starspicewrites

Cowboy! Grayson comes home with the sound of boots on a wooden porch signaling his arrival. Sweat, dirt, and sun—only a Texas summer could bring—linger on him. His cologne lingers faintly beneath it all somehow.

Cowboy! Grayson, who leaves his worn boots (that have definitely seen better days) at the door ever since you got mad about him trekking in dirt a little too close to the new living room rug two years ago.

Cowboy! Grayson, who finally breathes in the scent of you and your shared home for the first time since he kissed you goodbye this morning. He smiles softly as he catches your faint hum and follows it like a red thread of fate into the kitchen.

Cowboy! Grayson is tired, but the sight of his wife—God, that never got old, even after three years—dancing idly in front of the countertop as she cuts something on the cutting board. He smiles softly despite himself as he watches you do your little dance to God knows what song in your head. It only grew smug as you froze for a second, startled at his sudden presence across the kitchen, only to grin and laugh softly instead.

Cowboy! Grayson closes the gap despite your halfhearted protests for him to get away because of the remnants of his day clinging to him. He only wraps his arms around you further, your knife discarded on the cutting board as he buries you close.

Cowboy! Grayson, who plucks the cowboy hat from his head and puts it onto yours, like a routine every evening. "It looks damn better on you, darlin’,” he claims every time. You disagree; he kisses you like it was a rebuttal itself.

Cowboy! Grayson helps with dinner despite the long day and exhaustion, enjoying any moment with you. A man who enjoys a simple dinner with his wife in their shared farmhouse.

Cowboy! Grayson, who after dinner and cleaning up, with all the lights off save for a lamp in the corner of the living room, insists on a dance before bed.

— • —

“Gray,” you said through a soft laugh, his fingers playing with yours to keep you there instead of going to bed just yet. "What are you doing?”

“Dancin’ with my wife,” He grins shamelessly, tugging you close until an arm is wrapped snugly around your waist. His other hand delicately trailed up your wrist and your palm before lacing his fingers with yours.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. He was ridiculous. You were in love.

You indulged him, dancing in your living room, barefooted on your not-so-new-anymore-but-still-nice rug. You let go long enough to carefully set the hat on the nearby couch, now able to comfortably rest your forehead against his chin.

His smile softened, kissing your hairline as he led you into a slow dance.

There was no music unless you counted the crickets outside and your heartbeats between your chests.

"It feels like our first dance again,” you whispered after a while, as if anything louder would break reality.

“Mhm.”

You huffed a laugh, recognizing his tells after seven years with him. "Was that your plan then?” you teased, turning your head enough to look up at him. His gray eyes were softened by warm lamplight and affection.

He grinned smugly in response, kissing your brow gently. “Maybe,” he murmured, entirely unrepentant, pressing his forehead against yours instead. "Can you blame me for wanting to reminisce about our first dance a little?”

You snorted a laugh, playfully rolling your eyes. "You say it like we’re senile and dying tomorrow, Gray.” He only shook his head in mock exasperation, playfully bumping your forehead with his.

“I know, I know. It doesn’t change anything, though. If I want to dance with my darlin’, I will,” he replied matter-of-factly like a child. You huffed a laugh again.

“Dork,” you muttered, awfully fond.

"Mm, yours though,” he whispered, pulling you impossibly closer.

a/n: Cowboy! Grayson, my beloved, please come home; the kids miss you :(

At first he thought you might've fainted, and he felt his stomach drop a little. Then you sighed, blinking at the ceiling.

He sighed, taking his shoes off by the front door and walking closer to you. He crouched near your head, his own cocking in slight amusement.

Here he was, coming home from work to find you sprawled across the living room rug, staring at the ceiling. He huffed a would-be laugh through his nose, lip tugging at the corner. He couldn’t help but playfully flick your forehead.

“What’s up with you?” He mused, taking you in.

Your eyes didn’t leave that one spot on the ceiling. "Oh, you know. The usual Wednesday spiraling,” you muttered, unmoving.

“About?” he prodded, raising his brow. Though amusement glinted in his eyes, a wisp of curiosity and concern lingered behind it (not that Sukuna would ever admit it to you).

Your gaze finally broke from the plaster, finally meeting his. Normally so bright red, now they’re darker with lamplight in the corner. "The general state of the world.”

He made a hum of acknowledgment, still eyeing you. He watched you for a minute longer and saw the micro shifts in your expression. This was serious, he realized. He sighed, finally sitting on the floor. He shifted enough to move your head from the floor and onto his thigh.

His fingers—normally so rough and dirtied with remnants from his shift at the garage—ran gently through your hair. You were still in your work clothes, he realized.

"I go through my day, driving to work, or I'm at my desk, and my brain is just like, 'Hm, I have this project to turn in by the end of the day. Children dying. I have to fill up gas tomorrow. Is the world ending? Or did we all collectively die and go to hell and not know it? I wonder what we’ll do for dinner. People are being separated from their families and—”

"Hey, whoa.” He interjected, holding your cheeks to ground you to him and reality. “Stop that and look at me,” he said firmly, searching your gaze and holding it.

“You’re okay. Breathe, woman,” Sukuna muttered. He watched you, your chest once rising and falling too quickly, now moving steadier under his instruction. His fingers brushed your jaw even as you looked at him upside down, another hand smoothing over your hair. He considered his next words. He had to tread carefully lest you spiral again.

"I feel hopeless, but then sometimes for a moment or two I do finally feel hopeful, and sometimes it’s both at once, and it’s just—it’s so—” you muttered, quiet and cracking at the end as the weight felt pressing again.

He huffed impatiently, rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, woman,” he said firmly, squeezing your face a fraction to bring you back to him. "Yes, the world is corrupted and a shitshow, and I know you have a big heart. You care a hell of a lot, but you have to breathe or else you’ll end up right back here, sprawled out on the floor.”

“You’re always telling me to calm down. Take your own advice before you lose your own mind, would ya? It’s alright to take a break. Aren’t you always getting on my ass about that?” he added.

You swallowed the tightness in your throat, nodding softly. You know he had a point: that spiraling would do no one any good. “But I—” you protested anyway.

"Dammit, woman, no buts.”

He watched you huff, borderline pouting with narrowed eyes as if to challenge him. Sukuna only glared back, daring you to stubbornly fight your way out of this one.

You huffed in defeat after a minute of staring at each other, and a “fine” grumbled under your breath. Sukuna’s glare giving way to a smug grin. "Atta girl. Now,” he began, leaning down to kiss you swiftly, sweetly, and upside down. "Why don’t you go wash up and out of your work clothes? I’ll order in.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips, the weight of the world and all its calamities not too heavy for a while. “Okay,” you whispered.

a/n: kinda self indulgent. The horrors persist but so do we. Hang in there team <3

It wasn’t always this bad.

He chalked it up to Solstice being the reason he ever entered the jewelry store to begin with. He needed a gift for Amren after all.

What he hadn’t accounted for was you.

You watched you emerge from the back, wiping your hands on a towel, and removed the loop from your face as he walked in. Winter afternoon sun filtered in. Where it reflected off the snow outside, it glinted off the shining jewels and metals in here. Metal and gems of all kinds, elegantly set with precision and displayed in glass cases.

And yet he found you to be the brightest jewel among them.

“Hello, welcome in!” you greeted, bright and warm from behind a display case.

He gave a small nod in acknowledgment, tearing his eyes away.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” you asked gently, head slightly tilted.

“Something unique. For a solstice gift,” he explained quietly, scanning the pieces. From rings to elaborate, layered necklaces—no doubt heavier than they looked—they rested on plush satin pillows or small velvet busts. His gaze flicked up at you briefly, assessing just as quickly. It was a centuries’ old habit; he was a spymaster after all.

“Everything here is custom and made in-house, so you’re sure to find what you’re looking for,” you replied lightly, stopping behind a display case of pieces that were embedded with diamonds and emeralds. He watched you pull out one of those velvet busts that held a necklace. “This is a part of our upcoming spring collection,” you added with a small smile, meeting his eyes.

They were undoubtedly beautiful, he thought, as were your eyes, he added mentally despite himself. He immediately shook that thought away. Where had that even come from?

While beautiful, it didn't feel right for Amren. “It’s beautiful,” he began, hazel eyes flicking up to yours briefly. They were much brighter up close; not just the color but also the shine in them. “Beautiful, but I don't think it’s quite what I'm looking for," he added almost apologetically. His gaze was dragged away in favor of the other display cases, attention snagging on a display case a few yards away.

His shadows trailed behind him as always as he neared it. Silver metal weaving, looping around twilight-colored gems, a mixture of sharp elegance, cut and set with unbelievable craftsmanship. Everything here was, he realized.

His gaze flicked up as you neared before returning. These seemed more Amren’s style. “I'll take this one,” he said, glancing between you and the elaborate necklace resting on a black velvet bust.

