#prompt: devotion

[the-dancing-coeurl]

Mayqo'te- Devotion

She couldn't move, all she could focus on doing was breathing. Dried blood began to wash off E'venna's face as the tears began to fall again. She lost, failed in the final match of the tournament. She kept getting back up, again and again. But it wasn't enough. She wasn't good enough.. When her family came to check on her she reassured them all she was fine, a smile forced upon her face. She couldn't show them. She could never show them. Telling them all she would catch up later E'venna waited until her family had began the trip back home before leaving herself. She only made it part way home before collapsing in the side of an alley, unable to continue standing. E'venna curled up tight on the cold stone ground. "It was still worth it." She tries to rationalize to herself. "For them, it's always worth it." She couldn't give up, not while the people she loved dearly still needed her. And while she didn't win, the prize money for being runner up would surely still be a big help...wouldn't it? Of course it will...anything for them...anything...anything...

---------- Mayqo'te prompt list I'm following can be found here

[drowsy-fantasy]

TES SUMMERFEST 23

August 9th – forgotten or devotion

Written by @drowsy-fantasy and @orfeoarte

Read on AO3!

Please note content for each chapter will vary, though none include graphic violence or explicit sexual content. Viewer discretion is advised.

Accompanying art piece can be found here.

[starry-bi-sky]

don't you want to be a cult leader? - danyal al ghul au

this is mostly a joke post but i thought it was funny and had to share so--

his first mistake was, obviously, inheriting his father's inability to see an injustice and stand still. -- actually, danyal's first mistake was his lair being so big. a mountainous island with a large temple in the center resembling his old home in Nanda Parbat? With sprawling foliage and rivers and streams and waterfalls galore? What was he going to do with all that space? Let it go to waste? He had plants there! Native trees of the ghost zone growing from the soil! He couldn't let it all be left unchecked!

So naturally after helping a fellow teenage assassin ghost -- who he later learns is named Akihiko, -- from Walker of all people, he sent them over to hang low at his lair until it was safe enough for them to wander around the Zone. Walker couldn't get through Danyal's astrofield if his life depended on it, and trust him -- he's tried. Danny was clearing out debris from his stupid transport vans for weeks.

Honestly it wasn't so bad, he and Aki really quickly became fast friends and Danny loves having a sparring partner close to his level again -- he hasn't had this much fun fighting since he left the League. Aki was very dedicated and levelheaded, the both of them clicked really well because of it.

Nonono, the real trouble began after Danyal met some long-passed League members and allowed them to come join his island as well. Apparently they had made a few enemies of the zone, and maybe Danyal still felt some loyalty to the League. He couldn't just let them be left to rot. Their zealotry could be overlooked so long as they kept it contained and helped him take care of his island.

And it.. snowballs from there? He meets a teen squire aptly calling himself Ambroise -- whether that was his living name or not is yet to be seen -- who died during feudal france, who is just about as dramatic and passionate as every french stereotype makes them out to be. He calls Danyal "my moon and great muse" -- which is both flattering and little uncomfortable, but Danyal's grown up in the League as the Grandson of the Demon Head, he is used to mild worship. he passes it off as nothing more, nothing less. -- and while his energy is overwhelming on the worst of days, he helps Danny draw out of his shell more in ways that Sam and Tucker still struggle with.

Him and Aki butt heads a lot, but the two seem to hold the other in at least some positive regard, so Danny doesn't worry too much about them fighting while he's gone. It only becomes a mild issue when Aki also begins calling Danny "my moon". It's a little sweet, so Danyal brushes it off.

Then he takes in a troupe of ghosts some time after he defeats Pariah Dark and they begin calling him "great one" just as the yetis do in the far frozen. This is where he meets the twins -- a pair of sibling ghosts who call themselves Trixie and Missy (short for Trick and Mislead) -- who aren't quite as passionate as Ambroise but more energetic than Aki. Eventually they also start calling Danyal "my moon" and attach themselves to his hip, even within the living. They like to hide in his shadow and cause trouble for the rest of the students. He makes sure they don't hurt anyone.

He's pretty sure Aki is jealous, same with Ambroise, but he can't be too certain other than the fact that they become much more lingering (re: clingy) whenever he visits the island.. Something he's trying to do much more often these days due to the increasing amount of people living there now. Since when did he become so popular?

Then there's Pēnelópeia from the Greater Athens, who ran away from home and joined his Island after he ran into her while she was being chased by Skulker -- and he's pretty sure the reason was because of her chimeric appearance. Her strange eyes and mismatched wings and lion's tail and talons. She assimilates into his friend group very easily, she gets along well with Ambroise and Trixie and Danny usually finds the three of them climbing the trees to pluck the most fruit from the top. They can fly and he knows it, but they prefer to climb.

Then finally there's silent poet Akkara who comes from ancient mesopotamia, who gets along most with Aki -- which is no surprise there considering their similar personality dispositions. he watches Aki and Danyal fight each other and leaves comments on this or that that he notices. He writes Danyal poems on clay tablets and leaves them by his room.

