#dating show fic

[leiawritesstories]

It Happened Off-Camera

Rowaelin Month 2023, day 10: Guest Stars with Chemistry

a continuation of the dating show au prompt i wrote a while ago ;)

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: language, innuendo, flirty Fenrys, naughty jokes, and i have no idea how a reality show works so i just made up stuff about that lol

Enjoy!!!

@rowaelinscourt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Views spiked almost 200% after last week, Aelin! The producer's comment echoed in Aelin's mind. We can't wait to see what the numbers look like when this week's episode airs.

She grimaced and turned away from her bathroom mirror. Although her villa was a camera-free zone, she wouldn't put it past the production team to find some loophole in that rule and sneak footage of her alone in her private space. Last week's episode had been an incredible success, though, what with her stupidly romantic date with Fenrys and the satisfaction of watching sniveling little Sam get booted from the suitor list.

Speaking of Fenrys...he was the first man she'd put down on the second-date list. He was just as charming and suave as the rest of the men on the show, but his infectious laugh and penchant for cracking inappropriate jokes at highly inappropriate times were right up Aelin's alley, so to speak. But she was famously close-lipped about her suitor list, both for her own sanity and for the drama.

So it was no surprise when the entire production crew gasped collectively when she and Fenrys went on a second date.

He rented a little rowboat and took her out onto the property's gorgeous lake, bringing her to the opposite shore, where he'd set up a picnic, complete with blankets, charcuterie, and wine. The camera crew followed them at a discreet enough distance, allowing Fen to lean over and whisper into her ear as he helped her out of the boat.

"Let's hope the subtitles don't pick this conversation up," he murmured, "because I don't need thousands of people hearing me tell The Bachelorette that I'm fighting a boner."

She snorted and playfully smacked his shoulder. "I wouldn't be worried about that if I were you, Fen. It's not like it's visible or anything."

He gasped in theatrical shock. "Aelin!"

"Fenrys," she cooed, the portrait of innocence. "You promised me food?" She raised her voice to camera-ready levels.

"Indeed I did." He gestured broadly to the picnic. "And even dessert, if you play your cards right." He wiggled his perfectly groomed eyebrows, playing it up for the cameras.

She laughed. "Slow down, Moonbeam. I'm one of those three-dates-before-going-home girls, you know."

"I was so hopeful!" He faked a dramatic groan. "Does this mean you'll grant me a third date, milady?"

"Maybe." She sipped at her wine, unaffected by the way he laid his head in her lap and stared imploringly up at her. "You're cute, Fen, but puppy eyes don't work on me." She leant down and whispered her next words too softly for the crew to hear. "Only bedroom eyes do."

Faster than she expected him to react, he raised his body and propped his arms on either side of her, pressing himself almost indecently close. "Thought you wanted three dates before that, Ae," he purred, playfulness and lust mingled in his dark eyes.

"Indeed," she murmured. And she pushed him gently back to his place. "No need to rush yourself, Moon Moon."

~

After the picnic, Fenrys rowed them back across the lake, stopping in the middle so she could gaze up at the blanket of starry darkness that laid across the property where filming took place. "Up there," he whispered, loud enough to be heard. "You can hardly see any constellations in the city, but they're so gorgeous out here."

"I was half expecting you to drop the not as gorgeous as me line," Aelin teased.

He snickered. "I can call myself gorgeous if you want, but I'd rather hear it from you." He paused, a roguish grin curling across his lips. "Moaned, ideally."

She coughed out a laugh and doubled over, almost toppling out of the boat. Swiftly, he lunged to catch her, righting both her and the boat. He cracked a quiet joke about not rocking the boat just yet and rowed them back to the shore, back towards the house where the rest of the candidates were waiting.

At least one of them was probably stewing at the fact that Fenrys had pulled a second date.

Just before they reached the pier, the boat bumped against something below the water's surface and rocked sharply.

"Shit!" Fenrys yelped, digging the oars into the water to counterbalance the sudden tilt, his muscles straining as the boat jostled and rocked again. "Hold on, Ae, I--fuck!" He spoke too late.

With a splash and a high-pitched "Shit!," Aelin went flying over the side of the boat, drawing in a sharp breath just before she plunged fully into the icy lake water. It might have been early summer, but the lake was far from pleasantly warm. She held her breath and extended her arms and legs, pushing at the water as she tried to work back to the surface.

But the godsdamned ridiculous, overly formal dress she'd been put in clung to her in all the wrong ways, constricting her range of motion, and those stupid heels were caught in what felt like a tangle of roots and wouldn't budge. Hell.

Aelin tried to keep her pounding heart under control as she bent back downwards and reached for her shoes, fumbling with the stupidly fucking tiny straps and buckles until she'd managed to free her feet from the damn things. Her lungs ached and burned with the effort of keeping her breath held. Push, Galathynius!

Partially freed, she pushed towards the surface, swearing violently to herself as she struggled against the godsdamned dress. Air rushed from her lips in a stream of silvery bubbles, and she clamped her lips back together, willing herself not to let go of any more precious breath even as she struggled to float.

Then a pair of strong, muscled arms wrapped around her waist, and she was pulled to the surface in a stroke of powerful, purely masculine strength.

She gasped and spluttered, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her hair was plastered all over her face and her makeup ran in smeared trails, destroyed by the icy lake. Teeth chattering, she noticed the cameras zooming in on her waterlogged form and rapidly crossed her arms over her chest.

Her lack of a bra meant her nipples were rigid behind the dress, and the assholes editing the footage would never let that go unnoticed.

"Are you alright?" The man who still had his arms around her deposited her on the pier and grabbed the floating dock for stability, peering anxiously into her face. It wasn't Fenrys, as she'd thought.

It was Rowan Whitethorn.

And now her heart was pounding for multiple reasons.

"I-I'm f-f-fine," she managed to get out through chattering teeth and shivers.

"Hey!" Rowan hoisted himself out of the lake in a smooth, sleek lift that made Aelin immediately think of Anthony Bridgerton, and directed his next yell at the handful of men and crew members standing around watching Aelin shiver. "Get Miss Galathynius some damn towels! Have you never seen someone almost drown before?"

She smiled to herself. Maybe the man was more of a gentleman than she'd given him credit for initially. "I'm f-fine," she repeated, but the tremors shaking her body belied her words.

He crouched back down next to her, grumbled something about useless idiots, and laid two fingers against her pulse. "We need to get you inside," he murmured. "Can I pick you up?"

"Yes." Normally, she would refuse, but this wasn't normal.

Rowan scooped her into his arms, letting her nestle against his warm, if wet, chest, and strode towards her villa, leaving a trail of slack-jawed suitors, eager camera crew, and one flabbergasted Fenrys in his wake. "I wish they'd all fuck off," he mumbled into her sodden hair. "Yeah, yeah, it's a drama, but really?"

"Can't let the knight in sopping armor go unnoticed," Aelin quipped, her humor unharmed.

He chuckled. The deep rasp of it went right between her thighs. "If I wasn't on the damn show myself, I'd be the person punching the cameraman right about now."

"No need for that," she returned. "Just...just get me home." Exhaustion had overtaken her more than anything else.