He watched you smile, carefully packing up the necklace and ringing him up. He handed you the payment in exchange for the bag. His fingers brushed against yours briefly, his stomach giving a strange twirl, but he promptly named it as hunger.

— • —

It had been six months since then, and he was—by definition—addicted.

Amren had loved the gift (as much as Amren would approve), and Azriel had conveniently used her as an excuse for the following visits where he could. At first, it was twice a month, and then it became weekly. Then he thought a couple of extra times wouldn’t hurt until one day, he blinked and realized it had become at least twice a week.

All because he wanted to catch a glimpse of you.

Sure, he was a spymaster and could, well, spy on you if he really wanted, but that was creepy, and a creep was the last thing Azriel had wanted you to think of him.

He still found any and all excuses to come into the shop, never once leaving without a new purchase. An alleged birthday here, a “need to return to good graces” gift there. Luckily, you hadn't asked why or how he was such a loyal customer. He just was.

Of course, Azriel was beginning to suspect why he was. What exactly about you intrigued him in a way he’d only felt twice before? He also knew the heartache that paired with both of those times. So, like before, he’d do what he’s done best for centuries—observe from afar. Yearn from afar (but he didn’t dare label it that).

“Oh, before you go,” you began, eyes lighting up just as you handed him the small bag of his new purchase of silver bands. Not marital kinds, of course, but something new and for once, himself. Not that it would be suited for his occupation, but perhaps something new to try.

His eyes flicked to yours, expectant, but as always, his face never gave anything away. He thought it was curious—precious even—how opposite you were to him in the smallest ways. You are bright and expressive to his careful neutrality and aloofness.

“Since you’re my most loyal—and favorite, but don’t tell anyone else that—customer, I wanted to give you something. I know it’s not much, but I just wanted to give you…something special as a token of my appreciation.” You spoke—rambled really—with a small laugh. Nervous, even as he watched you hand over a small box from under the register.

He blinked and then tentatively took the box. “Oh,” he murmured, briefly dumbfounded. He carefully removed the lid, revealing a simple silver chain. It was woven tightly, seeming closer to tightly woven moonlight plucked from the night itself. Like everything else in the shop—that you made, he’d learned by his third visit—it was beautiful. Whether it was the artistry or perhaps because he started seeing parts of you through every purchase, he wasn't sure.

A scarred thumb gently stroked over the finely detailed metalwork. He opened his mouth to speak, but your nervous rambling beat him to it.

"I… I don't often make jewelry for males, let alone chains like that, but I'm trying something new, and thus a collection, so I thought, why not give you something exclusive?" You added softly, quickly, and with animated gestures. He didn’t miss how you wrung your fingers. It was preciously endearing to him.

His gaze searched yours, and for the first time since you’d met, he had the faintest hint of a genuine smile. “Thank you, then.” He replied just as quietly, securing the chain back in the box and into the bag with a reverence as if it were precious glass.

Azriel's crush had now grown to an exponential, out-of-control, big fat crush.

— • —

It had been a month since that visit.

In that time, he’d caught himself briefly grazing fingers along the chain when he was alone, disguising it as scratching an itch or a collar adjustment. Sometimes his shadows would twine around it like snakes hugging a branch. And every instance, without fail, he’d catch himself thinking about you. About your eyes or your smile, your voice or your laugh. The minimal contact of fingers brushing against yours at the end of every trip to your store.

How and when did he let it get this bad?

For better or for worse, Azriel is sure you haven't noticed the way his gaze softens a fraction or how he tries to linger in your shop for a few seconds longer.

He needed to get a grip. He was going to finally do something about it.

He sighed a breath before he entered your shop, the familiar little bell signaling his arrival.

He watched you smile and thank a customer just as you wrapped up their purchase.

He watched your gaze meet his halfway across the store, and for one delusional moment, he let himself believe that your eyes lit up and sparkled a little more in recognition of him.

"Hey!" you greeted, bright and warm as ever.

"Hi," he breathed, watching your smile grow a fraction. He felt his shadows buzz with excitement but kept it contained. Or perhaps it was nerves. He wasn't sure yet.

"What's led you to little ole me today?” you mused, leaning against the display case that always separated you two.

He shrugged with a smile, tugging his lips before pretending to look around, browsing. Many of the pieces were familiar, some new, but quite frankly, and for once, he wasn’t here to buy something.

"Not sure. But I'll know when I see it," he replied quietly, passing a gold and ruby collection. How could he possibly say, “I'm here for you. I only ever come here to see you." How could he say every silly, corny, stupid line that’s crossed his mind for nearly the past year without sounding like a desperate fool or worse?

You huffed a laugh, accustomed to him and this routine. So you just watched him browse from the corner of your eye as you moved about the shop.

A few quiet minutes have passed, only filled with footsteps on hardwood and occasional shuffling.

Azriel nearly lost his mind, and you were none the wiser. He felt like his world was crashing and healing all at once, all by you just being in the room. Selfishly, he wanted more.

In the next fifteen minutes, he miraculously mustered up the courage. He selected a random bracelet—one he couldn't be bothered to even ask the story of, like he normally would. He watched you ring him up like always, handing over the small bag in exchange for payment.

When his fingers brushed against yours just enough, just like always, he lost his nerve.

He'd faced unfathomable evils, fears turned tangible, and flirted with death more times than any soul should. Yet this seemed to be the most terrifying among them.

He mustered a polite smile and decided his plan would have to wait another time as he turned to leave.

It seemed fate was taking matters into her own hands. Or rather his shadows, for they tugged him to a stop just as he reached to open the door. They seemed adamant that he’d go through with this today. No amount of pulling or mental scolding got them to let go. "Traitors," he thought.

His shadows whispered in one ear how you were watching him from behind the register as he stood by the door, the other ear filled with encouragement that was borderline scolding.

You raised a slight brow as he froze, slowly turning on his heel after a minute.

"Azriel? Are you—”

"Are you free tonight?” He blurted, searching your gaze from across the shop. He was sure you could hear his heart pounding and prayed to the Mother you didn’t. He watched you blink twice, undoubtedly startled.

"I—yes?" You replied though it came out like a question more than a statement.

His lips parted, words dancing on his tongue. He was caught in the middle between his heart and mind, logic and emotion. Desire and self-preservation.

"I…would you like to get dinner with me?” He rushed out before he gave up now, holding your gaze. Azriel watched you blink twice before widening a fraction. Something buzzed with satisfaction as his shadows whispered of a blush growing on your cheeks.

"Oh…" you murmured, your own heart skittering. “I…I would like that. "Yeah," you found yourself saying. It took every effort not to burst in disbelief or giddy excitement.

Maybe the universe wasn’t imploding for Azriel.

He huffed a disbelieving and excited laugh—the most emotion you’ve probably ever seen from him. "Good. That's…that's—yeah. Okay," he stammered, more to himself, like confirming this was real and happening. "Okay. I'll pick you up here at seven. Don't feel like you have to dress fancy," he added, finding his confidence and mental footing again despite his racing heart.

"Okay," you whispered, disbelieving yet elated. Your heart fluttered at his growing smile, one you couldn't help but mirror.

"Okay." He whispered back across the shop. "It's a date," he added, smirking as he watched your cheeks warm again. He memorized it—your beaming smile and sparkle in your eyes—like it would be the only thing to keep him alive until seven.

His gaze lingered before he finally left the shop with the biggest smile Velaris had ever seen from their Shadowsinger.

It only grew when a sneaky shadow lingering by your shop returned to his shoulder with whispers of your giddy shrieks and cheek-splitting grin a block away.

Azriel was utterly doomed yet was exactly where he wanted to be.

Notes: first time writing kinda nervous 🫣 any feedback is appreciated!

“I think I want to start adding a little more whimsy to my life,” you commented aloud, leaning over the built-in bathroom vanity as you wiped off your makeup from your date night. Your dress and coat had been swapped for silk pajamas. Your hair, once styled, was now unpinned and loose.

Sylus was already in bed, shirtless and in sweats, watching you with a fondness the outside world couldn’t imagine. This was his favorite part of the night: just watching you in one of your most humble forms.

His brow quirked in sync with the corner of his lip. “Yeah? What’s your plan?” he mused. He was long used to your thoughts shared aloud. They were silly, random, or serious, so to him, it felt like roulette every time.

A gamble he was hopelessly addicted to. It was his beloved wife after all.

He listened to you hum in thought, dressed in silk pajamas and that makeup-stained fuzzy headband now, pushing hair back from your face. “Hm, dunno. Maybe try fun shapes with my Sunday pancakes. Oh! I saw this one girl online say she started talking to her house, like saying good morning to it or goodbye when she’d leave. Maybe I could start there," you replied, moving on to your skincare routine.

“Fun pancakes and talking to the house, huh?” he mused, yet he was endeared. It wasn’t hard, as nearly everything about you he somehow found endearing. “I think those are very…you.”

