rest.” You pop a warm bread roll into his mouth before turning back to the stove, “I made your favorite~”

You’re his favorite. Nothing makes his heart beat the way it does with you, soft and slow. His racing thoughts halt when you smile, mind fogging when you kiss him with those pretty lips. He lets you lead him to the couch, laying down when you gently push his shoulders. You pull a blanket up on him before returning to the kitchen. You know he’s been working hard as a Jujutsu soldier, something you still couldn’t quite comprehend but knew was real. How else was he coming home with all those bruises? You can’t help but worry when he’s out on long missions, especially since he always refuses to take you with him. You know that since you have no cursed energy you’d be defenseless but you want to at least try to help. You felt useless just sitting at home and waiting, hoping he’d come back. 

“Satoru, dinner’s ready.” You whisper, his snores turning into a quiet snore as he sits up. “I can put it in the microwave-”

“No, you always spend so long cooking.” He grunts, pushing himself up. He smiles wearily, pecking your cheek. “Thank you.”

The two of you eat quietly, you’ve gotten to the point where you can enjoy each other in silence and noise. You know he’s too tired for conversation anyway. You try washing dishes after dinner but he swats you away from the sink, a coy smile on his face as he whispers sweet promises in your ear. 

“I’ll meet you upstairs soon, m’kay?” He smirks when your face flushes, “I know I’ve been away too long…let me make it up to you.”

You scramble upstairs and change into your nightgown after a quick shower. It’s been so long since you shared a bed with him, been held in his arms. You curl up under the blanket, stomach filled with butterflies as you hear his footsteps pad closer and closer. 

“Why so bashful tonight?” He chuckles as he slips out of his uniform, down to bare skin and navy boxers. “Nervous?”

“Never.” You hide your face in the pillow as he lays beside you, heart hammering in your chest. 

“Y/N, look at me.” He pouts as he pulls the pillow away. Leaning down, his breath blows past your ears as his lips wrap around the tip of one of them. “C’mon, I haven’t seen you in a week…show me that pretty face.”

You shiver as he tilts your chin up, a soft moan leaving your lips as they press against his. He pulls you onto his lap with gentle hands, mouth leaving wet kisses down your neck as you arch into his tough. He gropes your thighs, tongue tracing circles on your skin. He’s handsy tonight, touching you everywhere he can and softly grinding your waist against his. 

“I’ve missed you.” His voice is a low rasp, needy and lustful. “Do you know how hard it is waking up without you? God, Y/N, you’re impossible to live without.”

“Satoru~” You whine as his lips move back to yours, sucking and tugging at your bottom lip. “You’re supposed to rest tonight.”

“But I have to make up for lost time-”

“We have the rest of our lives, there’s no need to rush.” You gently push him onto his back, ignoring the aching between your legs. He can barely keep his eyes open, you aren’t going to let him exhaust himself at home too.

“Then let’s go out tomorrow.” He whispers, playing with your hair as you lay beside him. 

“Tomorrow,” you smile.

If only he had known there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow with you. He woke up to the sound of crashing downstairs and rushed to find the source, only to see a curse destroying the kitchen. He has to kill it quickly, as soon as he can before you wake up. To you, it’ll probably look like a bad storm is outside but he can see the vile creature that’s running straight at him. He doesn’t dodge, he doesn’t need to. He waits, preparing to release purple hollow. If he were thinking, he would’ve chosen something weaker, but he wasn’t going to risk letting this curse get out of the kitchen. He aims, then he fires.

Then you’re in front of him.

You slump to the ground, a gap in your stomach and the curse gone. He’s frozen, a chill running down his spine. You had jumped in front of him- why? You weren’t supposed to be able to see curses, only those who were about to…no. No, no, not you. He lets out a shaky breath, sinking to his knees as his trembling hands scoop you into his arms. You had run downstairs when you heard all the crashing and thudding only to see a monster over Gojo. Monster, a word that still didn’t fit what you described. It was worse- grosser, scarier. You were shaking as you stood pressed against the hallway wall but you couldn’t just let it hurt him so when it charged forward, you did too.

And now you’re laying in his arms, unable to move, bleeding out before he can stop the blood. 

“Y/N?” His voice is hoarse as your body goes limp. “Y/N…”

You’re cold.

Like my writing? Check out my Ao3!!