"I will." She clung to the solid surety of those words and closed her eyes for the rest of the short walk to her villa. When he reached the steps, Rowan paused, suddenly unsure how to proceed. "Uh..."

"I don't think I can walk," Aelin admitted. "So, if you'll bring me inside, that would be lovely." She met his concerned pine gaze. "It's okay, Rowan. Plus, my villa is strictly no-cameras."

"Okay." So he walked up the stairs, pushed open her front door, brought her inside, and nudged the door closed behind them. Holding her stable with one arm, he locked the front door and then carried her into the kitchen. Gingerly, he set her down, but kept one arm around her waist for stability. "Where do you need to go?"

"Bathroom." She found her balance, wobbling only a bit, and led him down the hall to the master bedroom and its attached bathroom. She made it all the way into the modern, marble-and-glass space before her stomach roiled and she lurched away from him. "Gods," she groaned as she bent over the toilet. "Why now? Why tonight?"

Unexpectedly gentle, Rowan's hands swept her wet hair away from her face and rubbed her back in soothing strokes. "It's alright, Aelin. Just let it all out."

She retched a couple more times before her stomach settled down and her body started insisting that she get out of her uncomfortably wet clothes and into a nice warm bath. "Rowan?"

"Yeah?"

"I...I need a bath."

His tan cheeks flushed an adorable shade of bright red. "Do you need me to leave?"

She blew out a sigh. "I'd say yes, but--oh hell," she cursed as her legs gave out beneath her. "Well, it seems I'm still unstable."

"Okay." He glanced around the bathroom for a minute, unsure, and then went and turned on the bathwater, filling up the sunken marble tub with steaming heat.

"Unzip me, please," she requested, feeling her face burn crimson with the awkwardness of the request. To her relief, he didn't comment, just fumbled with the wet satin before finding the tiny zipper and carefully pulling it down the length of her back. She peeled the sodden material off her body and dropped it on the floor, not caring that she wasn't wearing any underwear, and walked down the steps into the deliciously hot bath.

Behind her, Rowan drew in a sharp breath. "Aelin." If she was in any other reality, she'd swear that there was predatory violence underlying his tone.

"What?" Safely submerged in the water up to her shoulders, she turned to look at him.

Poorly-concealed wrath tightened his handsome face. "Who did that to you?"

So he'd seen the scars slashing across her back. "Car accident. Happened when I was a child," she said, simply, boiling the truth down to its most sanitized version. And because he still looked like murder, she added, "The drunk driver who hit the car I was in died on impact."

He relaxed. A smidge. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright." She leaned back into the bath, a small, soft moan escaping her as the hot water eased the tension in her muscles and warmed her chilled body back up. A thought dropped into her mind, and she cracked her eyes open. "You can use the shower if you need, Rowan."

He was still fixed where he stood, and she could have sworn that she saw dark desire flicker in those forest-colored eyes of his. "What if I want a bath?" he asked, and fire licked down her spine at the sound of his voice, low and rough and thrumming with leashed need.

And with that question, Aelin got the unmistakable sense that she'd found her bachelor.

"Then the steps are right there," she breathed, holding his intense gaze, feeling her body electrify the longer he stared at her. The longer he dragged out the charged silence, though, the more she began to question. "Unless I've read the room wrong, in which case I'm an idiot, and--oh gods, I fucked up, and--"

"Aelin." Clothes hit the marble floor with a wet thud and Rowan's chiseled body cut through the steaming water until he stood right in front of her, reached out, and caught her chin with his fingertips, tipping her head up to his. "You didn't read anything wrong."

Her breath hitched at his closeness, at the heat between them that had nothing to do with the bath. "Rowan," she whispered, hardly daring to believe the scene was real, "kiss me."

"What about the three date rule?" Gods burn her, he had a sense of humor, too?

"You found the loophole," she grinned. "Rescue the damsel in distress, and that counts as three dates."

"Lucky me." And Rowan kissed her.

~

Aelin blinked awake to bright sunlight, rumpled sheets, and Rowan Whitethorn snoring behind her.

She couldn't control the grin that blossomed across her face as she laid there, snug and warm in the cocoon of his arms, and listened to the adorable, snuffling snore emanating from the most controlled man on the show. Unable to help it, she rolled over and looked into his slumbering face, reaching out to trail her fingertips lightly over the tattoo that spiraled down his arm.

"I can feel you staring," he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Can you blame me?" She dipped her head, brushed a featherlight kiss over his lips. "You're adorable when you snore."

He grumbled something incoherent. "I don't control that."

"And it ruffles your feathers, I know," she teased. "I think it's--oh!" Her teasing was cut off with another kiss.

After they separated, breaths ragged, Rowan twined a lock of her hair around his fingers, uncertainty flashing across his face. "Ae?"

"Hmm?" She held his gaze. "You can talk to me, Ro," she murmured, reassuring him the same way he'd comforted her last night.

He exhaled heavily. "Last night...it...what's going to happen?"

"Well, I'm going to start dating you," she replied. "I'll probably keep one or two other guys around because the contract says I have to, but as of now, you are the only man in my life." She traced the angle of his cheekbones. "Why?"

"Because--" The normally unflappable, granite-faced businessman fumbled for words. "Will you promise to keep a secret, Ae?"

"Of course." She laced her free hand into his and squeezed. "I promise."

He worried his lower lip, took a steadying breath, and dropped the biggest bombshell of the whole show on her.