They're one big mismatched group of outcasts, and Danny's got the other ghosts on his island to tend to, because they're living on his island and he wants to be hospitable even if he struggles with that. But he spends the most of his time with them.

Sam and Tucker are making fun of him. Tucker jokingly tells him 'careful Danny, at this rate you're gonna start a cult'. Danny really wishes he had taken that joke more seriously.

He just. keeps. collecting people. Wayward souls lost in the zone, looking for shelter or refuge from something or other -- whether that be another hostile ghost, or a past afterlife, or just a purpose. Danyal finds them, he takes them in, offers them a place on his island until they are ready to leave. Many seldom do. He's not complaining -- he has the space, and it feels like it's only ever growing.

His close friends, his "inner circle" as he's heard the others call them, keep insistently calling him "my moon". He starts calling them his stars, because then it only feels fair. They're his stars, this is his constellation. It becomes a thing; little star halos begin forming behind their heads, picking them out from the rest. He loves them so much, it's hard to place. Sam and Tucker are also his stars, but they reside in the living realm, they're his tie to Life. Meanwhile, his friends here know what it's like to be dead, and sometimes its nice to relate.

Those living on his island keep calling him "Great One" and he's beginning to notice zealotry in their care for his island. He really, deeply appreciates it. His close friends gain nicknames -- as his stars, it's only natural for him to pick them out from the cluster in the skies. Akihiko, his Sirius and bright star. Trix and Missy, Castor and Pollux, the twins and troublemakers. Ambroise, his zealous Antares and close friend. Penelopeia, chimeric and loyal Vega. And Akkara, his Arcturus and strength.

It's ridiculous how long it takes for him to notice; he is, of course, a deadly trained assassin. He is meant to be observant -- and normally he is! But somehow this becomes a blind spot. One that becomes too big to be dealt with by the time he realizes it.

He should've noticed when Aki, his Sirius, stood beside him one day while Danyal looked over his island and saw the sprawling spirits carrying on about their afterlife and bowing to him as they saw him, and said: "I looked down into the depths when I met you; I couldn't measure it." They aren't one for flowing prose, it took him so off guard he was silent for over a minute before he finally spoke.

Danyal should've recognized devotion for what it is, and yet he didn't. He should've recognized it when Antares began spouting praises about him, crowing about his radiance and resplendence to the heavens. He just brushed it off as Ambroise being Ambroise. He should've recognized it when Trix and Missy nearly broke Dash's leg after he knocked Danyal's books out of his hands, he excused it as them being protective. Of them coming from times where such violence may have been customary -- after all, that's what he used to be like. What he was still like, sometimes, when his emotions nearly got the better of him.

He should've noticed it when the people living on his island followed his word like gospel, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. When his friends gifted him a shawl with the moon phases delicately embroidered into it, with silver, shimmering thread and moving stars lovingly stitched into it. Their constellations seen clear as day in the dark fabric. When he found small shrines dedicated to him -- but they lacked any image of him beyond stones carved to look like moons, so he ignored it. When the religious imagery began popping up.

He really, really should've noticed it when a bunch of cultists accidentally summoned Antares, and Antares had turned to him when he arrived and called them heretics. But he was so centered on the fact that they had kidnapped one of his stars, that he hadn't paid much attention to what Ambroise had said.

Sages say that faith is blind, they should also say faith in you is even blinder.

It really only hits him one afternoon while he's sitting in Sam's room studying with Tucker, Missy and Trixie lounging at his feet, Aki sat on his right, Penelopeia braiding his hair, Ambroise draped against him, and Akkara lurking over him. Its one of the rare few times they're all in one room together.

It hits him like a bolt of lightning. He looks up from his textbook. "Oh Ancients," he says in no amounting shock. Everyone looks up to him.

"I've become my grandfather."

[stars-obsession-pit]

Danyal and Damian grew up in the League together, but they’re not related; some other member just happened to also have a kid at a similar time to Talia.

Damian outranks the other boy by a significant margin, but they still manage to interact sometimes. It’s not like there’s many other kids to socialize with.

And, well, Damian starts to fall. He may still be young, but he can feel how deep his emotions run. As the heir to the Demon’s Head, he has access to treasures beyond reckoning, but the only treasure that he truly desires is Danyal at his side.

Then one day, Danyal never returns from a mission.

Damian slaughters every last person connected to the target. It doesn’t change a thing. Danyal is still gone. He’ll never forgive them for that. Nor the League, for that matter. Regardless of if it was their fault, they sent his love on the mission that took him away from him.

But for now, he’ll continue to make use of their resources. No stone will be left unturned until he finds the truth of what happened to his love. Even if he has to make use of the Pits, they will be reunited.

Meanwhile, many miles away, Danyal lets out a sigh of relief. It seems his plan worked; there’s no sign of anyone having come after him.

He spares only a brief thought to the boy he left behind. A part of him regrets leaving the other boy, but only a small part. The Demon’s Heir seemed happy with his life in the League. He doubts the other boy will care about the loss of a nobody like him, even if they had interacted occasionally.