Join my discord!!

Lastly, fill my requests up!! Don't be shy 😋I might start doing headcannons soon idk

[silcoitus]

Hello Coi ! ♥️

If you're still taking silco x reader ficlet, could you indulge in my simping phase, please ?

Can you do a story where pre-relationship!Silco is fighting his feelings for reader and impulsively reject her ? At this point in their relationship they are very close but didn't confess anything .

Hope you can write it ☺️

😚😚😚

Yes! Oh goodness I love this prompt! Thank you so much, anon 💙

Something More

Word count: 2.1k

Tags: young!Silco, revolutionary!Silco, revolutionary!reader, Vander, Sevika, Ran, unspoken feelings remain unspoken, these two are idiots, and everyone around them knows, both their middle names are denial,

No betas!

Read on AO3

A/N: This was so much fun to write! And omg it only took a year to finally include Vander in something lmao Thanks for the prompt, anon! Reminder that my inbox is always open for silco/reader requests.

Taglist: @averagecrastinator @mazikomo @writingmysanity @insult-2-injury @ariaud @jennrosefx @ins0mniac-whack @steponmesilco  @sherwood-forests @leave-me-alone-silco @givemebeansnow @aeryntheofficial @dreamyonahill @lostbunn @eurydicethesage @thepineapplesimp @whatisafandom @violet-19999 @juicboxd @sageandberries-png @delta-is-here @ice-queen-of-music @mutedwordz @fly-like-egyptian-musk @jennithejester @mrsdelirium @witheringblooddemon

Join my taglist!

[hitlikehammers]

You Have Bewitched Me, Body and Soul

or: The Secret Life of Daydreans 🦋

A Pride and Prejudice AU based on this scene for @pearynice on her birthday 💙🎉

He walks the heath to clear his mind, or so he tells himself. He knows in the heart of him that he walks, here, so as to muddy his trousers, to feel close to this man, this man who is so fond of walking, this man who holds him, who keeps him—who wants nothing of him and for fair reasons.

And yet.

This evening and the morning hours before dawn saw fit to peak above the tall grass: it’s proven mortifying, Wayne’s brazen notions, to attend the Hopper-Byers home, to call upon Steven in the night—Eddie may forget himself, but to call unannounced, to impose upon Mister Hopper, to impress upon him even the notion of disrespect when—

And yet then further still: such actions have served now to lead him to this, to this—

Such brashness and its consequences, from Wayne’s mouth upon waking, it has done nothing save to usher Eddie to heights of foolishness he’s never touched before; did not dream existed.

These precious hours have taught Eddie to hope, a dangerous thing to the mortal heart in his chest, weak to fluttering whims of impossible notions.

And yet.

There is light now, caressing the heather, limning the blossoms copper, so much like his eyes but so lesser, such paltry imitations. Nature, despite her majesty, could never hope to compare; Eddie prefers to imagine it does not try.

It must know what has been born of it, more radiant than anything it knows for itself. More resplendent than the sun itself.

And it is the sun itself, that reveals true radiance; Eddie is unsure of its truth but only for an instant. He blinks against the trick of light, in case it plays upon the weakness, the fluttering in his blood, the hope in him, but—

Nature cannot compare to the specimen himself; Eddie’s own mind cannot conjure the wholeness of him.

And this, this:

And to behold him across the moors in the slow-breaking rays of day: subtle, coy, glimmering but ever-gentle, as if in deference to his nature cast in this moment so delicate, lips parted as if his lungs conduct the breeze that calls the grasses to dance—to behold him: it is not songs but hymns, then: greater held here in the golden tendril-strands of being itself, more dear and true in these moments than Solomon’s Song in its every measure and metre—more sacred to a sweeter god.

He is a vision, and come daybreak proper not even the dew underfoot could hope to glisten in such measure as to rival his radiance, and if Eddie’s feet move him unconsidered yet conscious in the soul of him, beckoned in his blood and bones—if Eddie takes the strides between them and crosses the expanse to where Steven stands, to where Steven watches, those parted lips nearer now, more plush and sweet like fruit on the vine; those copper eyes more amber at proximity, molten in motion, dancing even as the beloved lines of that face, that face appraise him with just a tilt of consideration, perhaps curiosity. It is not impassive but it is inscrutable, and Eddie’s heart takes pains to fill with all his blood, to pound hard until he’s dizzy with it—though less so than he is with the dancing starshine in that gaze.