You laughed softly, the sound floating in the space between your bathroom vanity and his heart.

"Any chance whimsy can convince you to finally get rid of that headband?” he added, nodding towards said accessory even if you weren't looking at him. “You know, my darling dear wife, that you can replace it. In fact, I'd be happy to do it for you.”

You laughed again, shaking your head as you continued on your nightly routine. “I know, dear husband,” you began, teasing him with the same tone he used. “But I find this one comfortable. I've grown attached to it too, and of course, once that happens, it becomes discontinued. Everything else I find just isn’t right," you explained.

His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He acquiesced.

His mind, however, didn’t.

— • —

It was a couple days later, his favorite part of the night coming around again. Tonight, he watched you from the doorframe instead of the bed. He’d seen you do this hundreds of times, yet it never got old. It was grounding in a way to watch him as much as the process was for you.

And then you pulled out that headband. Faded and stained with either makeup or something unidentifiable. The small cuts of triangular pink satin making up the inside of the kitten ears were beginning to fray and separate from the fluffier material. You’d had it for years.

Tonight, however, Sylus had other plans.

He pushed off the doorframe, leaving for but a moment and returning with an unmarked, mid-sized black cube. A rather fancy box. You glanced at him through the mirror, a brow raising as your movements slowed. It wasn’t odd that he gave gifts for no reason other than he simply felt like it.

Sylus huffed a laugh, amused by your suspicion. He stopped beside you, hip leaning against the countertop as he set the box down between you both like a believer leaving a gift at his goddess’s altar.

"Whatcha got there?” you asked, a mix of suspicion and curiosity obvious in your voice. Sylus’s smile grew, setting the box down. “A gift,” he replied, obviously with a shrug. You rolled your eyes with a laugh. "I can see that. What’s in it?”

"Close your eyes for me.” He said instead. a gentle command as carmine eyes search yours for a moment.

You stared back at him, both brows lifted in challenge. “What’s in the box?” you replied, persistent. Sylus huffed a laugh. Leave you to love him and still be suspicious of his gifts. “It’s harmless, I promise.”

Your lips pursed in thought, gaze playfully narrowing at him before sighing in mock defeat and closing your eyes. "Fine. But for the record, I'm still very suspicious. You better not have something scary like—”

His laugh was low and warm, steadily rolling over the space between you and into your bones.

"Sweetie, you know I would never," he began, kissing your forehead, your nose, and then your lips. twice. "Harmless. I promise," he whispered before stealing a third kiss. His smile grew as he saw yours faintly twitch into one. He couldn’t help but look at you for a moment. standing there in your pajamas, barefaced and lovely.

“Okay,” you whispered, disarmed. He had a knack for it, much to your dismay at times.

He hummed softly, gently removing the worn headband from your head. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, but your eyes remained closed. You heard some shuffling, something like a box opening. "Since you wanted to start adding whimsy to your life,” he muttered, as something cool and decently weighted—like metal—took the place of the once fuzzy headband. "I wanted to contribute,” he added as he adjusted this new thing on your head.

You felt him turn you by the shoulders, smoothing your hair down. His hands, large, calloused, and warm, slid down your body to settle in the dip of your waist. You felt him press behind you, his chest pressed behind your shoulders and his chin hooked over your shoulder.

“Can I open now?” You asked softly. You couldn’t help but smile as you felt his thumbs trace idly over the fabric. His lips lightly pressing to your shoulder. You took that as confirmation.

When your eyes opened, it took a moment to adjust to the lighting again. A mix of disbelief, amusement, and awe came out of you in a laugh. Where your old, fuzzy cat-eared headband once sat, there was now an elegant crown. Delicate arches and swirls, metal leaves, and vines made of glinting gold. Diamonds embedded most of the crown and left no empty space. Larger rubies were meticulously accented along the middle, and smaller ones winked bloodily at the peaks of the delicate arches. You had no doubt it was all real. It was Sylus after all.

“Sylus,” you laughed out again, turning your head slowly to watch the bathroom light catch on the gems. "Why on earth did you get me a crown?”

"Tiara, actually,” he corrected playfully with a light kiss to the side of your neck, arms slipping further around your waist. “Of course, I did consider a crown, but it would’ve been too heavy and kept falling for your purposes. Besides, I wanted you to have something better than a fraying and stained headband. Seemed like a natural compromise,” he said lowly and casually like he’d just said the sky was blue.

A disbelieving laugh left your lips as you met his eyes in the mirror. "Sy, my love. I love it—I love you—but I—I mean, a tiara?” you said, disbelieving still as you turned your head enough to face him.

"Yes, a tiara. My beloved only deserves the best,” he whispered, searching your eyes as his nose brushed against yours.

You huffed another laugh, turning back to your reflection. You thought for a moment, head tilting a fraction, and the gemstones glimmered with each minuscule movement. The glimmered even as you breathed. “It is rather beautiful and whimsical,” you murmured. “I don’t even want to consider how much it cost,” you added with a cringe.

Sylus chuckled at your grimace, kissing your temple as if to shoo such trivial thoughts away from his beloved’s pretty head. “Don’t worry about it. Now, finish up your thing. I intend to show my wife just how much of a queen I believe her to be,” he murmured, lightly squeezing your waist, which you knew to be more than just affectionate. A familiar warmth skittered down your spine and pooled in your lower belly.

You’d finished your skincare in record time.

You’d barely been able to pat your face dry before Sylus lifted you easily by the waist, his evol impatiently, putting your things away to clear space for you as he set you on the countertop.

Warm hands splayed across your thighs, his large frame gently forcing your legs apart to settle between them. Your hands draped over his bare shoulders, your eyes searching his in a dance you both have always known.

Your breath hitched, and his smile grew as he crowded you. Never out of intimidation but to be close to you. He would crawl into your heart and lay his head on your soul every night if he could, but alas, this would have to do. His thumbs stroked the silky fabric of your pajamas, teasingly dragging the fabric up as his hands skimmed higher.

The night was long, slow, and heated like many nights. Silk sheets replaced your clothes, and morning sun retraced the places his lips and fingers had been the night before.

The tiara stayed on.

a/n: Sylus fr said “keep that mf thing ON 😤” but also with heart eyes. Need me a Sylus Qin frfr.

You stared at your reflection. “I can do this.” You barely whispered under your breath like you were preparing for war.

Except your armor was pajamas, your trusty steed, a pair of fuzzy slippers and your enemy—

A pair of clear, plastic retainers.

You glared at the plastic case holding a mold of your teeth as if it personally wronged you. You’d gotten your braces off over a decade ago and grown into the new smile with time and age, but nightly retainers were necessary if you wanted to keep it.

“Don’t tell me you fell asleep in there,” you hear from outside your bathroom.

While you had spent a handful of nights with Grayson, you’d skirted around wearing your retainers. You were supposed to wear them regularly—and you did—only when he wasn’t there. But now you could feel your teeth shifting imperceptibly. It was only emphasized when you popped the plastic over your teeth. They felt a little too snug.

“Coming,” you called out. Maybe if you avoided words with S's, he wouldn't notice.

You sighed in defeat, mustering the courage to face Grayson. You shut the bathroom light behind you, leaving only the lamp warming your bedroom and Gray in your bed. He sat against the headboard, laptop on his linen-clad thighs and glasses perched on his nose. His hair was fluffier, looser now, as if being in your space had released him from his masks and reins he wore everywhere else.

You took his preoccupation to your advantage to slide onto your side of the bed, laying your head on his bicep. You could feel tendons and muscles shift under his warm skin as he typed.

“Urgent?” you asked softly, trying to make sense of what he was working on.

“Editing a draft proposal I have to present to the board tomorrow. I'll be a few more minutes,” he replied. You felt him pause and dip down long enough to kiss the top of your head. You’d gotten away thus far, but luck would only last so long.

“How was your day?” he asked after a few minutes, still typing.

“Good. Busy at work with projects. We have our big annual company meeting later in the week. I might come home a little later that day,” you murmured. You watched his fingers slow across the keys and felt him still under you a little.

“Doll?” he said almost tentatively and amusedly all at once. “Are you alright?”

You hummed and nodded, tilting your head enough to look up at him like it would spare you.

It only makes his smile grow in that mischievous way he so often hides. Great, now you’ve really got his attention.

“Is something the matter? You sound…different,” he observed, with all the amusement he could manage.

“Nope. I think you're just tired. Looking at your computer for too long.” You replied with a shrug. You carefully picked words that wouldn't give away your lisp.

“Right…” he trailed off, entirely unconvinced and letting you know it too. But he only shrugged and continued typing. No one else would be relieved, and, for a moment, you were foolish enough to believe it, too.

“So you wouldn’t mind saying my name, would you?” he asked casually, as if he hadn't just set up a trap on a silver platter.

“Gray,” you replied easily. Both could play these games.

He huffed a laugh, lightly poking his forehead in disapproval. “Try again.”