Besides, he has far more immediate concerns at the moment, like staying off the League’s radar and finding where to go next. He should probably leave the country at minimum, but then what? He doesn’t want to have to keep running forever just to avoid going back. He wants to be free.

[aipurjopa]

prom activities

[mischievous-thunder]

The chemistry they have with each other is ethereal

[tes-summer-fest]

[Image ID: A digital drawing of an elf facing sideways in front of a golden stained glass background, wearing a magenta and yellow suit. His arms are stretched forward to rest on a cane. He has pale skin and hair, and his face is hidden in shadow. End ID]

TES Summer fest day 5 - Forgotten/Devotion

Technically this applies for the both of them heh. Valiel after becoming Sheogorath slowly forgets himself and the people he once loved.

[ace-bucket]

CATWS Anniversary Day 10 - Devotion

@catws-anniversary

[mellohiizz]

my life is a chaotic mess rn, but i finally got around to drawing for the #lsyuriweek !! very late, but i really want to finish it. took me some time to figure out what i wanted to do for the prompts, though..... notes/yapping about it below ig??

[1] okay so day one was the hardest to figure out cause i couldn't decide between mutiny duo or devotions. but i've been having so much thoughts about devotions recently, and i really wanted to draw them. [i'll do mutiny for day 4!!] using blood as lipstick, maybe? [2] i had to do something with eclipse, and i just knew that i wanted to draw them for the death/rebirth prompt. angst, sorry,i'm not happy about it either... there's some symbolism i guess? idk man, i'm just sad about them...

[3] also a prompt that took me a while to figure out but i ended up settling down on doing jumper and squiddo ^_^ im not sure if they have a duo name or something?? but i find them cute, so there!! taking your gf flying <33

[tes-summer-fest]

Image ID: Three digital artworks of Skyrim characters. The first has a green background and shows Cicero, shown from the back without his jester outfit, oiling the corpse of the Night Mother. The second has an orange background and shows Neloth, an angry dark elf with his hands planted on a desk by an open book, facing away from an irate dark elf woman bringing him a cup of tea. A speech bubble above their heads both shows a picture of the tea. The third picture has a blue background and shows Gelebor, a snow elf, shoulder to shoulder with Vyrthur, a snow elf. Both are grinning slyly and Vyrthur rests his cheek on his gauntlet.

Somewhere in the past...

for @tes-summer-fest Day5 : devotion

[hitlikehammers]

draw me like one of your french girls ♥️ steddie ✨established relationship✨ future fic (specifically 1997, I wonder why 🚢🧊)

“Draw me.” Eddie blinks, comes back into the still-warm-and-soft here and now. “What?” “I want you to draw me,” Steve’s tone is pitched a little particularly, so it takes a second to sink in but: oh my god. Now the robe makes sense.  Or: late 90s!Steddie see Titanic (of course) and get ideas.

rating: m ♥️ tags: established relationship, future fic: 1990s, late 90s rockstar husbands, baby, boys being ✨inspired✨ by nudity on film cinematic history being made, it was ARTISTIC DAMNIT, fluff, romance, softness, Eddie Munson is not a portraitist, (please don’t hold that against him), he believes with every cell in his body in the truth of his husband being the most stunning human being in the history or future of the entire cosmos despite however his attempt to capture it may suggest otherwise ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-two: 🎬 Titanic

“What?”

Eddie asks it—holds off a while because he loves the feeling of Steve’s eyes on him, and prolonging the sensation is generally his go-to tactic—but eventually he asks it: soft and warm and as gooey as it’s been for just over a decade, now, so he doesn’t foresee it changing, like, probably ever.

He’s good with that.

“Your fingers,” Steve comes up to him in a robe that lives on the hook on the back off the door in the bathroom, but Eddie has genuinely never worn, nor seen Steve in before. They tend to either get dressed or just stay naked.

“Why?” Eddie puts the pencil near-down to its nib down and wiggles them around in a bid for seduction that always lands in absurdity instead, and almost works better for it as he commits to the low purr in his tone as he asks:

“Giving you…ideas?”

And Steve does smile, warm and pillow soft, reaches and catches those fingers and slides his touch up their lengths, caresses the knuckles, sends shivers down Eddie’s spine for it so fucking delicious; so perfect.

Steve’s so fucking perfect, in every way, for every part of Eddie, his soul slid into place just right: it takes Eddie’s breath away all the time but sometimes it just…hits him.

This really is his life.

“Draw me.”

Eddie blinks, comes back into the still-warm-and-soft here and now.

“What?”

“I want you to draw me,” Steve’s tone is pitched a little particularly, so it takes a second to sink in but: oh my god.

Now the robe makes sense. Seeing as they spent the whole three-hours-and-fuck-knows-how-many-minutes in those shitty theatre seats last weekend just to argue about the floaty-capacities of doors in saltwater to the point of calling Dustin for further insight—who was absolutely no help beyond yelling ‘It’s called buoyancy!’ and hanging up on them which: rude.