His cause for hope.

“I couldn’t sleep,” and oh, oh, but such seraphic tones bathed in sunlight just so, like banked fires behind Eddie’s bounding heart, like the pulses can ride the flames as much as be driven by them: immaculate.

Then the words themselves, the notion: it could ring as a justification, an excuse for being out in these early hours as if Steven Harrington in his glory could ever require justification, something so gauche and pedestrian as an excuse for being when his being is a gift, and then so far beyond such—it could sound defensive, or as an explanation, but no: no, Steven sets it into the space between them like an offering, simple yet simultaneously reminiscent of the beauteous layers of the man himself, his glorious enigma stood before Eddie like dream made flesh: he couldn’t sleep.

“Nor I,” Eddie grasps for that offering, pulls it tight to his chest; “my uncle,” and by all that is good and merciful in the world: if there is hope, if there is an inkling even, to be had only to be dashed but to at least have been known as potential alone, then let his uncle not have offended the patriarch of Steven’s family. Wayne is a kind soul, and a good man, but his humor is acquired to a fault and if he may have—

“Peculiar affinity for porcelain in that dear man,” and Steven, bless him, exalt him, canonize him and damn him straight to hell so long as Eddie may follow and they may be warm and outrageously contented there so as to keep forever the perfect quirk of his lips, like as laughter from the chest but quiet and still, the giddy dance of it all inside the waltzing wonder of his eyes—any and all things, whatever is necessary Eddie will do with effervescent joy, only to keep it on that heavensent face:

“He may have brought me a vase, and promised a tea service in due course.”

And Eddie had toyed with the notion that he couldn’t possibly flush deeper, perhaps in those stray moments he’d spent blissfully distracted by Steven’s amusement, Steven’s sweet lips, and not the likelihood of Wayne’s quirky ways of making a point and this, this, he—

Porcelain.

Only a long-held tradition in his family so entrenched none recall the origin, merely the absolute intent: a token of wedded blessing, or a gift of betrothal. Nothing dramatic or profound in the slightest, of course.

And Wayne chides him for being over-bold.

“Wholly inappropriate,” Eddie coughs into his hand, tries to mask the red in his cheeks with the gesture; “certainly without your, without,” and Eddie casts his eyes to the now-soft lit meadows, seeks counsel and finds none, to say nothing of the pull of Steven before him, nerves pushing his eyes to at least attempt to shy, to defer from Steven’s haze but as so as their eyes meet, it is wholly for nought.

Eddie breathes in deep, tries to steady himself, tries to focus less on the galloping of his heart between his lungs as they expand and more on the faint scent of honeysuckle when none grows here, when the perfume must be of Steven, must be the sweet lure of him for himself alone.

“However can I begin to make amends for such forwardness, uncalled and,” he falters, because the question is heartfelt, the sentiment honest in him but the formality is comfortable familiarity; the root of his worry, the fear that tethers this hope to the ground beneath him, clips its wings: “and undesired?”

For how could it ever be; it wasn’t, and quite rightly so, conveyed definitively in spring last when Steven had met Mister Carver, and Eddie had soured at the reminder of that rake’s transgressions, had let it propel pure jealousy into something fiercer, that made him forget his tongue and speak of himself as some high prize with no thought to the fact that the Hopper-Byers household lived on inferior means in part by choice, their family a taboo of the region but mostly, to a glance, a happy one: the patriarch a veteran of foreign battles and the Missus a force and a household managed by both with all heads covered safe came nightfall and all bellies filled without pain of wanting and no care for which of the children shared their blood if all shared their love.

And Eddie was, he was…

To call him a fool is too lenient, far too forgiving.

He’d spoken low of them even if only in passing, but he believes it was worse for it, for being impudent, thoughtless, and about inferiority of all arrogant nonsense, as if his money outstripped the goodness of those people, of Stev—

Oh, and he couldn’t have stopped there in his imbecility. Even if Eddie hadn’t known quite how Steven’s beloved sister held his heart; even if Eddie had acted for honest reasons to protect his oldest and dearest friend, despite the concern in it no greater than blind hypocrisy, how could he, how could he in defense of his friend not witness the same awkward tendency to babble in the face of feeling—regardless of any and all of it, what he’d done was done callously, and to have seen it crush Steven, the chasm that had opened in the moments Eddie had owned to his deeds—it had only been rivaled for how hateful it settled in him inside the wrath that had emerged to fill that chasm, the disdain, the loathing aimed at Eddie alone when Eddie had thought, when he’d asked, because he wanted so ardently—

He is grateful only that he told no lie in it. Did not try to save himself in falsehoods. The pain, he knows, was never something he could have been spared.