You felt him laugh under your cheek, the sound low and rumbling through his bones and into yours. “I’ll keep bugging you until you tell me. Confess,” he added lightly.

You mulled it over for a moment. Maybe if you suddenly fell asleep or suddenly turned deaf, he’d let it go, but those ideas didn't last very long. Grayson Hawthorne's stubbornness wasn’t to be underestimated. Sometimes it gave yours a run for its money.

So you sighed, the white flag waved, and embarrassment was already creeping up your cheeks. “Sweetheart,” you muttered, begrudgingly, and lisp out in the open.

Grayson grinned like he’d won a grand prize. “There we go. Wasn’t so hard,” he prodded.

You groaned, turning to press your face into the side of his arm like it would stop the embarrassment. You might as well bite the bullet. “Fine, okay. You got me. Yes, I sound weird, but only because I have retainers in. Don't make fun of me,” you added, emphasizing with a slight glare through your lashes. He had the nerve to mockingly raise his hand in surrender and smirk. That bastard.

“I didn't know you wore retainers.”

"Yeah, and on purpose. I wear them when you’re not around to avoid exactly this,” you explained in a mutter, avoiding his eyes.

He saw your obvious embarrassment. Grayson was observant by nature, but with his girlfriend, it was taken up a notch. So, instead of pushing you further, he simply hummed, kissed the top of your head, and resumed typing.

“I think you sound cute. Plus, they help keep your smile looking pretty,” he replied softly as a knuckle pushed his glasses further up. “So while you do sound a little funny, I should be thanking them for their service,” he added, just to tease you a little bit.

You sank in embarrassment. An inch deeper under the covers, against his arm, as you were filled with a different kind of embarrassment. You glared at his laptop like it was personally responsible for the past five minutes. “Shut up,” you muttered without any bite.

Grayson chuckled, shifting so the arm you lay against wrapped around your shoulders instead. He gently shifted you both to accommodate resting your head on his chest. Your arm naturally draped over his waist, a hand up the hem of his white shirt to settle on his bare waist. "I love you,” he replied instead, and you could hear his smile and amusement through it. “Lisp and all.”

"Yeah, yeah, love you too, Grayson.” You muttered, despite recovering from your embarrassment.

“That’s not my name.”

You huffed a laugh, playfully rolling your eyes. "Fine. Love you too, sweetheart.”

"Better. Now sleep. I’ll be done in a few.”

a/n: lowkey not loving this but we ball. I’ll be back (at some point) with better stuff.

He was no secret but, rather, a legend taken form.

Everyone knew Shadowsingers were very rare. If one came every millennium, that was a gift. Two would be a miracle and three was either the Mother's presence or a terrible omen; history hadn't decided yet.

Such beings with powers of darkness, shadows turned corporeal, sentient even. They lived, breathed and thrived in the dark. An intangible entity that could walk through light and shadow, things seen and unseen, in ways no other soul could.

Azriel was the only one for the last four and a half millennia.

And after a month-long mission on the continent, hours of debriefing with Rhysand, he was finally home. Finally, he could lie in his own bed, bathe with his own soap and return to his own space. Once a quaint, bare bones townhouse on the edge of Velaris was now lived in a warm and proper home.

Your presence breathed life into his life and now your shared home.

He missed his bed because you, his mate, kept it warm. He missed the baths he'd sink into just to hold you and run his fingers through your damp hair until the water went cold. He missed coming back to a place once labeled just his Velaris residence turned into a home.

He missed you and everything you brought into his life.

A month apart wasn't new. You understood it was his job long before you met. Missions were necessary to keep Prythian safe. But after a long month away, a longer flight back and a too-long debrief, all Azriel wanted—needed—was in his shared bed. 

He'd gotten used to waking up in a strange bed (if he was lucky), but now Velaris dawn peeked through the familiar curtains in place of a random inn wall with unknown stains.

The scent was familiar, like a long missed memory. Something clean from the detergent you used to wash the sheets, cedar from him and a hint of cinnamon from you. His lips ticked up into a sleepy smile before his eyes even opened.

His nose pressed in your hair further as if he could bury into the source itself. His arms drew you closer, lazily dragging the sheets higher over your bare skin and a wing curling over you both as a second blanket. He felt you hum groggily in your sleep, the raspy sound tingling against his chest. He tensed fractionally when your perpetually cold hands skimmed over his bare waist and settled on his lower back. He kissed your hair as if you’d apologized for it despite knowing if you were awake, you would've grinned at him smugly and completely unrepentant.

Azriel tried to doze off again but gave up after three minutes.

He started noting, then memorizing how his skin pressed against his. His scarred hands began to delicately trace your silhouette as he saw behind his eyelids as if he was nothing but a whisper caressing hair-thin crystal and not his beloved’s body. He had yet to open his eyes but, for you, he never needed to.

His fingers were much warmer compared to yours as they grazed down your spine, barely swooping between the notches of your vertebrae. His hand slowly curved over your hip, sliding back up along your bare waist. Each brush was a caress, another line of your form drawn in his mind, retracing or adjusting a millimeter to the vision he had until it was a mirror rendition. His hand rests on your ribs for a moment to feel you breathe. You were alive, safe and here. He'd made it back to you just as promised.

His thumb stroked once, then twice like an attempt to tell the shared bond residing there a fraction of how much he missed you. How much he loves you.

He kissed the top of your head again, breathing you in deeply, and I was finally able to fall asleep again.

— • —

You woke up to a much heavier weight than the weighted blanket you'd gotten used to in the past month. An inadequate substitute for Azriel in his absence, but you made do.

Memories returned parallel to brief panic before quickly transforming it into a quiet joy. Bleary eyes opened, adjusting to the sunlight and sight of Azriel after a month of waking to an empty bed. He was still asleep, soft steady breaths gently fanned across your face mere inches away. His chest rose and fell against yours as if he’d deliberately matched his breaths to yours. Knowing Azriel, it was likely.

He deserved the sleep, so you let him be. Instead, you took him in. First you memorized what you could never forget. How his brows were dark and strong. How the crease normally between them—even lightly—was smoothed over in his sleep. You’re sure it was probably the first time it disappeared since his leave. Your eyes met his closed ones, watching the very tips of dark lashes barely kissing the tops of tanned cheeks. You counted each wisp just because you could, even including the fallen one that had landed on the side of his nose.

You didn't dare brush it away in fear of waking him.

And since you were already there, your gaze trekked slowly down the bridge of his nose—including the little bump towards the top. You weren't sure if it was genetics or if he’d broken it in his youth and it simply healed that way. All you knew is it was a favorite quirk of his and gave you many memories to associate with it—wholesome and heated. It took many wills to resist kissing it so instead you smiled to yourself.

Outside, a large cloud finally passed over the morning sun, allowing it to finally join you in tracing your lover.

This was easily one—if not your favorite versions of him. Sunlight dappled over his tanned skin, kissing inky swirls and whorls of his tattoos. You could see the tiniest hint of freckles sparse and a half shade darker across his nose and cheeks. Good to see he got some sun while on the his mission.

Your gaze dipped down to his lips. His top lip was mauve, naturally a few shades darker. his cupid’s bow heart-shaped and his bottom lip plush and pink. Another urge to resist kissing came over you. 

You forced your gaze away in favor of moving along his jaw. You felt your lips tingle with the ghost of hundreds of kisses and dozens of nips you've left there.

Not for the first time, you thought Azriel was the sun's favorite. For someone who lived, controlled, thrived in the shadows, the sun showed him considerable favor. From the tanned skin to the way sunlight made home in his eyes. Bright, strong hazel that was sunset and sunrise together.

As if the Mother had heard your stray wish (or his instincts felt someone watching), those very eyes fluttered open, squinting, crinkling against bright morning light. The arm draped over your waist and the leg tangled between yours stiffened and stretched for a moment before drawing you closer. 

"Hi," Azriel rasped, his voice thick and gravelly like his own shadows over icy steel, yet fresh honey too.

"G’morning," you whispered back, watching your favorite sun finally rise again.

You spent a minute watching him while he adjusted and woke more. He huffed a laugh through his nose, the heel of his hand rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What? Got something on my face?" he mused in a rasp. You didn't bother pretending you hadn't been caught. Instead, you huffed your own laugh, the hand on his back leaving to finally thumb away the fallen eyelash on his nose and then the slightest bit of drool on the corner of his lips. "Yeah, something like that," you teased quietly.

His lips curved into a smile under your thumb, your own mirroring because you couldn't help it and because he softly kissed the pad of your thumb. You thought it was cute. Azriel was thinking of how many of those it would take to permanently engrave your thumbprint into his lips so he could carry a piece of you forever

"Sleep good?" you rasped quietly as a hand lazily, lightly scratched his back. You felt a rumble of approval buzz through your fingers and against your chest from where it touched his. 

"Best I've had in the past month."