"I have a daughter."

~~~

TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added or removed or if there's any problems :)

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

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@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[noodles-and-tea]

Back at it with my enchanted merthur shenanigans

[hitlikehammers]

Steddie Wrong Blind Date AU 💜

what if you meet the wrong love of your life?

He doesn’t know how the fuck he got here. At a very nice bar in a very nice restaurant.

Sitting alone.

Or well: he knows. It’s more that he can’t believe he let it happen.

Again.

Because Steve had finally (finally!) made sufficient enough threats logical arguments to curb Robin’s attempts—well-meaning, dingus, well meaning attempts!—to set him up with so-and-so’s cousin or whoever-the-fuck’s roommate. The blind dates had actually been his first successful method to ultimately shoot down, on the basis that they weren’t just fucking humiliating: they were goddamn degrading.

For reasons such as his current situation.

And of all the things Robin desired for him, they both knew she’d never knowingly cause him pain. So that left him working with awkward introductions at parties, sometimes at completely random places even, like too-weird-to-be-coincidence run-ins at the grocery store and shit, where Robin just so happened to be shopping when both her targets were there. It was borderline frightening, but. It was very Robin. And Steve adored her more than anything and struggled too much to stay mad at her—he’s definitely tried his damnedest, more than once—so. He knows her intentions come from the heart, regardless of how disastrously they pan out in reality.

Which is why Steve is allowing this once—and only once—because he’s not stupid, but. He appreciates the ingenuity.

And getting your girlfriend to make the blind date pitch was…technically honoring his rules.

So. He’s allowing this to slide once. Once. One time.

One. More. Time.

And he’s already got his justification, fucking iron clad too, to call it on sight. Failed attempt, the guy’s already twenty minutes late and that’s…that’s past fashionable, really, especially for a set up like this. He glances at his phone, just to see if he’s got anything from Chrissy as an update—Steve loves her, and Robin adores her, and that’s the only reason he’s not spending the minutes he waits, sipping stupidly-slow at the same tequila sunrise, plotting revenge against her for being so gullible, so willing to not merely enact Robin’s last-gasp efforts but to participate, actively, because apparently tonight’s ’perfect match, he’s so your type!’ was Chrissy’s suggestion—but there’s nothing. Just the last message from an hour ago reassuring him against backing out in the first place:

he’s tall, dark, handsome, 100% your type. maybe a little *theatrical*: you’ll LOVE him 💕

Steve didn’t, and still doesn’t, understand what she means by theatrical, and honestly he’s kinda wary for it—he doesn’t like playing games when it comes to romance: he’s too all-in, and too quickly, for any of that.

Which also means that, as much as he thinks it’s a fucking laughable sham to have agreed to this, and as much as he’d walked in knowing that, knowing he was entertaining the farce against his own will: it still…doesn’t sting, exactly. But it definitely squeezes uncomfortably in his chest for no good reason that he’s been fucking stood up and yeah, yeah, that means it’s time to—

He reaches for his drink and notices it’s empty. Just another sign, really, so he move to gesture the bartender over to pay but—

Someone’s got a better angle, actually gets the guy’s attention before Steve can even try—a someone sitting two empty chairs down who lifts his glass for another, then gestures the exact same way with an empty toward Steve’s sad glass of ice.

“On mine,” he tips his chin Steve’s direction before the bartender grabs Steve’s glass along with the stranger’s and makes for refills, then it’s just the stranger turning the whole of his body around on the stool to face…Steve.

“For the handsome nobleman,” and he says it with a stilted lilt that’s somehow not disingenuous, and it’s odd, to put it mildly, paired with a little bow of his head that definitely matches the affected voice but also definitely gives the stranger a perfect window to run his gaze up and down Steve’s seated frame—it’s a good move, Steve can’t even deny it, no matter how…weird.

But…also, there’s a warmth in it? Maybe in the gaze, something that’s not just heat, or maybe in the tone that’s not just putting on a show.

Something.

“In fact I do say the very handsome nobleman doth sit alone beyond comprehension,” the stranger seems to correct himself, and the way his lips curl, wider and then pull back a little, like he hesitates, like he’s maybe bolder than this in other situations but is reserving himself just a touch for here and now—and goddamn but this is pretty fucking bold already, whatever it actually is:

“And he deserves plentiful libations,” and Steve didn’t even notice the new drink on the counter until the stranger reaches, tips precariously on his stool, and slides the glass closer before nodding toward it, almost like another little bow: “in his tarrying.”

Steve stares wordless for a second because, outside of that weird fucking Renaissance Fair thing the kids dragged him to, he’s never heard anyone talk like that. So the setting’s all fucked up because this is Manhattan, at a not-particularly-inexpensive bistro type venue, definitely devoid of turkey legs.

Plus the guy in question doesn’t quite look the part—gorgeous curls to the shoulders, facial structure to kill a man, legs for days draped down the stool and dressed in shades of black top to bottom, from the button up in charcoal fucking silk, to the weirdly-suited boots that might have a steel toe hiding or might just be playing, the only color on him the pout of his lips and the slight flush visible in the low bar light brushed over his cheeks before he leans a little closer, eyes maybe the darkest thing about him and kinda goddamn mesmerizing for it, especially for how they somehow tiptoe along a fine line between almost disorienting focus on Steve and Steve alone, and something close to hesitant, or maybe more bashful when he clears his throat and asks:

“Perhaps this very handsome nobleman would also enjoy some company,” and his tone’s not even playing coy about being hopeful, before he full-on lays a palm to his chest in old-fashioned apology as his lashes flutter a little and he goes all self-deprecating, and genuine in it, as he adds in that same bashfulness:

“Even if only that of a humble bard, such as myself?”

And Steve’s not above being wholesale dumbstruck for a good second, like his hearing goes tunneled and his pulse echoes for the narrowing: this man is unreal.

Very…theatrical. One-hundred percent his type. Two-hundred percent, even. Jesus.

So Steve’s quiet for a second, but he’s not known for his charm because he can’t bounce back quicker than average, certainly quicker than risking that gorgeous face falling for the dashing for the hope painted open all over it, not a stroke of artifice in sight.

Steve’s not even trying when he fucking feels his own automatic walls start to slip as he leans, meets the man move for move so they can hear each other close as the bar starts to fill a little more:

“Only if I can get the next round,” and if Steve purrs it, it’s a reflex; if it darkens those already depthless eyes, well. He’s close enough to appreciate the swell of the pupil, the deepening of the flush on those cheeks.

If Steve’s heart jumps a little, there’s not a soul who can call him out for it; tree in the woods with no one to hear it fall.

But it does. It so does.

The man does an adorable little shimmy across the seats between them, taking the one closest to Steve and then doing a little scootching of even that to settle all the closer, and it shouldn’t be endearing, but Steve feels like he can bet on his ribs being sore by the end of whatever this is, or ends up being, just for the swelling beneath them already underway.

“If my request is being so highly honored, so as to join you,” the man takes a little bundle of his curls and drags them across the corner of his lips before tucking it back and…Steve has the immediate urge to have done it for him instead, what the hell, too fucking soon, man—

“Does his majesty have a name?”

It takes Steve a couple long seconds to register that the man means him, though it doesn’t escape Steve that the reference, while it took a while to land? Never for an instant felt like it did in high school, or even shortly after. It felt…warm.

“Steve,” he says with a smile, more twisting his palm than extending his hand to shake given their proximity; “and you, my,” Steve licks his lips then presses them tight around a grin before choosing his words: “very odd but very endearing bard, was it?”

“It was, indeed,” the man lights up near fluorescent; “I’m Eddie.”