Same as he knows, now, that his feelings in April were sentiments he thought insurmountable. And yet the stirrings in his breast then were but a faint breeze compared to the whirlwind that consumes him now, his heart riotous and rejoicing without even being granted permission, without reciprocation, even before he knew the first lilt of hope.

And now, now that there is hope—

“Considering the lack of pure ruin well deserved yet unsuffered by my fool of a brother,” Steven eyes him knowingly; Eddie had asked Michael not to disclose his hand in shoring up the transgressions made in connection to Mister Carver in the city, but Steven quirks a brow with pointed intent and a warmth, a softness that is offered in something like companionship, like camaraderie, like a confidence shared; “to say nothing of the fortuitous appearance of one Lady Cunningham in our humble sitting room just last morning,” and Steven’s smile, then—and Eddie knows, because he drilled Chrissy through fumbling attempts so very many times, he knows she’d been and he knows it had borne sweet fruit for her affections—but to see Steven smile at him for it, if only in some part, is further still a gift in its own self: “I suspect we both have more than mended our share of transgressions.”

It is more than Eddie could ask for, an even footing steadier in this moment than he could have wished to reach.

And yet.

“You must know,” and Eddie can hear his own heart in his words, in his voice undeniable, inescapable—only rational, for the words passing the thumping in his throat on their way past his lips by necessity: “surely, you must know, it was all for you.”

Steven’s gaze on him is unyielding for a few silent moments, long with only birdsong in the periphery and Eddie’s frenzied heartbeat at the fore: a panopticon than feels all-knowing as it takes him in. Eddie feels wretchedly exposed for it, giddy for the attention in it, and flustered for its sheer intensity all at once.

“I did not wish to make assumptions,” Steven finally speaks, and the words are more exhalation than voice but it lands as poetry woven through a song of him, all of him, as clear as he breathes the music sewn in sonnets; “though to hear it now, from your lips,” Steven’s mouth quirks, and oh, but the apples of those regal cheekbones, their sharpness a threat to man’s sanity—he blushes so sweet.

“But in the measure of mending transgressions, then,” then Steven bites the swell of his bottom lip every so slightly, rewrites the staves of Eddie’s pulse for the indentations as he shakes his head, then lifts his lashes, gilded in remorse; “I fear I’ve—“

“Hush, sweetness, please,” and oh, Eddie has learned well from his uncle to presume, indeed; to be brazen, to speak without a rein on his heart just in this moment, to call him dear sugared things and he almost regrets, almost retreats or seeks apologies but oh, oh but those amber-pooling eyes: they start to drown so dark, the middle-black flooding for more than a pulsebeat but less a moment and—that pesky foolish hope, and Eddie takes not one step, but two steps closer for its pull.

“Anything you have said and done has been more than merited,” and Eddie feels certain in this moment that he must own it in not uncertain terms, even if it risks the heart in his chest; “I was a,” he licks his lips, casts his eyes down in shame, for it because he cannot do otherwise but then he looks up again, pleading in his gaze he knows because once more:

He cannot do otherwise.

“A proper fiend,” and it is true, it is true and he remembers confessing one of his own cardinal sins, his unforgiving tendencies when his opinion of others is sullied and he should not hold so much optimism for the man before him being so deeply entrenched as something different, something better but Eddie has changed himself, for this singular person’s presence in his world; he cannot help but lift his transgressions and pray better than he’s ever managed in a pew for mercies greater than any scripture could serve to the fate of his soul:

“I presumed blindly, and let pride blind my eyes to what stood before me so clear,” he breathes, and it is that, it is a prayerful thing he speaks, and no less.

“And what might have proven such a spectacle?” Steven asks and there’s levity in it, brightness but then underneath: a truth believed, a certainty in doubt. That such a spectacle would be unfathomable, rather than commonplace and a foundational truth among all things.