“Me too.” A comfortable quiet fell over you. Distant sounds of rustling leaves, the city slowly beginning to wake in the late morning. Faint songbirds in trees were chirping and singing. And yet no song would compare to the sounds Azriel naturally made. “You know,” you began quietly, like you were sharing a secret. You couldn't dare to look away from him. “For a shadowsinger all dark and broody—” “I don’t brood,” he interjected indignantly, disbelieving even. “You do sometimes, my love,” you replied just as plainly as fingers danced up his skin to weave into his hair. Thick, dark, a little outgrown from his time away and ruffled with sleep, yet beautifully splayed like the solar prominences you read about in one of the Day Court library books ages ago. “As I was saying, for someone of dark and shadows, you seem to be the sun’s favorite.” You said like it was obvious. To you, it’d always been. To Azriel, it wasn't. You’d always thought about the comparison, sure, but you’d never said it aloud. Azriel blinked at you twice, searching your gaze with his sun-dappled one. “What do you mean?” he breathed. “Well, for starters—and the most obvious, in my opinion—your skin. You're naturally tanned, but when you really spend some time outside, especially during the warmer days, you tan really nicely. I'm a little jealous if I'm honest,” you mused lightly. Fingers idly scratched his scalp, slow and light. “And your eyes are practically the sun itself. Hazel—as far as natural eye colors go—is literally the closest to sunshine. That’s even more unfair.” Azriel held his breath as you continued, both listening to your every word like it was gospel and reeling from the weight it carried. “Then there’s the less obvious ones, like how you make me feel warm all the time. Well, you just run warm all the time, so that's not hard, but inside too. And how your bedhead looks like solar flares and prominences but in a cute way. Your freckles come out too, when you get enough sun—want to kiss all of ‘em,” you added quietly like a note to yourself to do later. He huffed a laugh, something between disbelief and growing affection that was pressing out from inside his chest. “You’ve really thought about this, huh? And should I be offended about the bedhead observation?” he replied, a dark brow lifting. Your grin grew with a small laugh, eyes closed for a few seconds as he kissed your forehead. It was a habit you’d barely realized and one Azriel had loved for decades. “No, you shouldn’t. I quite like the longer hair on you, actually.” “Mm. So you say,” he murmured as he pulled back to look at you. “I’m just calling it how I see it, Az. You could be the sun’s son and I’d believe it,” you said, matter-of-factly, a bare-shoulder shrugging. He huffed a laugh, arms tightened a fraction around you to pull you closer. One of his hands rested on the small of your back, the other now cruising up your spine and into your hair. He played with the messy locks, gently brushing them away whether they were in your way or not.

He huffed a laugh, gaze trailing over your face again. "I wonder what it's like to be in your mind for a day," he mused, subtly deflecting away from the heavy affection and weight your comparison carried. It wasn't that he disliked it; the opposite really. But Azriel was still getting used to how easily you shared your affections. Five decades with you were nothing compared to his nearly six centuries of living. Of fighting and self preservation just for survival.

Some days he fears you were never real.

“I think you’d be a little overwhelmed. I’m a glad you’re not daemati. I'd rather you not see the sexy murals of you I have on the walls of my mind.” you teased, brushing a kiss to his jaw.

He scoffed, something between disbelief and amusement. “Sexy murals? Really?”

It was your turn to scoff though, in mock offense. You pulled back from your kisses to look up at him. “Are you implying you don’t have sexy murals of me in your mind? Not even a faded, questionably stained poster in the corner?” You teased in feigned offense.

You felt his laugh rumble through his chest pressed against yours. “Fine, fine. I may have one or two.” He mused, kissing your brow. He started to slowly trail them down the side of your face, slow, warm, and sweet between his words. You may have called him the sun, but with how he wanted to remain in your orbit, he’d argue otherwise.

“The mural—because I know you’re gonna ask—” He began low and quiet. His voice had dipped to something warm, rich, and premonitory. “—is of you, just like this. Bare, in our bed, loving me the way I love you.” He muttered between kisses. His lips slowly climbed down your cheek, lingering on your jaw and sensitive underside.

“It’s you, tangled in our sheets,” he continued, leaving slow kisses all over the column of your neck. He smiled faintly as he felt your pulse skitter beneath his lips, the way your head craned to give him room. “Your hair everywhere like those solar prominences you were on about,” his teeth grazed your softness, and Azriel relished in the way your breath stuttered.

Azriel rolled you both over so he could hover over you. Sheets halfheartedly draped over his waist, wings stretching behind him to splay over the rest of the bed. Neither of you were religious, but in your half-lidded gaze, you could’ve mistaken him for a deity. Azriel considered you the only divinity he’d ever worship.

The air changed into something thicker. Not exactly tension but anticipation. A long-awaited yearning for two souls needing to be one again. Azriel kissed down your naked body, re-memorizing anything he was foolish enough to forget and adjusting the permanent mirror image of you embossed into his heart. For each kiss he left, your fingers skimmed over him. Whether it was his wings, his hair, or shoulders. The gates had opened, and you would get your fill.

“Beautiful.” He whispered against your thighs, laving at the plush skin with gentle nips. Your thighs flinched, threatening to clamp over his ears. “Az…” You tried to warn for his teasing, though it only came out as a needy mewl. No amount of imagination and toys in the past month could replace him.

Any other instance, Azriel would’ve teased you, would be amused. And sure, he was a little bit, but he was in the same boat. “I know, beloved.” He whispered between apologetic kisses as he moved north. He could smell your natural sweetness emitting from your core, the warmth calling to his soul. Or perhaps that was the unfiltered want flooding the bond from both of you.

Azriel already had to wait a month. There was no way he’d waste a second more.

His nose gently nudged your slit, warm tongue following. He was rewarded with a breathy moan from you. Azriel knew you loved that little bump on the bridge of his nose for less than innocent reasons and he made good show of it. He nudged it against your clit, letting you grind slow and deep.

He couldn’t resist peering up, watching your face contort in pleasure. The way your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, eyes screwed shut and lips switching between parting or being bitten raw. Strong yet gentle hands curled around your thighs and hips, holding you securely as he tasted.

Azriel was precise, coordinated, and drunk on you. Your pleasure was his pleasure. He would live, stay, and die right there if he could.

He felt your fingers tug his hair (perhaps a little harsher than intended, but then again, after a month apart, he understood). He rewarded you with a long suck to your puffy clit and watched you keen. Your eyes snapped open, rolling back until they were half-lidded and only white. Your back arched off the bed, wanton moans echoing through the townhouse, loud in the way he knew it had been far too long. He rotated between sucking, making out, and licking your pussy like he was on death’s door.

“Ah—Az, I’m not—I—fuck—I’m gonna—” you babbled brokenly. Normally, you lasted longer, but you’ve been a little out of practice. He hummed against your wet heat in acknowledgment, seemingly burying deeper to get you to fall into your pleasure. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Az—Oh god!” Your moans crescendo, thighs shaking only to clamp around his head. Your heels dug into his back, unsure whether to get him away or keep him close. Your toes curled so hard, the arch of your foot cramped. Your strength was out of your control as the orgasm smothered you. Blood rushed in your ears, vision whiting out as you bowed over him, practically sitting up. Heat and buzzes swam in your nerves as Azriel drew out your pleasure.

You collapsed with a gasp, slightly dizzy and entirely dazed. Azriel watched you as he kissed your inner thighs. You were a vision no artist but him could capture. Breathless, satisfied, gorgeous beyond belief as sunlight retraced where his lips and hands had been.

Just like the mural in his mind.

He slowly climbed back to hover over you, gentle hands brushing hair away. He watched you come back down, dazed sparkling eyes slowly finding his.

“Holy fuck.” You panted.

“Yeah?” Azriel grinned softly, stealing a gentle kiss. “I missed that. Missed you.”

You huffed a breathless laugh before melting into a soft hum as you tasted yourself. “Missed you too. And that. But you a little more.” You mused against his lips.

“Liar.” he whispered, nipping your nose playfully.

He pulled back just enough to really look at you. “You may call me the sun’s favorite, but I think you are the sun itself.” He whispered, lightly tracing the outline of your features, hazel eyes flicking over you.

Your eyes closed, a lopsided smile tugging at your lips. “Trying to one-up me, are you?” You mumbled teasingly. Azriel’s laugh fanned across your cheeks. “No. Just being honest.” He murmured as he dropped another kiss. “Rest. I’ll clean you up and then breakfast, okay?”

You hummed softly in acknowledgment as you felt the mattress shift and familiar sounds of him moving about.

The house was finally felt like home again.

A/N: I need him so bad, it's terminal I fear. Also, requests are open so please send some in!!

Incident #1: Clark’s 30th birthday

Clark's thirtieth was celebrated in the most Clark way. Simple, fun, and with the people he loved most. Martha and John came into town. You’d invited Lois, Jimmy, and Cat came in all for a nice dinner at one of Clark’s favorite restaurants.