Anyway: it all makes his answer easy enough.

“Like one of my French girls?” He flutters his eyes until his lashes catch on themselves.

Steve’s grin, though, is somehow shark-like and coquettish all at once as Eddie twirls his hair around his index finger and bites his lower lip, never breaking eye contact while Steve closes the distance between them a little more.

“Wearing this,” and he pulls the chain that never leaves his neck out from the crossed ‘v’ of his robe: the red pick Wayne had given him back after his demise had finally be allowed to come out as greatly exaggerated; the tie of a bread bag that’d long lost the papery covering and was worn down enough not to poke or scratch; and the plastic half-moon of a ring pop, broken off the rest of the setting and joined with the finest of duck tape to make the ring complete. The story of their…their everything, so far. The promises they’ve made, and the way they keep each of the them close to the heart every second.

Wearing this.

Fuck you if you think that doesn’t sting in Eddie’s eyes a little.

“And only this.”

It’s a rumble. It’s a tease. It’s lidded eyes and fire under lashes. It’s a visceral kick of Eddie’s heart to the cage of his ribs.

“Jesus fuck, Stevie,” Eddie exhales slow, a little shaky. “I’m not actually an artist.”

Steve’s brow quirks immediately.

“Bullshit.”

And Eddie ducks his chin, bits his lip against a grin: Steve still to this day uses that word sparingly. Only when he means it.

Eddie loves him for so many reasons; for all that he is. His blind faith in Eddie himself is…not a small thing that Eddie loves.

But it remains blind, and apt right now because Eddie may have artistic panache in the musical realms but…drawing?

“And portraits,” he whines a little because seriously, people-drawing is a whole other beast on top of everything—but Steve just eyes him, unwavering.

And Eddie is weak before the wants of his husband; this man that he loves more than lungs long for air.

“You can’t judge me for what comes of this.”

Steve’s grin is blinding, and Eddie’s heart shifts from kicking to fluttering for it, as always.

“You also can’t think that I could ever think you look as horrible as this is going to turn out,” Eddie wags a finger at him, almost daring him to back out, but also just as much daring him to try to make that case because Eddie has never, ever, believed in anything less than Steve’s otherworldly beauty, or been anything less than vocally and persistently worshipful about it.

Oddly, that’s what softens Steve’s grin into a smile, like he’s watching Eddie through eyes that see the same in reverse—insanity. But Eddie feels the caramely warmth washing through him again for it, and, fuck.

Of course he was always gonna play along with whatever Steve wants. Of course he was.

“Over on the couch then, Mister Harrington,” Eddie gestures grandly, and Steve wastes no time, drops his robe and stretches languid, nudges the chain on his chest just a little before mimicking the scene from the movie as best he can, hand lifting the still-near-constant coif of his hair all the higher; all the more tantalizing for the way the tendons in his neck stand out for the angling it encourages.

Eddie swallows hard, feels his pulse in his throat.

Holy fuck, but he’s a lucky son of a bitch, ain’t he?

So Eddie…gives himself a few stretched-long minutes to appreciate his stretched-long lover laid out for his appreciation before the nerves get to him because…it’s not false modesty. Eddie doesn’t think he knows what false modesty actually is.

So he wants fucking demurring or whatever when he said he can’t draw real people for shit. Let alone Adonis-like subjects such as the one whose only indication of the years that have passed are every possible hint that he’s gonna be the finest fucking wine the world’s ever sampled.

And the only one who gets to sample is Eddie fucking Munson.

Again: lucky fucking son of a bitch.

The minutes turn to hours, Eddie thinks so at least. He takes ample time in the parts of Steve’s form that demand that most attention—all of him does, really and truly, but some things…lend to themselves not just to the aesthetic eye but to even attempting to capture appropriately. Even by the less-than-amateur.

Steve asks if he can stretch just a little, if the arm he wants to shake out is safe from fucking up Eddie’s composition—as if Eddie needs any help doing that.

“You know I think every part of you is gorgeous,” Eddie bites at his lower lip and looks over the top of his little sketchpad; “nothing in the cosmoscompares, never has,” and Steve smiles at him indulgently, like he does when he knows Eddie’s being genuine, even if he thinks that genuineness is a little over the top—the amount of latitude Eddie’s earned over the years is impressive, in that regard. Might have something to do with just…loving someone this big. Adoring your partner thisdeep.

“Never will,” he adds, tone low and a little breathy, as he runs the tip of a fingernail over his work—he could try and fix a few things, here and there, but.

He’s never gone get it right, so.

“The muscle here,” he traces it on the paper—Steve’s left pec, he put extra care into the bits of Steve’s body he maybe worship most frequently—then touches the paltry twin on his own body, since he hasn’t turned the final product yet for Steve’s appraisal.

“And the way your hips kinda curve here,” Eddie moves his own hand to the jut where Steve’s hands still hand in judgement when he’s scolding someone for being a shitstain.