“The heart of you,” Eddie murmurs without hesitation, reaches toward Steven’s chest on instinct but hesitates before he touches, before he feels more than the suggestion of his heat in the morning chill—Eddie does not have the privilege.

Yet. And he…he still…

“The man you are, truly good beyond all reason or compare,” Eddie murmurs, marvels—he doesn’t touch, but he doesn’t yet withdraw his hand, pull any further away because—

He hopes.

“Beautiful for the flesh of you only as a paltry reflection of the soul in you,” Eddie speaks it so low, pitched close to the earth and deep in his chest because it demands no less, no less, and he wants to touch, he wants to cup Steven’s cheek, he’s wants so deeply to trace those lips in revere and feel him, show his love the best he can, with the remit of action he is allowed for now as a bare echo of what he could, if he’s allowed, if he is granted the joy, the honor of holding this man and reverencing him and adoring not like some idol, no, but as the part of his own heart that conducts all the beating, that makes any living truly worthwhile at all.

Because the value and weight of measuring living has shifted in this new world, with Steven in his view.

“And you, my,” no, no, Steven is not his, not yet, but he can respect what has not come to pass while still lavishing Steven with the ardor full to his heart:

“You, Steven Harrington, are breathtaking,” and now he does presume, the over-boldness his uncle has tried to tame in him but he reaches, and tucks Steven’s soft swoop of hair behind the delicate shell of an ear, and his hand never so much as brushes skin, and Eddie is quick, of ever so gentle in it, so that his fingers have retreated by the time he notices, but: Steven leans for the touch.

Steven leans for his touch.

”And if you are breathtaking,” Eddie lets his eyes roam across Steven’s figure, and he is a marvel, truly, but Eddie’s gaze lingers on the mud-splatters at his hem, stretched over strong calves and it would be impossible not to soften, not to melt within for the bright glow that spreads through Eddie’s chest as he smiles gentle, trusting in the promise of that emanating light as he breathes:

“Imagine what such truths must speak greater truth still, of your soul.”

Steven blinks, and those lashes fan so full: Eddie swears he feels the world around him shift for it, some a divine kind of a blessing.

“You spin such poetry as to treat toward nonsense, good sir,” Steven sighs the words a little over-soft, so gentle, a demure sort of lilt, to poke at him with a familiarity, a casual comfort Eddie aches for; aches for what else it could accompany, could mean.

“You speak with kindness,” Eddie cannot help but to voice the yearning, and his tone does nothing to belie the earnestness of his heart for it; “with lightness to your tone,” he reaches, dares to smooth Steven’s hair once more, slower with the touch to test if he leans again and oh—oh.

Steven cants his chin ever so slightly, and lets his jawline press to Eddie’s hand: more touch of his skin than Eddie has ever known before. He gasps for it, not only slightly undone.

“It tempts me so,” Eddie thinks he breathes; knows it is a shaking thing, much like the thunder of his pulse.

“Tempts you?” Steven leans back, lips pursed to confusion, and Eddie mourns the loss with his blood and bones entire.

“To hope,” because what more can Eddie do now but name it, this feeling beating wings through his veins, propelling his blood as much as his shivering his breath, narrowing his vision but making the whole of being brighter, more flooded full with color?

“To hope as I’d scarcely allowed myself,” his oversaturated wanting bubble forth from him, tongue loose and lungs oddly tight; “as I’d feared never again to know.”

And how he’d feared, he’d feared so deeply that all chance was gone, all hope was lost, that his presumption in the rain that Sunday morning had lost him all possible chance at the happiness his heart understood sooner than his mind, that when he’d leapt without that understanding through and through he’d put fire to the bridge he ever wished to cross.

But: he is here. Now, he is here.

They are here. And Eddie thinks he knows where to leap, his mind seeing the path as his heart trembles for how big the hop has been coaxed into swelling.

“You are too generous to trifle with me,” Eddie swallows hard, tries to even his breath but to no avail; and no matter, not truly: “so I must ask it of you, pure honesty, with no thought to spare my heart for it,” his voice doesn’t crack so much as fade a little, and he prays it does not undercut his sincerity but then Steven moves, reaches.

Tucks Eddie’s curls behind his ear soft, quick as Eddie’d done in reverse but it soothes something in him, doesn’t quieten his pulse but draws enough anxiousness from the drumming for there to be room for wishing, for hoping.