It was a lovely evening, and seeing the smile on his face all night made it all worth it.

You had been with Clark for just over a year, incredibly loved by his friends and his parents even more. Clark would joke that you're replacing him sometimes, to which you’d kiss that pout away.

"Thank you again for this,” he said it low enough for you to hear. Your gaze dragged away from Jimmy, who was retelling some elaborate story (which you were sure was embellished). Your heart and gaze softened, watching the warm fairy lights strung across the ceiling sparkle warmly across his features.

"Of course. You deserve it, honey.” You replied just as softly as your hand gently slipped into his. His smile grew, dimples peeking out and making your heart flutter again. It was funny how he could still make you feel like it was day one.

Clark kissed your cheek gently, and just as he went to return his attention to the others, your spark of mischief flared up. A gentle squeeze of his hand had his attention returning again. He searched for your gaze once before dropping down to the envelope you’d drawn out.

He gave you a pointed look. You’d already given him his birthday gift this morning. "Sunshine, I thought we agreed on only one gift.”

You shrugged as if you weren't a spider waiting for her unsuspecting prey to fall into her web.

Your prey just happened to be a 6’4” farm boy hunk.

“I know. Technically, this isn’t a gift. I forgot to take the card out of my purse to include your gift this morning. So, I thought to just give it now.” You explained softly and innocently. And poor, unsuspecting, in-love Clark believed you.

Trap: laid and set.

He smiled, something between reprimanding and ultimately grateful. He squeezed your hand gently. “Thank you.” He murmured as he took the envelope.

You watch him open it from the corner of your eye, taking a sip of your drink to stop yourself from giving yourself away.

Clark opened the envelope, huffing a laugh at the dry humor and cheesy cover of a pug with googly eyes and a crooked party hat.

However, when he opened the card, his smile quickly fell in exchange for wide eyes and a tomato-red flush from his cheeks to his hairline. He practically clapped the card shut to his chest as if it held the world’s most guarded secret.

An amused smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you glanced between his blushing face and the card.

“Well?” You hummed softly, turning in your chair to face him fully. Your smile grew as he looked between you, the card, and the others.

“O-oh, I—well…golly…" he stammered, daring another peek at the card’s contents.

Yes, it was a birthday card with a handwritten message from you inside. However, the little pocket meant to hold cash held a scandalous photo of you.

The pose and setting were innocent. You were lying in your unmade bed, hair fanned out under you as you looked at the camera. Only your body from your shins to your nose was in frame. Your smile was something wicked. Not exactly a big grin but still knowing and still salacious, as if you could already see Clark’s reaction to such a photo. The photo was captured right as the tip of your tongue ran over the point of your canine.

Like you were preparing to devour your lover alive since then.

You looked like heaven to Clark, and the only reason it made him blush beet red was your state of dress. Or undress, rather. You were in nothing but a burgundy lingerie set. A delicate and sexy combination of lace and silk Clark would do anything to be in the place of.

One of your brows rose, a satisfied smile gracing your lips as you watched him swallow thickly. He was careful to angle the card and its contents away from Martha, sitting on his other side.

"You…you look…” he muttered, not finding the right words. He shook his head in disbelief, scanning the Polaroid repeatedly. You had no doubt he was engraving it into his mind.

You laughed softly, patting his thigh below the table. His thigh tensed for a moment; he was wound up already. "Take your time, big guy.” You teased before your voice dropped just above a whisper, which only his super-hearing would catch. "Besides, we have dessert at home.”

You gave him a heated, knowing, and mischievous glance before looking back to the others as if you did not just turn his night upside down.

Clark only stared back at you; surely, you could hear his heart race. He dared a quick glance down at you and regretted it. One second of using x-ray vision showed him you were wearing that very burgundy set.

You had never seen him wrap up a dinner so fast.

Incident #2: When Clark was having a rough day at work

The Daily Planet thrived on chaos. From incessant, unsynchronized clacking keyboards to rushed footsteps and frustrated huffs preceding epiphanies, controlled chaos was the newspaper’s blood.

Clark was no exception.

He’d been slumped in his cheap, too small office chair, typing and deleting cyclically for the better part of two hours. He had a lead, details, and a story all formulated in his head, yet when it came down to writing, no syntax seemed right.

He sighed for the third time before his head tipped back towards the ceiling. He considered talking to Jimmy or Lois, but both had left right after lunch to help the latter with her own article.

But you were free.

So, Clark glanced around the bullpen, spotting Perry talking to another journalist in his office. Occupied. That’s good. He shot you a quick text.

If I can’t figure out how to start this article, I might fly straight into the moon :(

He was about to put his phone away, but it buzzed once with the unique pattern he’d assigned to your contact.

Noooo don't kys you’re too sexy :(((

He huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes.

I would think I'd get more sympathy from my fiancée.

What if I gave you something better than sympathy??

I can’t tell if I should be scared or not. You worry me sometimes, honey.

Well, I WAS gonna say motivation but now I'm reconsidering >:(

Okay, okay, I'm sorry, sunshine. I'm desperate for any motivation at this point.

You didn’t reply for a minute and then another. Perhaps you got distracted or someone came to the door.

But then the familiar buzz pattern returned.

He pressed the notification; the image preview was far too small on the lock screen.

Clark should’ve known better. Maybe his mistake was letting his guard down a little too much around you sometimes. Or maybe he was grateful. He still wasn’t sure.

There you were.

A Polaroid of you was recaptured on your phone to send to him. It was you lying in your shared bed—on Clark’s side of the bed—front pressed against the sheets, your head resting on folded arms. Your engagement ring shimmered brightly against your skin from the camera flash. Your legs were bent at the knee, kicked up behind you, and ankles crossed. You peered up through your lashes towards the camera, towards his soul on the other side. He could barely make out the baby blue lace barely covering your ass behind your shoulder. And its top half was missing entirely.

No straps on your shoulders, no lace cupping your breasts even against the sheets.

“Good golly.” Clark breathed, rooted in his chair and frozen. Only his eyes could move over the screen.

Honey…you can’t just send that.

Clark’s fingers were trembling as he typed, his brain utter mush.

Why not?? I thought it’d be a little motivation?

My love, my sunshine, my future wife. I love you so much and I love this photo of you, but the wrong…Clark is being motivated right now.

You giggled to yourself back at home, knowing full well you put him in a hard spot. Literally.

Do you want me to call so you can get Clark junior sorted? I’d be happy to help ;)

You're not helping!! :(

…you do look very beautiful. Golly I still can’t believe I’m gonna get to marry you one day and I get you all to myself forever.

Aww Clark <33 I love you.

Now finish up before you get in trouble. Then when you come home, I’ll help you relax, okay?

Clark sighed, glancing up as he heard Perry leave his office. Times up.

I love you too and you better. You’ve left me in a very tight spot.

Oh, I bet ;)

Clark blushed further at your innuendo and put his phone away. For better or worse, your motivation had worked, as the words seemed to come flying across his screen. The quicker he turned in his article, the sooner he could get home to you.

Incident #3: The anniversary

It had been just over a year since you and Clark got married. A blissfully wonderful year and today marked the first anniversary.

“I'm home, honey!” He called out as he shuffled into your shared apartment. Clark felt awful he couldn’t get the day off. It was your first wedding anniversary, after all. Hopefully, the flowers he picked up would be an apology enough.

“Kitchen!” You called out, glancing over your shoulder as you heard him shuffle down the little hallway.

Even after years together, your heart grew when seeing Clark. You couldn’t help but softly laugh, wiping your hands on a dishtowel as you turned to face him. "Oh, honey," you cooed, gently taking the flowers—a large bouquet of your favorites. "These are beautiful.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist, kissing the top of your head while being mindful not to crush the flowers between you. "I feel awful I couldn't get today off. Thought I'd get you something to make you feel special," he murmured.

He watched your face soften, moving away enough to set the bouquet aside. "Honey, I know you tried your best, and it’s not your fault our anniversary fell on a weekday. But that also doesn’t mean we still can’t celebrate,” you hummed softly.

Clark was smart. Clark was observant. And he also knows the look on your face can only mean scheming. "Sunshine," he drawled suspiciously.

But you didn’t give him a chance. Only a quick kiss to his jaw, and you were slipping past him to head off into your bedroom. "Stay right there!” You called out from somewhere in there.

Clark blinked towards the doorway where you’d just left and returned from, this time with a neatly wrapped box and a smug feline smile.

Under fluorescent kitchen lights on linoleum tiles, you handed him said box.

"Happy anniversary,” was all you offered as he gently took the box in exchange for a kiss.

Clark could've sworn your smile grew as he opened the box, but that could've easily been your excitement.

The ribbon was untied, and the lid was set beside your flowers on the countertop.

Inside lay a book—a photo album, he deduced by the side. Sleek, black, and locked with a tiny heart-shaped padlock. It was unassuming otherwise, but one thing he came to learn about you: never underestimate you.