“You sure that’s my hip there, that’s curving?” Steve raises a brow; he’s not self-conscious, but he’s also implying something fucking nonsensical. Yeah, the whole Party had been faced with how they’d spent literal years as soldiers, so with the actually end of it all, when it came, they all made the slow-crawl journey from survival to looking like well-fed humans who sometimes got sleep. if Eddie’s honest, a healthy Steve Harrington, where he’s leveled and mostly stayed since maybe ‘89, definitely not later than ‘92, is his favorite. Because it’s his Steve right now, and his Steve is playful, bitchy, happy.

And the way he’s trying to find enough flesh to pinch to make his non-point is silly, really, like his smile. Maybe because he knows it’s moot. Or maybe because Steve could be the size of a woman with six nuggets in her belly and he’d love this man with everything he is in the exact same fucking way.

And Steve? He’s finally come to know that, and believe that, in this bones.

“You’re exquisite,” Eddie waves off the specifics to focus again on his very uneven show of anything like skill on the drawing in his hands; “I don’t know what’s different just now, all of a sudden,” he tilts his head, studies the parts he put real effort into, then flicks his eyes back up to Steve, gaze narrow, precise before he meets Steve’s warm-waiting eyes:

“I drink you in as much as I can every goddamn day,” Eddie murmurs low, and the slow stretch of Steve’s lips in response is hot in the pit of his belly.

“It’s like your body was waiting for enough peace,” and he ventures to add; “enough happiness,” and Steve smiles even bigger for that one:

“For you to really grow into it,” Eddie ultimately decides, after mentally comparing first times in his memories to the exquisite display spread out before him now; “in, like, this way that made the whole thing glow,” and he can’t stay sitting, he needs to stand, to cross even just this little space between them to get closer, to touch the places on Steve’s body that song to him just now in a heavenly pitch, as Steve’s everything always does; fuck if that body doesn’t write half Eddie’s songs for him, just to witness and call his own.

“Like it was waiting for every inch of you to soak up you, and fully come alive,” and he puts his sketchbook on the table; cups Steve’s cheeks, then, fully breaks the pose and traces those cheekbones, glorious, glorious, back and forth as he breathes:

“You’re stunning, Steven Harrington.”

Steve smiles a little smaller, sweeter, private almost and he tips his chin to better catch Eddie’s touch.

“Please don’t think anything less,”Eddie whispers as he drops a kiss at the corner of Steve’s lips and hisses fierce: “ever.”

Steve hums, and then reaches for Eddie in kind, traces his cheeks before catching his gaze and saying so soft and sweet:

“Show me the sketch.”

God-fucking-damnit.

It’s not like Eddie didn’t mean every word, okay? He means all of it and more with his whole fucking soul.

He was just hoping he’d be able to kinda…distract his beloved from the original reason for the present situation. Ideally with the introduction of a newsituational, capitalizing on Steve’s already delicious nude body.

Eddie really should have known better; Steve’s had his number clocked for fucking years.

“No,” Eddie tries a hail-Mary—he’s learned things over the years too, so, ha—capturing Steve’s lips full-on, relentless in drawing moan after moan from Steve’s throat, licking into his mouth, crawling over him to press—

“Eddie.”

And he pauses mid-climb, dick not even fully pressed to Steve’s yet, to see one of Steve’s hands darted out on top of Eddie’s sketchpad. Turned over, deliberately, just Steve’s eyes are unmistakable: he won’t violate Eddie’s privacy, that’s a long-established trust for them, especially when it comes to any form of the artistic process—but.

But.

“You’ll think I was just yammering bullshit because you’ll see what I drew which, again,” Eddie groans as he makes himself sit back on his thighs, straddled near Steve’s knees. “I doodle creatures for fake games and little mini-maps of squares to judge distances, that’s not,” and he peters off, doesn’t even know how to quite say I think you’d give the artists hanging in the Louvre and shit a heart attack if they saw someone as breathtaking as you in real life but only half of what’s on the other side of the sketchbook is even defensible as a human figure and I’m sorry, it’s not accurate, don’t take it as lifelike at all.

Or something like that.

“Eds?” Steve asks, gentler this time, but Eddie waves him on, gives his permission, then collapses forward hides his face in Steve’s chest: one of the parts he did put some real effort into in his sorry excuse for a portrait.

“It’s really not true to life, I swear,” he whines, muffled into Steve’s skin when the silence stretches long enough to be…noticeable.

“You’re sure?” Steve asks, his tone…weird.

Kinda…kinda oddly bright?

“I kinda love it,” and Eddie lifts his head to see Steve smiling so soft, so…endeared, which is almost heartbreaking when Eddie had to give up on drawing his perfect mouth with just subbing in a smiley-face curve, in the end:

“Most flattering I’ve ever looked, really.”

And the weird part is that he doesn’t sound like he does when he’s fucking with Eddie—which he’s gotten good at, truly, and often does string Eddie along for a good while but: he has his tells, and knows it, and always relishes Eddie finding them eventually.

Nothing’s standing out as a giveaway now, though.

“How much if I wanna buy it?”