Maybe it’s the way he says it, or the way he takes Steve’s hand. But…Jesus.

It’s…a really good name.

“Then tell me, Eddie,” Steve doesn’t let go of the hand in his, their touches just slowly slide apart and it feels…like a loss but not a crushing one, Eddie’s still close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Unless I’m totally off, I think I know from exposure, not playing, that a bard’s a musician, yeah?” Or is it a storyteller, or maybe both, there’s a good fucking reason he never have in to playing the nerd game—

“Tell me what makes you introduce yourself like that right off the bat, then.”

And Eddie glows for the opening, the invitation, and the thing is? He doesn’t stop; he’s like a star unto himself, shining and bathing Steve in the glimmer as he talks about music, about growing up in a house of it, about it being tough sometimes but his mother took him to live with his uncle, the three of them and then it was easier and there was also more music, new music, and he tells Steve about bands he’s played in, joined and left, guitars he’s loved and lost, the whole shipping boxes he has piled with full notebooks of lyrics and ideas from years upon years; and then he pivots, or maybe that’s not even it, because what he really does is test the waters around where Steve thought the bard reference came from in the first place—the nerd game. Steve confesses he was a mostly an unwilling bystander but it was probably more because he didn’t get it, and honestly his reluctance was more for show than anything, he loved what his kids loved at the end of the day, what made them happy—which left Steve explaining the kids, explaining Robin, explaining his family in a way Steve hasn’t done in relationships that lasted months, let alone first conversations on very first dates.

He should be terrified. He isn’t.

He should be terrified of the isn’t. And…and yet.

“My turn for a question,” Eddie fills the first soft lull in conversation, one that stretches taffy-sweet and almost kinda giddy; Steve doesn’t even know what he’s feeling because he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt it before, like, ever—all he knows is that it’s kind of fucking fantastic, like something he already never wants to let go of. So of course he nods, welcomes Eddie’s turns for a question even if it doesn’t seem entirely necessary; the back-and-forths sliding so natural, so balanced.

“Why the choice of drink?”

Eddie nods at the glass almost empty in his hand while Steve squints and laughs a little.

“What?” Steve asks because he doesn’t understand, sure, but also because the unpredictability, alongside the sheer earnestness of this man is…it’s disarming in the best fucking way. Like maybe Steve’s falling but he never wants to stop and—

Too soon, too fucking soon even if that’s not what he meant, exactly; he thought it, and it’s too fucking soon—

“Everyone has a reason for ordering a drink,” Eddie explains with a grin that pops those delicious dimples; “habit, by which there’s a story of the first time you tried it,” he ticks off on his nimble looking fingers, the rings on them catching the lights; “spontaneity, by which there’s a tale of what inspired it,” and fuck, they’re so long, those fingers, Steve kinda wonders how many knuckles he could fit in his mouth; “memories, by which there’s something poking at them.”

Eddie pauses, takes Steve in, no doubt sees Steve hanging onto, damn near salivating over his every word even as he swallows and takes a breath to collect himself as discreetly as he’s capable; it just makes those dimples divot deeper.

“I could go on,” Eddie offers, a little sly in his smile, the knowing kind, but his tone is soft, like maybe Steve’s not the only one feeling…things. And maybe Eddie wants him to know it. Maybe so that he’s not alone. Maybe because they both fucking like it. Maybe—

“Habit,” Steve answers, unable to keep from smiling around the rim of his glass when he takes a sip. “I got sick on shots and swore off straight tequila, but I was always up for the, y’know, frou-frou drinks,” he swirls the maybe-two-swallows left for show: “so long as it tasted good I didn’t give a shit, y’know, and then a,” Steve pauses a second, wonders how best to describe that particular figure from his past before settling on:

“An old friend, told me once,” and then Steve pauses again, this time because he can feel the rush of heat to his cheeks because oh, shit, now he’s backed himself into having to say it—

“Oh, now you have to share,” Eddie coaxes, a singsong in his voice and a wide-eyed wonder to him, something like genuine investment in what comes next, what’s next in something solely about Steve, that almost soothes the embarrassment;

“Unless you’re displaying the answer with this,” and Eddie only just brushes the flat of his fingernail to Steve’s cheekbone, too quick to appreciate the shiver it sends down Steve’s spine, through his fucking veins, that’s not helped one bit by Eddie murmuring, a little sensual, but somehow also a little dazed, a little starry-eyed when he breathes out:

“Blush like the sunrise.”

And if he wasn’t already, fuck knows Steve is now.

He misses Eddie’s touch against it, too. Even so fleeting. Wishes he were bold enough, or foolish enough, to grab Eddie’s hand and let him feel what he’s doing, the heat in him. The way his blood rushes.

He’s not, because that’s fucking insane and way too much too soon, but.

Wanting doesn’t play by those rules.

“Almost,” Steve picks up the glass and swirls it again; “he said I was like sunshine,” Steve recalls with a little grin—it’s a softer memory now than it used to be. He laughs a little and downs the last of what’s left of his drink. “Think it was more because of a yellow sweater I wore way too much at the time, but,” and he places the empty down and so he doesn’t see it coming until it happens: Eddie’s hand. On his hand, on the glass.

“No.”

Steve looks up, barely breathes. Eddie has soft hands.

“No, I think it was more than that, Sunshine,” Eddie tells him, honest and certain and a little breathless and Steve’s of two equal minds: he’s never been so aroused. But he’s also never felt so seen.

And wanted.

“Another?” Eddie asks, but his eyes don’t leave Steve’s to look at their drinks, to be anywhere but in this moment, here with him.

“You’re sure?” Steve makes himself ask it, doesn’t bother forcing himself to sound anything but pulling for one answer and one answer alone. “Don’t have somewhere better to be?”

“Wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Eddie does look away then, but down at their hands, strokes his thumb a little down where Steve’s wrist starts to curve. “And I’m struggling just now to think of anywhere better than right here.”

And then Eddie’s placing his fingers between Steve’s, just resting them in the middle spaces: they’d fit. So well.

They…will. They will fit fucking gloriously.

“My round, then,” though Steve’s lost count if they’re even, how many drinks they’ve actually had—not too many, he’s pleasantly buzzed at best and maybe more on the company than anything else if he’s honest, but he likewise doesn’t know how long they’re been there, sipping between baring their fucking souls in the most mundane ways that…

That Steve thinks have started to kindle something in him. Started to breathe life into a part of him he didn’t know was dormant, forgot he could feel until it started unfurling like this, deep in his chest.

“Need something to cut through the sugar,” he says idly, but he doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s breath catches when Steve tightens his fingers to catch Eddie’s before letting go, sliding the glass forward so the bartender can see and then he orders: “The Glenlivet 14,” he points; “neat,” then he glances at Eddie’s glass of melting ice—he’s been on Black Russians the whole time;

“Keeping at it, or something new?”

“You make a compelling argument for easing up the sweet,” Eddie cocks his head, taps his chin consideringly; “especially when you’re agreeing to remain as my company,” he shoots over a heated glance and a smile too big to be as wicked as Steve thinks Eddie might have aimed for but it doesn’t matter, it has the same bewitching, pulse-stuttering effect either way.

“Bulleit Rye, on the rocks,” Eddie taps his glass with a certain finality.

“A man after my own heart,” Steve comments with a nod; it’s a good order. He doesn’t think about the words themselves before they come out.

“And if I wanted to be?”

And then Steve thinks about the words with every goddamn cell in his body, like his blood repeats them and the electricity that works his brain as much as his heart is making little lightning storms around the comment, then the question, and then the implication because Steve…

Steve’s never wanted anything more. Steve’s never been offered anything even close and here’s this man? And he can’t be saying what Steve..thinks he has to be saying because what else can those words mean—

“Too quick?” Eddie pulls back the slightest bit and Steve misses him immediately; “I usually am, I’m so—“