"Oh… golly. Thank you, sunshine," he breathed, running his hand over the cover as he took it out of the box. "But it’s locked.”

You huffed a laugh at your husband. "Yes, it is, and you already have the key for it. You've had it in your possession for a while," you mused.

Clark's brows furrowed, glancing between you and the book as he thought. And when it clicked, his eyes widened.

He did have it for a while. A year, to be exact.

Somewhere between watching you dance with your friends hours into the wedding reception and him nursing a drink (that wasn’t doing anything for him) off to the side, your maid of honor had approached him with a self-satisfied smile and a tiny envelope. No words were exchanged; he wasn’t given the chance to. Only a tiny key.

It had been a year since, and you had made no mention or hint of it. So he added it to his key ring for safekeeping. And forgotten about it.

"You little minx," he finally breathed, your grin growing. He peppered kisses on your face, practically having to tear himself away to fetch his keys he’d hooked by the door.

Your laugh danced with the jingle of his shuffling keys as he found the tiny one from a year ago between his apartment key and a cute little Superman keychain you got for him years ago.

Clark was not prepared when he finally turned the cover.

"Oh! Oh golly… honey..." he stammered, breath catching and a hot flush blooming under his skin from head to toe.

Page upon slowly turned page was filled with you. All of you sensually posed, some in black and white, others in color. All had satin and lace.

You'd done a boudoir shoot, and not only that, but you’d planned this out at least a year in advance.

Clark has fought beasts, aliens, intergalactic monsters, and arch-nemeses. Yet none of them had made him this weak.

He couldn't look away, couldn’t stop turning each page. Photo upon photo of art—of you.

A mix of editorials and Polaroids at different poses and angles.

And when he spotted a familiar pair, his blood ran hot, and his pants got tighter.

The one with you in the burgundy set from his birthday a few years ago. The baby blue set you’d sent on a whim over a year ago.

“Do you like it?” You asked softly, glancing at him and the photos.

You blinked up at me, and God, you could've buckled then and there. His cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide, and pupils blown out. Pretty lips parted and chest moving a little quicker than a few minutes ago.

It was barely a blink. One moment you were looking at him; the next he scooped you up and moved to the bedroom with purpose.

"Golly, sunshine, y-you’re going to—gosh, you’re going to kill me," he groaned. His hands roamed your body like he couldn't get enough yet hovered like he was holding himself back.

Your own roamed over his torso, skimming up over his shoulders and tangling into his hair. Your nails scratched his scalp lightly, your pride swelling as he whimpered. Clark's forehead dropped to the crown of your head. His fingers flexed against your hips despite his resistance.

Clark walked you backward until your legs hit the bed, and you were both falling.

It was like a tipping point.

His lips found yours halfway, two pairs of hands roaming the others like they’d melt away. Little gasps, moans, and slow-building pleasure filled the room.

Your first wedding anniversary may not have been typical, but you only needed Clark.

And you had Clark all night.

A/n: not loving the ending soz. I’ll be back with better stuff trust.

"It's an introductory pottery class for kids. I made the mistake of mentioning I know you once and, well, they've been asking when you'll show up," Feyre said lightly in passing during dinner one night. It wasn't flashy or pleading, just a simple request.

Cassian chuckled and nodded, half glass of wine set back down. “Sure, I'll stop by to see the little squirts. Plus, I haven't stopped by the studio in a while,” he added lightly, with a grin.

Now, a few days later, he landed on the cobblestone street across from the studio. A few passing faces gave him smiles and greetings. The facade was clean and bright, with two tall windows flanking the propped-open front door and flooding the interior with spring air and sunlight. The afternoon air was warm yet breezy, stirring the paper stack in the far corner of the studio. The faint smell of paint and clay was grounding, carried on the breeze on its way out. Laughter paired with little voices and smaller feet shuffled in.

Cassian followed a father and young girl, tucking his wings tight.

“You made it!” Feyre greeted, wiping hands on an apron that had certainly seen better days.

“Wouldn't miss it." He grinned.

“Good,” Feyre chuckled and began walking deeper into the studio. Cassian fell in step behind her, giving small waves and bigger grins to the kids settling in their seats. Tables and canvas easels were moved aside to accommodate a semicircle of pottery wheels and one in front and center. Most stools were filled with a small bodies, either chatting with a neighbor or curiously investigating the machine without actually touching it.

“Today’s an introductory pottery class like i mentioned at dinner and if you want we can—oh! You’re here!” Cassian dragged his gaze away from a pair of boys he waved at and followed Feyre.

There, across the room, tying one of the studio-stained aprons around your waist, was you. For a breath, time slowed for Cassian, and the sunlight pouring through the windows glowed brighter, like it was holding its breath to shine a little brighter for you.

Feyre moved in his periphery, and Cassian blinked, the sun breathing and time moving again.

“Hey,” you greeted Feyre with a smile. “My plans didn't go through, so I thought I'd come help today instead. I hope that's alright,” you added almost apologetically.

Feyre waved dismissively. “Of course it is. Besides, you’re our best ceramicist, and the kids love you. I also asked this one to come in today, since the kids have been asking for a few weeks.” She glanced up at him briefly and gestured to you both. Cassian realized he was the “this one” in question. “Cassian, Y/N. Y/N, Cassian.”

Cassian was frozen for a heartbeat. He made an effort not to stare or gawk. He'd seen beauty of all kinds, colors, shapes, and sizes. He was an avid appreciator of it in the form of a body, but you were a kind he hadn’t come across often.

You, with your hair tied back, save for a few stubbornly loose pieces around your face. Your eyes were bright in a way that put the stars this court was known for to shame. Your smile was otherworldly. Your voice was calm and smooth like honey-coated marble, wrapping around his spine and melting into the gaps between.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” you replied, offering a hand.

Cassian’s larger hand engulfed your smaller, albeit colder, one. “Likewise,” he breathed.

He watched your gaze meet Feyre’s again with a soft smile. “I'll finish setting up, and then we can start?”

Feyre nodded and watched you go prepare your station at the front. “Why don’t we get set up? You can take any of the empty spots with the kids.”

Cassian tore his gaze away from you where you gathered supplies in the corner, and found an empty spot between two girls. They blinked at him owlishly. Cassian tucked his wings tighter as he greeted them both, trying to make himself appear friendly and nonthreatening.

He was in the middle of answering one of there questions about what clouds felt like when he watched you take your spot at the center pottery wheel. “Can everyone please put a bubble in their mouth for me?” you asked the class, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a finger to your lips and cheeks puffed up. Cassian watched the kids settle down and mimic your bubble in their mouths. he was half tempted to copy for his own amusement (and maybe yours), the other half because of how your teacher voice subconsciously compelled him to for a moment.

You slipped into your teacher's role so easily, Cassian found, with your voice loud and clear, and your tone was adjusted to keep the students engaged. It was so different from your introduction. “Thank you, everyone. Today we’re going to be trying pottery. But before we start, we have a special guest,” you added, your gaze finally landing on Cassian with a small smile and an encouraging nod. “Guest, would you please introduce yourself?”

Cassian grinned, feeling ten pairs of eyes suddenly on him. He waved gently as he looked aroundthe class. “Hello, everyone. I'm Cassian. I'm going to learn pottery with you all.”

Soft, excited gasps and wide eyes flit through the little crowd, some whispering to their friends. A little boy with blueish skin and even big, blue eyes and a missing tooth raised his hand so fast he nearly fell off the stool. He was precariously kneeling to get a better look at the general, to which you gently chided him to sit correctly before he fell.

"Um, do you—when—when you uh, fight bad guys, how uh…how do you not get hurt?”

He huffed a laugh before glancing at you for permission.

“Well, I trained really hard for a long, long time. I still train with my brother’s but sometimes i still get hurt. I wish i could never not get hurt. That would make things a whole lot easier, now wouldn’t it?” he added lightly, earning scattered giggles.

He couldn't help but glance at you briefly as if he wanted your approval too. It was strange feeling; he’d only just met you. You allowed three more questions from other students before bringing their attention back to the class.

Cassian watched you just as intently as the students. He could tell they respected you and were excited about the class to learn. You asked them questions; they’d answer with excited raised hands and stars in their eyes. They followed your instructions with rapt attention and excitement. It was hard for him not to get sucked in either. From how to wedge the clay to centering and pulling. He felt that familiar tug of attraction. Of course, he found you physically attractive, but this was different; your skill was attractive. You have a talent, the way wet clay coats your hands as you pinch and pull with such even pressure. The careful balance of delicacy and strength was mesmerizing.

Cassian’s hands had so seldom been used for care and precision unless there was a bloodied blade and a dead body or two involved. His size was used for brute strength and even brutal techniques meant to end, not create. Pottery was out of his depth, but he told Feyre he’d come for today’s class. And watching you practice your craft, teaching simultaneously was enthralling.