“Buy it?” Eddie repeat dumbly, because fuck if he understands.

“Paying customer gets to do what he wants with the finished product,” Steve shoots back primly, before piling himself up, sliding enough from underneath Eddie to coax his half-chub out of the lounge pants he’s been wearing all day, and fall over to take him into that oh-so-talented mouth.

Eddie gasps when Steve’s first move is to lick his slit like a goddamn lollipop, slow and just shy of too deep and, and—

Fucking hell.

And like, Eddie was already well on his way to hard and ready to make the very most of this moment, right? And Eddie’s long over being anything but euphoric about those perfect glimmer moments they fall into sometimes that conjure the whole-ass absence in him of anything remotely resembling stamina or restraint when Steve touches, moves, looks, exists just so sometimes, the right hit to Eddie’s veins just for the sake of Steve’s beingshooting clean and sparkling-sharp from the pump of his blood to…

Shooting elsewhere, otherwise, in the space of a fucking heartbeat.

Steve barely works a fifth of the way up the straining vein of him before he’s quick to lower his jaw and take the way Eddie comes down his throat without any warning, just as shaken and surprised as anyone by the way he lasted less than five minutes by a longshot.

More likely closer to three.

“Goddamn,” Eddie mouths more than speaks, pants into the warm bubble of aftershocks rippling through the room around them, making the air thick and soft; hazy-like, a little.

“That in the price range you’re maybe thinking?”

And Eddie can be entirely forgiven for not catching on right away to the point of Steve’s far-too-put-together smug little volley as he tucks Eddie back into his briefs, but he does get there eventually, and smacks Steve’s still distractingly naked chest with the back of his hand for it because:

Paying-fucking-customer.

Jesus H. Christ, but he’s married to a menace.

“What’re you gonna do with it?” Eddie asks, mostly resigned to Steve’s will not so much because Steve’s so convincing (he is) or demanding (rarely ever, else: not that way), but more because it’s long been the orienting rule of Eddie’s life that he does whatever lies in his power to give the man he loves all he wants and more.

Even if, in this specific case, the magnitude of humiliation involved aggrieves him.

“Frame it,” Steve threads his hand through Eddie’s hair as he stretches back across the cushions, as Eddie finds his spot in the center of his chest to lie; feels him stretch back, toss his head over the arm of the couch. “M’gonna hang it in our room, for when I’m feeling less than,” Eddie shifts as Steve tips his chin to look kinda-down toward Eddie, he shifts a little more to meet Steve’s eyes as he asks:

“What did you call it?”

And now, now? Now, Steve sounds like he’s teasing.

So Eddie doesn’t feel bad at all for grazing his teeth across Steve nipple before settling back down and digging out his answer, kinda unavoidably dreamy around the word:

“Stunning.”

Steve’s hum is a warm, marveling, but softly satisfied thing under Eddie’s cheek as much as in his ear and it’s like melted chocolate, or sweet caramel—yes, he nuzzles closer. Fucking sue him.

“Yep,” Steve nods, meets Eddie’s nuzzle by burrowing into the top of his head, kisses through his curls; “right on the wall.”

Eddie pouts deep enough that Steve chuckles to feel it pressed against him.

“It’s not nice to put evidence of my absolute lack of skill on the wall we fuck up against!”

Steve—and this is fucking rude of him, like, entirely unfair—but Steve just chuckles, all the warmer through his chest where Eddie’s head sits, and kisses his head again as he murmurs low, and so fucking self-assured as he slides one palm along Eddie’s hip:

“Our absolutely enviable skill at fucking makes up for it.”

Eddie means to groan, to put up any level of protest. His body betrays him entirely and what escapes his mouth is a lot closer to a whine, maybe even a whimper.

Like he said: betrayal.

“I really do love it, y’know.” Steve eases him up slow as he sits up himself, grabs for the drawing and sits Eddie between his legs, before balancing the sketchbook on his knee, taking a long, considering look.

“It’s like you focused in on what you saw as most important.”

Eddie makes a sound that might agree, or come out more like ehh. Six of one, half-a-dozen of the other.

“This,” Steve taps the carefully-if-not-skillfully rendered tousle of his hair, and the shaded curls on his chest, same ones Eddie’d previously been enjoying as a pillow.

And a hideaway.

“This, of course,” he points to the not-entirely-terrible attempt to draw Steve’s gorgeous cock—but then, Eddie’s a guy, all guys have been doodling some version of a penis since the learned to hold a pencil, it’d be shameful to have fucked it up as the worst part of gunshot attempt, but Steve just grins, and yes Eddie with heat as he chides happily with a poke to Eddie’s ribs:

“Horny fuck.”

And it’s not like Eddie can, or would ever try, to deny it.

“These,” he points in a trail of moles, oddly precisely compared to the rest of it, Eddie’s favorite trails to any part of the treasure of his sweetheart’s body.