“I swear it,” Steven tells him solemn if soft, and the way he draws his hand away so slow: it feels like a statement of its own.

Eddie sees the path all the more clearly for it, and leaps with the whole of him, now:

“If your feelings have not changed, if your wishes stand firm as they did,” Eddie preludes, needs Steven to know, and to feel no obligation to him, nor guilt in speaking true: “tell me so and I will bother you no longer, this last of my presumptions my final transgression against your kind nature.”

“I swore it, Edward,” Steven speaks with a steel determination, not in kindly but wholly unwavering; “and not lightly done,” and his eyes shine ever-so, as steel in a forge burnt fire-bright.

“I will not lie to spare the heart of you,” Steven promises, then breathes deep with clear resolve; “but neither will I see it handled without due care, no matter your question, no matter its answer.”

And indeed, heart of Eddie is not spared. Because Steven, Steven is being honorable and speaking in vows in ways that tap furious and wantonly around Eddie’s chest but then: he speaks of caring for Eddie’s heart without precedent save for his generous inclinations as a rule—this rings different, though.

And Eddie’s unspared heart—a quandary to be sure, as the point to hand is to hold the very same with care—but his heart is not spared a frenetic pounding that Eddie feels high in his throat, a feathered thing beating to be free.

When his lips part, perhaps he grant’s its wish:

“If,” Eddie starts, breathless at first and understandably so; “if by some kindness I have neither earned nor deserved, your feelings havechanged,” Eddie feels himself on an unexpected precipice, for Steven gazed upon him with…with tenderness. With so much more he has not earned or deserved and yet:

“Then I would have to tell you,” and it’s Eddie’s racing heart giving itself away as not merely frantic but full, so full, and if it takes flight now it can’t help but spill its splendored hopes at the feet of its desire, its best excuse to beat:

“You have bewitched me, body and soul and I love, I love, I,” his breath catches, the revelation of letting the words spill again from his lips now terrifying, for how last they were received but his heart and mind understand it fully, now, and he can speak it with a fullness he didn’t comprehend then, a wholeness he hadn’t tapped to know, then.

And thus so much more than anything: it is exhilarating, to open his heart and hope to be seen truly for all he is, for all that he feels and seeks to give without reservation or reliant: unending.

“I love you.”

And when he breathes, after the world holds those words, when he breathes the air tastes golden, rich and born anew. He makes to speak, to confess further but then—

Steven reaches for his hand, takes it fully in a way Eddie’s never felt before, laces their fingers and stares at them before lifting his eyes to Eddie’s, glistening and stretched so wide. Eddie barely blinks to drink in the whole of him, and when he catches glimpse of the blood-beat at the stretch of Steven’s star-charted throat, the swift rhythm a perfect swell between beauty marks, it swathes something in Eddie that had retained rough edges somehow, smoothes him into whole submission to the way his heart hums for this man’s mere touch.

When Steven pulls Eddie’s hand joined in his own, to press against the source of that perfect beat, and Eddie knows by touch now the way it pounds with the same gusto, the same fluttering testing Eddie’s own ribs: it is magical. It is divinity itself writ in flesh and held between mortal hands.

“I never wish to be parted from you from this day on,” Steven whispers, fierce with it, and Eddie wishes he could move, just now, to bring Steven’s hand close to his chest in turn, to let him feel the tripping slip of beats as it acclimated to a world where, just perhaps, Eddie may have just gotten everything he’s ever wanted.

In point of fact, though: he cannot quite move, because it so happens that cupping a hand against the heart you’ve yearned for so long is momentous to the point of stilling time itself.

But Steven, of course: he proves Eddie’s trust in him, Eddie’s faith and hope, as he does the moving for the both, and draws Eddie’s hand upward, reaches for his other wrist and gathers them together between both his own and lifts them to his lips, kisses fingertips, the peaks of his knuckles, the curve of his wrists.

“Your hands are cold,” Steven breathes, glances up at Eddie and Eddie cannot know what he sees but hopes—since it has not failed him yet—that what he finds is the heart and soul of him for the taking, the sharing, the giving for any and all that’s wanted and received.