Steve misses him, and will not have him doubting because Steve knows that feeling intimately, knows this man deserves none of it, and knows it’s anything but warranted when Steve’s heart, the one Eddie might want to be after, just took up leaping in his fucking chest like a goddamn gazelle.

So Steve doesn’t think, at all, when he grabs the hand Eddie placed on his a few minutes ago and cups it to his chest, the best proof he knows that can’t be overthought, or rationalized away.

Eddie’s eyes are confused, for a second, until he feels it.

And then: but, fuck.

Steve’s never watched a flower blossom all at once before but…that’s all he can think of with the slow crawl of a smile, the bright gleam of something like wonder in eyes that get impossibly wider, a chest that rises and falls heavy abd quick under the silk Steve wants to unbutton a little, see more of that milk-smooth throat save now that he’s looking, he can see enough to take note of Eddie’s pulse there: riotous.

It’s too good. It’s too much.

But Eddie feels it with his own hand. Steve sees it with his own eyes.

Here they are.

“That’s usually my line,” Steve finally exhales, tries to make it a joke between them, an understanding and maybe it works, maybe they’re both too distracted by the hinting promise of maybe never needing to have such a joke again:

“Not too quick.”

And Eddie stays there, riveted, beaming something blinding and Steve just…feels his own heartbeat. Under a hand that doesn’t seem inclined to want to move.

Not too quick.

Eddie blinks at him, almost like he’s waking up from something he wasn’t even aware he’d been sleeping through, or walking through half-dazed. Like he’s seeing something real for the very first time. His breaths are fast, a little shaky, and then he’s standing, pulling Steve’s hand from his chest up to Eddie’s mouth and kissing his knuckles, watching Steve every second as Steve’s own breath hitches, and then pulling away, but not letting go yet. Like he’s reluctant to.

“Let me hit the head real fast, throw some water on my face to make sure I’m not dreaming,” Eddie whispers to him, breathless still and looking almost like he’s trembling; “while he gets those poured,” he tips his head toward the bar where their drinks are still waiting their turn.

Then Eddie’s brining Steve’s hand to his lips again and whispering there, and yeah, the man’s shaking a little as he breathes, almost shy:

“Don’t go anywhere?”

As if it’s even a question.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve promises with all he’s got, because he thinks…it’s insanity, but he thinks maybe he walked so reluctantly into this bar however many hours ago and somehow, by some act of benevolent fate, he’s…found the man who’ll prove to be the love of his life?

Steve could not be moved for anything.

Eddie walks half-backward for how much he turns to look back at Steve, and Steve waves a few times, makes a few stupid faces just to see Eddie struggle not to giggle, and it’s…

He did say his chest was gonna be sore by the end of the night but, Jesus. He doesn’t know if he even has ribs left, or if they’re all broken, crushed to smithereens, for how full his chest feels. Nothing so common and simple as the bones of him could stand up to this and not be changed.

He smiles as he pulls his phone out—when was the last date he had where he didn’t look at his phone? Has he ever been on one before?—and he registers they’ve been sitting here, sharing themselves in a way that feels more like laying a foundation, deliberately, and that’s, that is…

Steve’s spent a very long time wishing for someone who’d want that, with him of all people. He was pretty sure he’d made his peace with never finding it. And then: here he is.

He bites his lower lip, lest his grin crack his face, when he thinks of texting Chrissy real quick and just…thanking her. Because, yeah.

Steve did, in fact, end up loving him.

Like…too-soon-but-for-real-pitter-patter-heart-skipping-beats shit.

So he thumbs open the chat and sees…unread messages.

He doesn’t full-on frown, too high on, just, everything, so he opens the texts before he can assume the worst of someone texting him during a date they, you know. Played a key role in setting up:

he may be running late for traffic, if you haven’t left please STAY I promise he is WORTH IT 🙏🏻💞

Steve’s not even sure Eddie was late, maybe they’d been sitting a few stools away for twenty minutes: it feels like a lifetime ago, now, and—

Then Steve sees the timestamp. Sent…like two hours ago.

He’d been at least two tequila sunrises in, with Eddie versus on his own, by then so, what was Chrissy even talking about—

He scrolls to the most recent message.

Seventeen minutes ago.

omg Steve I’m so sorry and *he* is so sorry, he’s absolutely cut up about this he’s still in traffic but he says he’s determined to try, he’s got flowers for you and everything he’s SUCH A GOOD GUY STEVE I swear I wouldn’t have done this if if I didn’t think he’d treat you like you deserve and this isn’t his fault, I even checked waze and it’s a mess but he understands if it’s too much and—

“Everything okay?”

Eddie’s already taken his seat, and is looking at Steve with polite interest, not leaning to see what’s on his screen like so many people do on instinct, but there’s actual concern underneath, and investment in it. Like whatever’s wrong, Eddie wants to help fix it.

Steve, reeling over the way the puzzle pieces are slotting into place—namely that, by all accounts, the earliest his intended date could have arrived was maybe ten minutes ago—looks up at Eddie, turns his phone screen-down on the bar and clears his throat, bites the bullet.

“This may seem like a,” Steve takes a deep breath, because he has to ask even if he is almost dead certain of the answer; “a kinda out-of-nowhere question but.”

And then Steve meets Eddie’s eyes square on, lets them wash over him and fucking hell: they steady him. Already, they’re an anchor for him in the worst of storms.

“Were you, by any chance, here for a blind date?”

Steve watches Eddie’s face cycle through maybe the five stages of…shock, more than grief given the context, he guesses, but they’re somehow closer to one another than Steve would’ve thought, definitely considering they only just met, though then he’s gotta consider that it feels like Eddie’s burrowed safe in his chest amidst all the blossoming joy, all the warm fullness like he lives there to be kept inside it always and also to maintain it, preserve it, as its sole cause and reason to be: but Eddie—Eddie looks at him with eyes that go wide, that fall with the rest of his face and then shutter a little, and that tears into Steve the hardest, to see something come up like barrier when Eddie’s the reason Steve feels so raw right now, and alive for it; he can’t let Eddie feel less than that, feel the need to pull back from that, from him—

Then he’s placid. Calm. Accepting.

But he deep wells in his eyes: they’re wet. They’re devastated, somehow.

And…no.

But before Steve can move, can speak: there’s a bright, colorful thing that stands out in his periphery—he catches it, flowers near the hostess stand—and his eyes flick to the person holding them, looking dismayed and definitely out of breath; attractive, brunet, weirdly familiar, and then he’s gesturing just so and…

Oh. Oh, that’s…

Steve made the comment two weeks ago, after the show he and Robin had gone to at the Gershwin, that he’d climb the lead like a goddamn tree. She’d groaned, pushed him into a nasty-ass wall that’d earned her the bill for dinner and drinks—but she’d had that look in her eye. And he’d ignored it but now—staring said lead, out of costume, still very handsome even while so fucking distraught, wilting more by the second as Steve tries not to stare too obviously, but then add in that Chrissy knowing half the standbys, that her being the reason they even got tickets, and Robin’s look—well.

“Theatrical” being…fucking literal, like a little clue, suddenly makes a whole lot of sense.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says it under his breath but there’s…way more disappointment than their objectively-brief encounter should merit as he processes, eyes already having followed Steve’s, and puts the pieces together: no matter how late, Steve’s very-probable blind date’s entered the building.

Which—if Eddie answers the question the way the resignation making its home on his face suggests he will—makes Eddie…

“No, sweetheart,” and Eddie’s gathering Steve’s hands slowly, gently, and his face is mostly lax and his mouth tries for a smile but it’s just this side of a grimace as his eyes, god, they’re so bright, like maybe if you can’t stare you won’t see the hurt but Steve doesn’t have to look long for it to burrow into his own chest and flay at his beating fucking heart.

“No, I wasn’t.”

And Eddie looks down at their hands, like he did before, and the tenor to the staring is wholly different, now, subdued and mournful, and Steve’s mind’s already made up but, if it hadn’t been?