“The eyes were just dots so I’m assuming also these,” Steve pauses to trace around the way Eddie paid actual attention to trying to capture the swell of muscle along Steve’s front, then the tantalizing peek of his back thigh: majestic. Eddie’s glad they’re noticed as such, because Eddie really does count his life as most fulfilled in getting free rein to worship them daily.

But he needs to be very clear:

“Your eyes are intoxicating,” Eddie leans, twists to him his thumbs around the shape of both, to watch as the touch makes Steve’s mesmerizing lashes flutter.

“It’s just a bridge too far for me to capture, can’t you see how much I erased?” He pokes at the paper where the dots betray his shortcomings.

“Same for here, then?” Steve asks wickedly, when swoops a fingertip along Eddie’s sad excuse for a mouth on the portrait.

“Lips suck, man,” Eddie whines, realizing most of Steve’s face really is just disjointed pieces of a peace-love-smiley sticker, fucking hell, he should be ashamed—

“Yeah, man, literally,” Steve nods, serious as anything and Eddie glares when it clicks—lips suck. Literally.

Steve’s very recently demonstrated as much.

Good god, he loves this man.

“Yours are divine,” Eddie turns to capture them as deep and earnest as he possible can given the angle—they’re both breathless for it when they break apart, so.

Good enough.

“But then,” Steve splits is middle and index fingers and taps Eddie’s attention to the shoulders: “here.”

And Eddie contorts himself to kiss what he can reach of one said shoulder, because Steve’s arms are temptation, bar none, but the breadth of his shoulders, the stretch when he crosses his arms over his chest—

“Even if this is life-model accurate,” Steve’s turning the sketch, probably taking note of the little details where Eddie didn’t just give up the cause as hopeless: the notch of his throat. The crease of one elbow.

How the rest of him kinda matches the smiley face, very late stick-figure period.

“I told you it wasn’t—“ Eddie protests, because he needs that to be clear and beyond the realm of even potential doubt, but Steve rests a single finger on his lips to shush him, so he turns again and only stills when the sheer weight of love in Steve’s gaze ensnares him.

“If this is what you see when you look at me?” Steve says, voice soft and a little…awed?

“Not as if I didn’t already know, but it’s proof, y’know?” And then it’s Steve leaning in, kissing him for all he’s got after murmuring against his lips:

“I’m the luckiest fucker alive.”

And they’re just as breathless when they part this time around, so the pitch when Eddie makes it is maybe a little weak for panting:

“How about you be the luckiest fucker of me, hmm?”

Steve stares at him blank.

“I legitimately just sucked you off.”

“In the world’s most true-to-the-name fucking quickie!”

Which was…not Steve’s fault but was Steve’s doing, so.

“You came, didn’t you?” And Steve, the fucker, he licks his lips, pretends to consider and then concludes dramatically:

L”Oh, yep, definitely did.” At which point he has the audacity to lift Eddie up and deposit him on the sofa as he grabs for the long-discarded robe on the floor—as if the show of strength and the view of his naked ass at the bend was going to help matters at all.

He kisses the corner of Eddie’s shock-parted lips before he makes for the kitchen:

“I’ve gotta start dinner.”

And then he’s gone.

And it takes Eddie a second, which is justified given the tent he’s starting to pitch, but he’s on his feet, only stumbles a little for forgetting his pants weren’t fully shedded when Steve pushed them down to suck him earlier, but then he’s jumping to pull them up faster and scramble for the kitchen, calling out all the while:

“I can be very flexible! And you know how well I do against the countertops!”

All he gets in reply is laughter, light and airy and it lands the same in Eddie’s chest, bubbly like champagne, and: fuck—but that’s kinda the whole point, isn’t it?

His Stevie.

Too stunning, too much his whole heart to be captured in anything as simple as pen and paper, anyway.

♥️🖤♥️

✨also on ao3

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[jyou-no-sonoko19]

Sapphic Disco Week, Day 6: "But What If It Was Yuri?"

Lena and Mireille, lesbians in their 70s exploring the vanishingly rare marvels of the world together, excuse me im cri

[avampyone]

Junelezen 2025 - 4. Order

Anima Mundi - Library Dive bar.

--

Come in to order a drink and choose a book to peruse from our eclectic selection to find a peaceful haven from the everyday. If you seek excitement, you can opt to ask for the secret menu if you're brave enough to try~*

*Try at your own risk! The owner will not be held responsible for any incidents that may occur.

[tes-summer-fest]

[Image ID: A digital drawing of three elves standing amidst large terracotta pots. These pots are sealed with thin rope and are covered in elaborate designs. The one in the middle, a young Dunmer child, has honey-coloured curls and appears to be excited. She is leaning down and reaching toward a clay bowl, surrounded by flickering candles and a single glowing flower. An older Dunmer stands behind her on her right, resting their hand on her shoulder. Next to them is a tall Altmer with long blonde hair. He is looking down at her warmly. Vivid blue flames encircle the family. End ID]

Devotion...

This one was soo nice to work on too! thank you to @tes-summer-fest for hosting, and to @drowsy-fantasy for being the most amazing writing partner ever! Go read our RP fic!