Steven’s mouth is only parted the slightest bit but it sends Eddie’s pulse to tripping all the more, but Steven’s eyes are dancing, his inhalations deep but quick, affected as Eddie when he cradles both Eddie’s hands now back to his chest, flattens them to the palm against to feel every beat and breath like a confession or a promise or both of them and more and then—

Then he leans, slow, and Eddie understands this impossible thing: an invitation as much as a query for permission. Steven’s lips are still parted when he pauses a hair's-breadth from meeting and Eddie falls, somehow, although he thought he’d fallen already farther than a man could manage.

But Steven’s pulse under his hand skips, stumbles hard but feels as jubilant as Eddie’s own, so he finds a way to fall further, just the slightest tip forward into that parted pout and Steven; Steven.

Against Eddie’s lips, his kiss is like sunlight.

Against Eddie’s hands, his heart is so warm.

🦋

also on ao3

🤍permanent tag list (lmk if you’d like to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 (again: thank you so much for the beta/wrangling my bad brain™ into its cage) @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

[astrhae]

i really enjoyed your latest six of crows fic!! this is probably going to sound so strange, but kaz's brief cameo was so on point that it made me wish for a concurrent fic of the other crows and what they're up to in this au

hi hello!! thank you so much 🥰 and that isn't strange at all! i'm really glad that you liked it down to all the little cameos 💙 i can't promise a concurrent fic but here's a little scene i deleted that has kaz in it (this is when wylan actually first meets kaz, a little bit after jesper reads their marriage contract for them)

"Why the change of mind?" Kaz didn't bother addressing Wylan. "All your letters until a month ago told me you despised your husband."

Jesper swallowed, and cast a guilty glance at Wylan, his fingers drumming nervously on the windowsil they were perched on. "I, uh," he shrugged, smile turning suddenly coy to smother his guilt, "was reminded of some things."

Kaz didn't look remotely impressed. He simply stood in the palace guest rooms they'd prepared for him and Inej, looking both distinctly out of place and perfectly suited to the gilded halls and carpeted floors. "I need to know I can trust your reasons, or I'll be taking my kruge on my walk to the palace vaults."

The only reason he doesn't steal from me, Jesper had told Wylan, is because good standing with the royal family is a better long term investment than a crown jewel.

"I blew someone up for him," Wylan answered before Jesper could, and that made Kaz turn to him, a hunter catching a sniff of prey.

"After I shot a guy for him," Jesper grumbled.

Kaz ran a gloved hand over the corner of a framed oil painting. De Kappel, the matching painting given to Wylan's father as part of his dowry. Stealing Wylan's flute from the mansion had turned out to be proof of concept: that it could be done.

"You didn't tell me your husband had marketable skills," Kaz said.

"I'm not for sale," Wylan frowned.

Jesper snorted at Kaz. "And if he was, you wouldn't be able to pay for him."

"Is that a challenge?" Kaz asked.

"Wylan's a sure bet," Jesper said, "Besides, it was a change of heart too."

What? Wylan didn't catch Kaz's little scowl, or what he muttered next, too busy running his mind over possibilities, turning Jesper's words around in his head. A change of heart -

"I've decided my terms of payment," the snap of Kaz's cane as he walked closer was muffled by the carpet, but it was sharp all the same. "I'd like Wylan as my consultant."

Jesper scrunched his nose. "No."

"Yes," Wylan said. He knew what Kaz had planned was likely illegal. He also knew that Jan Van Eck's accounting books never added up. "I can tell you everything you need."

"Let me rephrase," Kaz said. "I want you as a permanent consultant."

"He's a Prince!" Jesper protested.

Kaz raised a brow. "So are you. It's called career diversification."

Jesper groaned when Wylan laughed. "Wylan's already diversified into a royal mess."

Wylan sniffed. "I melted a table once, and I cleaned up the mess."

He declined to supply that he'd spilled the chemicals because he'd been a little distracted, by Jesper's little laugh, and the spin of the gun that followed.

"Melting tables," Kaz didn't allow himself to be sidetracked, his eyes taking an edge of wildness to them, a stormcloud flashing lightning. "What about melting locks and safes?"

Wylan nodded. "I just need to change the formula a little."

"See?" Kaz smirked. "Marketable skills."

Jesper groaned again, and Wylan wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Marriage, his mind supplied, and then friendship and family, and, as he thought of Kaz burning Van Eck's power to the ground, he thought, just maybe, home.