The unthinkable reality of witnessing this beautiful man’s heartbreak would seal the deal entirely.

“You know what?” Steve grabs Eddie’s hands back, and squeezes them tight as he makes to stand:

“Neither am I.”

Eddie’s lips part, and his brow furrows, eyes cutting to the front entrance, to the flowers, to a man who isn’t him as if that man could ever somehow be preferable, be more…more anything—

“But,” Eddie tries to protest, confusion undergirding the heartbreak, holding it still. Like…like breathless waiting, held in a frightful uncertainty, like weighing hearts against feathers: some cosmic importance in the balance.

Steve honestly couldn’t agree more. He just already knows how this scale tilts.

“You wanna get out of here, continue this conversation at any of the hundreds of other bars nearby?” Steve says, buttoning his blazer and reaching out a hand, hoping it stays steady; praying Eddie will read his conviction, his certainty, his heart and want to reach back.

And all the slow-rotting sickness in his stomach trying to climb upward and puncture all the buoyant joyful wonder in him for for every second that ticks by without Eddie’s hand in his, it’s all wiped away, burned by the flame of wanting and then getting, of Eddie’s hand in his properly held and Steve was fucking right.

They fit together gloriously.

“It would be my heart’s-sworn honor, my liege,” Eddie breathes, like maybe he’s afraid to hope and Steve won’t have that; and he thinks he knows what Eddie’s saying, knows what the fanciful words mean but he needs to be sure, so he lifts a brow and waits until Eddie grins again so his dimples start to show and he huffs, relief in it:

“I’d fuckin’ love to.”

They down their drinks in one go, gather their things and leave double their bill, barely paying anything so much as a glance when they could look at each other and marvel instead. They walk out opposite the flowers, paying neither the blossoms nor their holder any mind. The thing blooming between them, in Steve’s chest all the bigger and full and brighter for every step he takes with Eddie’s hand in his: it’s so much more than anything with stems and leaves, that grows in the ground. Like Eddie’s glow is more than a star could even hope for. Like the sunshine that’s maybe not Steve at all, that’s really just this feeling, and the way that it grows—it’s beyond explaining. It’s held between their hands alone.

And maybe Steve will text Chrissy and explain, ask her to send his regrets to the theater guy. Tomorrow.

Then Eddie tugs him closer unexpectedly, his laughter all music as he brings Steve’s hand to his lips again, then to his chest where this time, Steve catches the wild gallop of his pulse as proof.

He doesn’t think either of them have a fucking clue where they’re headed. They have every option in front of them, and want nothing more than the touch of the other, and the promise it holds inside.

So Steve does the tugging, now; curls one hand around Eddie and draws him in, his hand caught between their chests so perfect and tastes the coffee liqueur beneath the rye on his tongue and thinks of nothing else, not texting, not set-ups, not waiting: because he’s here. Right here.

And Eddie’s heartbeat feels like home somehow already; the taste of him is nothing short of divine. They’re fully clothed on a New York street and this is the most intimate thing Steve’s maybe ever felt, after the most meaningful evening he’s maybe ever spent with anyone. At a bar. Drinking tequila and grenadine.

He starts laughing, right against Eddie’s lips, right into Eddie’s mouth, so maybe some of the joy will trickle down into his chest, inside his heart so he’ll know even just a fraction of the joy that’s making Steve feel not lighter than air, or dizzy with the speed of it all—but again, maybe for the very first time: real. Solid. Worth something this momentous.

And maybe—increasingly likely, even, as if that’s not the most incredible, unfathomable, heart-starting thought he’s ever entertained but he thinks maybe he might just actually have a shot here, or can even already say just a little bit that he’s—

Loved.

Fuck. Fuck.

Scratch maybe sending a text by tomorrow—he’ll process getting ahold of Chrissy (and that conniving girlfriend of hers) to invite them to the goddamn wedding.

Because right now? Steve’s kissing the man he’s gonna spend the rest of his life with, the man he’s going to live and die learning to love better with everything he is and ever could be: one hand pressed between both their chests, and it’s not too much because Eddie’s pressing them together tighter, body to body and hanging on like he’s trying to hold Steve’s heart in from the back of his ribs just in case; and it’s not too soon because it feels like every single goddamn thing he’s waited for his whole life, beating and clinging and gasping and melding into place finally, finally because it’s…everything. This is everything.

They are everything.

For @starryeyedjanai, who requested 'Wrong Number/Wrong Blind Date AU' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Three prompt 'Long' (which is employed in a couple of abstract ways here)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

[honeyblackberries]

sifting through the lucifer tags like a desperate miner looking for a crumb of gold because i want my beautiful workaholic husband from obey me not the bug eyed looking thing from hazbin

[mahi-does-some-art]

What if, instead of the Sorcerers' Society being just a small organization with a headquarters, it was instead a hidden city or capital where not only could sorcerers go to for assistance and to get their licenses, but could safely live and learn without having to put so much effort into hiding their magic from general human public? (Something similar to Witch Hat Atelier perhaps)

A hidden away capital with houses and apartments and magical shops selling everything a sorcerer would ever need. Where they can safely converse on the street and network and apprentices can talk to each other and swap tales of their lessons and masters.

Out in the expanse of the human world, it's hard to come by each other so having a place to live like that would be great.

But also it would make Solomon getting chased out by a dragon so much funnier (or sadder) since he and the mystery apprentice would have been the ones to found the Sorcerers' Society in the first place.

He would probably own his own house there and come back there whenever there was a meeting he had to attend or some urgent matter to discuss. Solomon wouldn't stay there longer than he usually had to and his property is usually empty.

But when sorcerers usually take in an apprentice, that apprentice lives with their master in order to make the most of learning opportunities and a lot of them tend to move back to the Sorcerers' Society for convenience.

If Solomon was able to convince MC to live with him for "educational purposes" completely separate from the brothers and Devildom, who's to say he wouldn't give living amongst his peers an honest try once more?

[izzystizzys]

“…I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand”, Fox says, for what must be the dozenth time that hour. His heartbeat pounds behind his eyes in an incessant drum of hurt, and his head aches with every breath like someone’s taken a rusty fork to the inside of his skull and raked his brain out. Fox’ eyes are beginning to burn the way they start doing around hour 80 of a shift, and he has to suppress the brief urge to check over his shoulder. Not even Stabby could come up with a ploy this contrived to make him sleep. Probably.

In front of him, General Grievous coughs awkwardly, long spindly durasteel limbs shivering with its force. “Certainly”, he vocalizes, in that deep, watery cadence. “For your glorious triumphs in battle, your awe-inspiring victory over me in close combat, and your undeniable warrior spirit, I accept you as my consort. I have proven my skills through the ritual capture, and thus, by Kaleesh custom, we are now wed, Commander Fox. I will honor you as my war-bride, and visit vengeance upon your enemies. I swear it to you.”

Expectantly, Grievous tilts his faceplate to the side, and Fox only just catches the suppression of the manic giggle that wants to escape him. Yeah, probably not Stabby - maybe a dying fever dream? Has the infected gash from that skirmish on the lower levels five rotations ago finally decided to end him? If so, it’s not fast enough for Fox’ tastes.

Here’s how it happened: Fox has no kriffing clue. All he knows is one moment an emergency alert tore him from precious Scream Closet time this morning, he went to rescue the Chancellor’s dumb ass again, and whoop, here he is on General Grievous’ ship with the war-criminal himself declaring them happily married. And eyeing him up and down like a piece of candy.

Why, Fox thinks, desperately, does this always have to happen to me?!

Chancellor’s still kidnapped, by the way. Fox has other priorities for the time being.