Beast — Teeth — Drowsy's post

[hulloitsdani]

DAY 3: Day of Devotion!!!

Oughhh I really like this one. Something about Kiran Day of Devotion alt makes me feel things.

This one also comes with some bonus sketches/unfinished wips, because I've actually been playing with the idea of a Kiran and Anna duo alt for a while! Just never refined them into a more complete illustration, you know? But now feels like a good time to share!

Look at those wips! Might one day come back around to them who knows.

[aki-natsuko]

“I’ll give you anything. I’ll give you everything. All you have to do is ask.

    Ramattra studied Hana as she worked on his arm. Her hands were steady, fingers deftly working between delicate wiring, and twisted, broken metal slick with oil and other essential fluid. The flurry of worry, and anger that had greeted him when he’d first staggered through her door had disappeared, locked behind an intense focus that in that moment reminded him of the monks back in Nepal. A focus that he envied. His focus was different, ever moving, ever growing.

A future that fluctuated with every step he took.

Every choice he made and action he did.

Every moment spent with her.

He watched her fingers dance amongst the damage, unbelievably delicate considering the strength he knew ran through her like iron. Unbearably gentle, as some distant part of him knew that there was danger in this moment; and there was a hesitance now as he lifted his gaze to her face. It was there that her focus revealed itself to be a lie, a shield against everything else. He had learned to read her expression in a way he had never done with any human, and now his gaze rested on the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek as though fighting to hold back words, the scowl that had settled into place. It was her eyes that told him the most though, a hint of moisture betraying her worry, and the fire in them as she sensed his gaze and met it for a moment, telling him that she was still angry.

At those who had hurt him, or at him for walking into danger, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t that good with human emotions, although studying her, he had a suspicion that it was both.

“You’ll live…” Her voice after an hour of intense silence startled him, and he reared back and looked down at his wrist. The worst of the damage had been patched up while he had been distracted, and if he had been anywhere else, he would have cursed himself for allowing himself to be so unaware of what was happening. But here, where there weas only the two of them, he felt…safe. And there was danger in that.

“Thank you,” he murmured, flexing his wrist. The metal grinded, not completely in place, but functional.

“I’ll fix the rest in the morning,” Hana said, following his gaze as she wiped some hair out of her face, smearing her cheek with oil.

“You don’t have to,” Ramattra said, even as he reached out to clear the smear away. His fingers lingering, as though magnetically drawn to the soft warmth of her skin. This is dangerous.

“I want to. If you promise not to get busted up again, for at least a month.” He could tell the last bit was added reluctantly, for all that she tried to inject her usual levity into the words. She was worried.

For him.

 About him.

 Because of Him.

“I promise.” He hadn’t meant to say it, the promise slipping out without his permission. Dangerous. He couldn’t promise that at the best of times, let alone now when pieces were falling into place, and the future he had dreamed of for so long loomed on the horizon. A future that hadn’t included Hana… a future…

“I’ll go clean up and then we can hang out, unless you need to rest?” Hana’s voice, the soft concern that had replaced the levity, shattered his image of the future and as she rose to her feet, he reached out and grasped her wrist. Gently. A  gentleness he had never thought he could possess after he had chosen to leave the  monastery and take the path that lay before him. A softness that had the potential to cut like a knife.

“Hana…” She turned to look at him, half-smile fading a little as she tilted her head in question and for a moment he was lost. Caught between this moment and the future he had always envisioned. It was like being stood on a knife edge, and if either of them moved wrong it would slice deep. He needed to let the moment go, to let her go, but she stood there, at ease with his hand on her, comfortable in his present. Revelling in it, the softness in her eyes his undoing. “I’ll give you anything, I’ll give you everything,” he unravelled, laying himself open for her. “All you have to do is ask.”

Hana blinked at the words, at the way his touch tightened as though afraid she would flee before his words.

“Have you been in the holovids again?” She asked.

“No, I…” He fell silent, recognising her teasing for a defensive mechanism. Hana always turned to levity when she was hurting or unsure, just as he subsided into silence. Two sides of the same coin. “I mean it.” The words were steady, not reflecting the splintering that was occurring deep inside himself. He meant it, and that scared him.

There was silence for a moment, Hana staring up at him, only the slight widening of her eyes betraying the fact that he had caught her by surprise. Then she was pulling slightly, tugging her hand out of his grasp, and he let her go. He would always let her go if that was what she wanted, just as he had always come back, because she had asked him to in a rare moment of vulnerability.

She stepped back, and he let her go. Watching as her arms started to creep up, ready to wrap around herself in a hug – retreating from him, from the world, from his words… Then she paused and lowered her arms and took a deep breath and just smiled at him and shook her head.

“Hana?” He asked, confused.

“The one thing I want to ask, is the one thing you can’t give,” Hana said,  and she sounded so old. So, world weary for a moment, that he ached for her in a way he had never thought possible. She closed the distance between them, coming back to him, her hands steady as she reached up to cup his face, staring up at him. Her smile sad but full of promise. “So, I’m not going to ask.”