“I swear to aim my weapons in your service”, Grievous continues, when it becomes exceedingly clear Fox is not going to break out of his shocked stupor anytime soon. “I swear to aim true and strike with murderous intent, I swear to uphold the sacred bonds of our clans in the name of our union, I swear to raise a strong, bloodthirsty brood of warriors with-“

“Wait”, Fox interrupts, once his brain has caught up past the astromech dial-up sound it seems to be playing on repeat. “Uphold clan bonds? You murder your way through my brothers like a rabid nexu on spice on the regular!”

Grievous’ faceplate, which should be for all intents and purposes totally expressionless, does something that reminds Fox strangely of contrition. It has him gaping and shivering in discomfort, in any case. “A fact I regret, but acknowledge lies in my past before the fateful crossing of our paths. I am a warrior at soul, you must understand, my worthy mate.” Durasteel faceplates don’t turn soft. They don’t. And coughs don’t sound loving. They simply do not. “But I uphold the bonds of these sacred vows under Kaleesh law, that I swear to you, my beloved.”

“All I did was grapple you to the ground”, Fox says, mourningly. “Cody has kicked you in the head dozens of times and you’ve never tried to marry him.”

“He is not you, and his battle lacks the lustful vitality and love of violence of yours”, Grievous declares, and Fox really cannot tell whether the sound that erupts from him is a lovelorn sigh or a hacking death-gurgle. This cannot be his life.

Just then, a droid conveniently enters, putting a pause to all Fox’ sufferings. He’ll need to tell Thorn to research Kaleesh divorce proceedings. Or, better yet - he needs to blow up this whole karking ship including himself and destroy all evidence of this ever happening.

“Generals Kenobi and Skywalker awaiting in custody, Sir”, says the droid, nervously. “They are here to rescue Chancellor Palpatine, but we cut them off just out of the hangar bay.”

Internally, Fox rolls his eyes so hard it hurts his brain. “The Jedi can wait”, Grievous hacks out, and for once Fox agrees with him. Let the two dick around onboard, there’s bigger issues at hand.

“But Sir”, says the droid, all twitchy with an anxiety Fox eternally wonders who the kriff programmed into the damn things, “what if they try to escape and -“

A deep, growling noise erupts from deep within Grievous’ massive metal chest, amplifying Fox’ pounding headache by a thousandfold. “I have no time for this”, he snarls at the cowering droid. “Remove yourself from my and mine beloved’s sight.”

“Roger Roger”, the B2 squeaks, hesitantly, before adding on - “The Chancellor-“

Harrumphing petulantly, Grievous stomps one massive, clawed foot and makes what feels like the whole viewdeck shake. “I will twist his head off his body like a rotten fruit”, he declares. “That will get those pesky Jedi off my ship faster, and then we can continue saying our vows.” He pauses, thoughtfully, and then hooded eyes ringed by what must surely be rotten flesh fix on Fox inexorably. “It will be my wedding gift to you, beloved, an offering of peace to your brothers.”

Fox opens his mouth to protest, but quickly snaps it shut again when his husband already turns tail and storms off.

Huh. Maybe this marriage thing isn’t all bad.

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

solomon couldn't stand your pact marks.

well, no, that wasn't the right way to put it. he was proud, even jealous of your pacts. they were one of the many admirable things about you! he just hated... looking at them. he knew what other people thought when they saw them.

when one would see those marks on your skin for the first time, they would be able to get a glimpse at your relationship with the brothers. one of trust and respect, gathered from just a glance. meanwhile, one would have to be told about his and your relationship. one look at you couldn't decipher all the time you two have shared together, filled with chatting between classes, practicing magic for hours, and endless love.

at first, solomon tried to mitigate this with his own marks upon your skin. wearing lipstick as he placed a kiss on your neck, a few stray bite marks from your time together at night. but those, while fun, were temporary. and solomon needed something permanent.

why not a ring?

(Hope you don't mind me adding on, anon. Thank you for the delicious meal! Literally so honored to read your beautiful work! 🥹)

Getting the ring was the easy part. Getting you away from the brothers long enough to propose...was not.

The lengths Solomon went through to be able to have a private moment with you might put him in a record book as the three realms' most whipped man. With the mask of his "shady" persona secured, he lets his silver tongue weave him through these seven obstacles, the sin of each dripping from it with only you on his mind.

Swallowing his pride, breathing in greed, spitting out envy...his wrath, lust, gluttony, and sloth. A vicious rinse, repeat until he's either buttered them up or grated them down until they finally gave in. But he did it. With the day cleared of any interruptions, his plans were set in motion.

He decides to have a redo of your very first date, flying you up and walking in the sky amongst the stars. It's just the two of you against the ever inky black sky of the Devildom, a place that has become synonymous with your presence. Only this time, there are no surprise gales, no surprise drones -- just the surprise of a velvet heart-shaped box in the inside pocket of his coat.

Solomon brings up fond memories of your time together as you both near the spot he's picked to pop the question. He's filled with a giddy glee that soon you'll have something that binds you to him, something to show the world you're his.

Still, there's a little voice in the back of his head reminding him that you could say no. That perhaps he's not worthy. Does he deserve to have matching rings adorned on his and your fingers forevermore? Does he dare stand by your side as your equal when you are, in fact, so far above him?

He decides it's best not to dwell on such thoughts as this is meant to be a happy occasion, as long as all goes well.

Your feet touch the ground once he lowers you both on top of a cliff that overlooks the Devildom, the moon hanging brightly above. As you take in the magnificent sight, he lowers himself on one knee behind you, waiting with bated breath for you to turn on your own volition.

The moment you do, he knows he'll have to keep this memory stored away with his magic, just staring in awe. The moon is angled just right that it shines right behind your head like a halo. Your eyes are as wide as saucers while your jaw is slacked. With the way you look, he truly wonders if he's in the Celestial Realm.

Nervously, Solomon begins his improvised speech after clearing his throat, "my dearest apprentice, it is with great honor that I'm knelt before you tonight. I have dreamt of this moment more than I'd care to admit, yet I never thought it'd come true. But here I am, willing to give you all of me, if you're willing to give me all of you. You are the sun to my moon, the air in my lungs, the very reason why I believe I've lived so long. I was always meant to find you and work side by side to protect the human realm together. And most importantly, to love you. So, please do this old sorcerer a favor...by marrying me..."

He pulls out the ring box, opening it to offer you the ring within. The blessed box is shaking as he trembles, waiting patiently for your answer.

Happy tears spring from his eyes once you say, "yes." The ring is carefully slipped onto your finger, and a single word comes to Solomon's mind.

Mine.

[favvn]

There's something about the phrasing of "must die," how that's specifically haunting for Jim to hear, both because of his ideals and his past on Tarsus IV as one of the last survivors of Kodos' massacre. But to have Spock's life endangered twice after the "you must let the woman you love die or the future, millions of others' lives, and your own life will be lost" episode? And to have Jim himself ask, "Why must he die?" after the episode where Spock was ready to be killed if a cure wasn't found for the parasitic creatures inducing madness in their hosts, and in that same episode Jim--unprompted--tells Spock, "I need you" and never once suggests getting a replacement First Officer? God. I need to lie down.

[umlewis]

via tommyhilfiger's ig story - september 19, 2024

[enixamyram]

So I saw someone complaining about Chaggie not showing enough physical affection like Fizz and Ozzie do. And someone replied saying they were more like Bee and Tex and yes! This is my new favourite comparison! A lovely sweet couple who is just chill and in love!

[princessasmosprincess]

HE IS GOING TO BE THE DEATH OF ME I SWEAR 🫠🫠🫠

[leiawritesstories]

rowaelin dating show fic?❤️ also i love your work!!

there aren't nearly enough heart emojis to express how ecstatic this ask made me feel ❤💕❤ here please have all of my love and a little something i whipped up 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

~~~~~~~~

The first date had been an absolute disaster.

Aelin didn't typically give such terrible reviews, but she was only being honest. The date with--what was his name again? Oh, right, Sam--had gone so poorly that even calling it a "trainwreck" would be generous. And she had even cut the guy some slack for being a half-nervous wreck the whole time.

Perils of dating The Bachelorette live on camera, or something.

Hell, even Aelin had taken weeks to get used to the eerie sensation of the cameras watching and recording everything, lurking in the background and waiting to send off their footage to some team of producers who'd no doubt edit a perfectly innocent exchange into sordid tabloid headlines. Never in a million years would she have guessed that she'd be chosen as the Bachelorette; also, never would she have guessed that she'd be enjoying the experience so much.

Since arriving at the shoot location, it had been a whirlwind of meeting the crew, negotiating what she was and was not willing to have filmed, negotiating social media, meeting her agent and manager, and getting a rundown on the twenty-four men who'd be competing for...well, for her. She'd received dossiers on each man and had read each file thoroughly, noting down the few that stood out to her.

Sam Cortland, 25, software designer. Fairly wealthy, boyishly attractive, had a charming dimple that appeared when he grinned, he was the only contestant who'd made her genuinely smile during the first episode.

Fenrys Moonbeam (yes, it was his actual name), 26, photographer and occasional male model. The man was a treat for the eyes, all height and muscles and espresso-toned skin and silky-soft golden curls that Aelin was jealous of. If nothing else, she'd have to steal his haircare routine.

And...Rowan Whitethorn, 28, entrepreneur--according to his file, at least. He hadn't hesitated to share that he was, in fact, the egregiously wealthy CEO of his own company, which he'd built from the ground up. The casual arrogance that had rolled off of him as he spoke about his business success was almost enough for Aelin to rethink her appreciation of his physical beauty.

Aelin sighed deeply as she strode up the front steps of her villa, painfully aware of the cameras tracking her steps, unlocked her front door, went in, and locked the door behind her. She'd been very clear that her villa was filming-free unless she invited a camera crew inside, and gods, she needed the space to just breathe. And kick her expensive shoes across the floor. And muffle a strangled scream in a designer throw pillow that probably cost more than her whole set of bedroom furniture.

Gods, that date with Sam had been an absolute nightmare. It had started off so well, with the two of them sharing easy conversation and laughing over the delicious dinner, but as soon as he'd said he wanted to take her on a "romantic stroll through the rose garden," Aelin had felt her stomach churn.

It was so...cliché. Painfully cliché. Whatever sparks she'd felt when she met Sam had been snuffed right out after that date.

Which left her two possible options: the gorgeous, flirtatious rogue whose slow grin could make her panties disappear, or the gorgeous, arrogant CEO whose dangerous smirk sent her heartbeat pounding.

Either way, she was headed straight for trouble.

[lesbianwithchainsaws]

Annie Edison watching But I'm a Cheerleader and having her lesbian realisation while watching

[reddamselette]

at a skating rink and i thought about valgrace so

valgrace except leo is a pro skater. he can spin around and practically just dance while on wheels but jason? he cannot skate for the life of him.

so leo takes jason’s hands, tells him to bend his knees and find a balance, to find a rhythm in the music and just let go; feel it. jason does, of course, after they skate in their third circle because in reality, he’s been distracted by leo and his bright smile. jason catches the way leo sways to the beat, mouths the lyrics if he knows the songs but brown irises are kept on him, forever him.

it’s in that moment, jason falls in love with leo.

[muirmarie]

Me: I joke about writing the same McCoy centric story over and over again in different ways

Me: and like. I love doing it and imma keep doing it because it makes me happy.

Me: but also. I do sometimes wonder if it's like. A little Much.

Me: like maybe I should branch out or something

Me: [reads another fundamental and extremely insulting misread of McCoy's character by someone who is clearly making a Choice to cast McCoy as the villain, because they have to get him out of the way of spirk, because they're too???? idk immature??? to realize that even when you're in a relationship with one person, other ppl can and SHOULD still be important to you]

Me: lmao I hope I AM too much actually!!!! I hope it is 100% obnoxious how much I love that doctor!!!!! Time to write more versions of the same story of McCoy being forced to realize that he is loved and cared for!!!!!!

Me: I KNOW MY NICHE AND IMMA DIE IN THAT NICHE, THANKS

[typicalopposite]

Tommy surprises Buck with a date in the sky…

…except it’s a hot air balloon date (because of course Tommy knows how to fly one) and now old hurt feelings are resurfacing no matter how hard Buck is trying to push them away…

And Tommy picks up on how weird Bucks suddenly being because— of course he does… and when he asks Buck tries to deny it and avoid it and talk about literally anything else but Tommy presses on until Buck finally caves and tells him about Abby and how the failed hot air balloon date is really where things started going down hill.

And sure, Tommy seems a little disappointed that the date wasn’t as romantic as he’d wanted it to be but he understands— because of course Tommy understands. He even offers to cut the flight short if it’s making Buck uncomfortable and somewhere in the middle of Tommy not judging Buck for reminiscing on a past relationship and Tommy offering to change the plans he made for this date to accommodate Bucks feelings it’s like the last piece of this puzzle that is Evan Buckley finally slots into place; it’s like he has come full circle; like all the painful memories of Abby — and Taylor and Ali and Natalia — have just paved the way for him to be the person he is now. The person he wants to be for Tommy.

“Actually can we— can we stay up a little longer,” he says softly, stepping closer so the Tommy can wrap his free arm around Buck’s waist.

“Of course,” Tommy says, pressing a kiss into Bucks temple, and the hot air balloon drifts through the sky as Buck leans in for an actual kiss, whispering three words against Tommy’s lips as he pulls back. Tommy smiles and Buck holds his breath. Because this is him living up to his reputation of leaping off the cliff without the gear needed to catch him and prevent him from crashing at the bottom.

Except— Except he’s firmly wrapped in Tommy’s embrace, and there is no falling, there is not crashing. He is safe.

Tommy says it back. And maybe everyone will say it’s way too soon to feel this way… but everyone’s not here to hear them. The only thing around them is the sky… and it won’t tell a soul.