And then your ring and middle fingers slowly curled down the center of your clay, and Cassian’s mind went very filthy very quickly.

Blood rushed to his ears and neck. His gaze tore away as he tried to follow your demonstration on his own.

He really shouldn’t feel so hot. You were teaching a technique—welling, he thinks, but the blood rushing in his head made it hard to remember. All he could focus on was your fingers curling, murky water displacing from the hole and spilling over the slick clay walls.

It took several deep breaths and morbid thoughts to focus on his own clay before his blood flooded elsewhere. There were children around, for Cauldron’s sake! Every so often he’d peek up through thick lashes as he caught you helping other students, your demonstration paused.

For better or for worse, Cassian was not used to walking such a fine line of delicacy and strength. Usually it was just one side of the fence—the brute strength. It was familiar. What he’d been trained for. So the focus it took to pull a simple cylinder was a challenge but one he didn’t mind. It was a little frustrating and more mentally demanding than he assumed, but it was better than thinking about what other wet, squelching area your two fingers could curl into—

"Cauldron boil me,” he muttered under his breath.

“Trouble?”

His head snapped up to where you stood across from him. Your sudden presence took him off guard, and as if the Mother were punishing him for such lewd thoughts about you, his wet clay caved in from the uneven pressure and detached from the center until it landed inside the pan.

"Oh dear,” you muttered, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, a slip-coated hand gently waving dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Guess I was just really focused.”

Your smile softened, the worried curve of your brow smoothing again. "You were doing really well. Well…at least before it went flying.”

Cassian grinned at you, charming yet mischievous. “Had a real good teacher.”

You huffed a laugh, raising your brow. “I’d hope so. Otherwise, I’d have to reevaluate a few things about myself. Namely, how I still have my job,” you mused.

Cassian chuckled, letting you get pulled away by another student.

— • —

It was late afternoon when the class was wrapping up. Although he truly tried his best, the cylinder he managed to make was short and thick-walled, he was proud of it anyway.

He gave high-fives or fist bumps to the kids as they left, and before long it was just him, you and Feyre. He didn't know his way around the studio like you both, but he helped clean up.

“I'll lock up,” you reassured Feyre before she winnowed away. That left just you both.

Now, Cassian had considered his options. He could a) give polite goodbyes and leave or b) find some excuse to hang around a bit longer to talk to you more, to learn a little more about you, but he also didn't want to impose. He did meet you today.

“Thank you again for coming. The students were really happy,” you said gently as you put away the last of the tools in labeled buckets.

Cassian blinked out of his thoughts, grinning. “It’s nothing. Besides, I couldn’t disappoint them.”

Your smile grew as you dried your hands and finally exchanged the stained studio apron for your things. He followed you out, watching you lock up the studio and how the sun settled on you. Your eyes finally met his, bright and sparkling. A mix of peach and rose prickled under your skin at the sudden eye contact. Cassian’s smile grows, cataloging how your face holds the blush and already wondering how he can get you to do it again.

“Should I expect you for the next class?” you found yourself asking as you adjusted your bag to your shoulder.

“I’ll come to any class you want me to sweetheart.”

Your blush deepens, traveling up your ears and down your neck. “Oh,” you mutter, suddenly too warm up for the spring sun. Cassian relishes it and that smug smile lets you know full well.

“In that case,” you begin, steeling your flustered nerves and holding his gaze. A smirk tugs at your lips this time, voice dipping low and smooth. “I also offer private lessons, in case you're interested,” you add.

Now it was his turn to feel a little flustered and yours to smile in satisfaction. You don’t give him the chance to respond, only a brief goodbye as you turn heel and around the corner to the gods know where.

“Well, fuck me,” Cassian huffs out with a grin.

A/N: lowkey cheeks. Thank you for all the love and support!! I appreciate every single one of you!! <3

You shouldn’t be here.

Neither should he.

Correction. He didn’t want to be.

You more so. He at least had the freedom as prince to slink about where, when, and how he pleased. The viper pit disguised as a ballroom was meant for nobles, for silky promises falling from silkier lips.

So why—how—were you here?

Eris didn’t know whether to be impressed, appalled, or an unforeseen third option as to how you got here and in one piece.

The evening began as per usual. Dressed in courtly finest, tailored to an inch of his life, and the usual mask of sly calculation even tighter. He observed, noting everything worth his time either now or in the future. Eris would always find the right time to pull a loose thread if he knew it could benefit him.

His usual perusal of tonight’s occupants was routine at this point. If he were any younger, any less trained to survive the gilded prison called the Autumn Court, he would’ve missed it.

Peeking from a terrace archway on the the third floor and shrubbery, was you. Eris's gaze lingered for a second, only looking away when he briefly considered it a hallucination. But there you were again, a faint movement in the foliage with leaves and shadows as cover.

This was the most interesting thing to happen all night, and Eris did love unexpected entertainment.

He moved through the crowd, indifferent, plucking a goblet from a passing server. He didn’t nod or smile in response to what he received. He remained unruffled, like it was all a bore, which, to be fair, it was.

As soon as he ducked into the staircase leading up, he winnowed to the terrace he’d spotted you at and ended up right behind you.

His grin only grew at the sight. You were dressed unremarkably and crouched just past the doorframe. You who seemed to be intently…sketching something?

"Your attempt at inconspicuousness needs some work," he said simply, taking a sip from his wine, like he’d it was you who’d walked in on the occupied terrace.

Your breath hitched, head whipping back so fast your neck nearly strained and your braid almost smacked your face. Your wide eyes met his.

“I—I am so sorry—I was—I swear I wasn't—"

"Weren't what? Plotting?" Eris mused, a brow lifting. He watched you quickly stand, clutching a book to your chest. "If you’re a spy, you’re a bad one.”

You blinked, shaking your head quickly. "N-no, I'm not, I swear! I…I was just observing. Studying, actually. I promise. I was just leaving.” You hurried out, bowing at the waist to turn and leave only to stop short. “Deepest apologies, my lord.”

Eris watched with intrigued amusement as you stepped and retracted several times. You were hesitating.

If you go back in there, you’d get caught for sure. You knew it, and he knew you knew it.

"Prove it then," he called out as you hesitated a third time. Your gaze met his again, searching across the balcony. For a moment neither of you moved. Neither did the wind, as if time really did cease.

"I…pardon, my lord?” you blinked, fingers tightening around your book.

"You heard me. You claim you were studying, so show me. Surely you’d know how it would look otherwise.”

Your gaze flickered between his, and he only held steady. You swallowed thickly as he leaned back against the stone railing, completely unbothered for someone who found a trespasser in his home.

You knew your options were limited: comply or look suspicious and be charged with trespassing. At the bare minimum. You knew which was the lesser poison.

You extended the book towards him. simple black leather, worn at the corners, freckled with paint.

He watches you swallow again as he takes the book, setting his goblet aside atop the stone.

Eris was bred and built to suspect everything, to constantly stay ten steps ahead. You may not claim to be a spy, but he knew deceit and lies thrived in Autumn; dying leaves displaying beauty and hiding rot.

So when the cover cracked open, Eris was still suspicious. but also interested underneath—more than he should be. Yes, you claimed to be studying, though he wouldn’t have guessed, people.

You were studying people, movements, and anatomy.

Each page was filled with charcoal or graphite streaks and smudges. Patchworks of anatomical close-ups, from hands, lips, and eyes, all with different expressions, shapes, and angles. Another page filled messily—sketches in the rawest sense—with bodies. Some whole, some portions, some clothed, and other naked. Yet, all detailed. It was controlled chaos. There was a layer of intricacy from the most minimal scribbles.

Eris scanned the pages, occasionally glancing up at you. You watched as he did, fidgeting with your linen dress.

"You're an artist then?” It was rhetorical, but questioning was instinct.

"I…yes, I suppose. Aspiring, really," you began carefully, cheeks warming when he huffed a nervous laugh, lips tugging in the corner.

"Only an aspiring artist would be foolish enough to trespass here.” He replied low and smooth as he paused to scan over a full page sketch. The background was vague, like how it’d appear in a dream, but the subjects were clear. The way pairs danced, skirts and hair flaring in spins and turns all frozen in time, in gravity. The abstract gestures of a smile or arms bent above their heads as they danced happily. It wasn’t the ballroom; it was far to open and lacking. Must be the square as confirmed by the Autumn Equinox date scrawled in the lower right corner.

“I deeply apologize, my lord. I sincerely apologize if I've offended you or His Lordship. I only meant to stay long enough to study a bit and then leave without being in the way or noticed. I—" you rambled, your heart skittering only to drop as he held up his free hand. You shut your mouth with a clack of your teeth, nervously watching him as he continued to study your drawings.

"Aspiring, yes?” he muttered, glancing through his lashes with a raised brow as you didn’t reply for a few seconds.

"I—yes! Yes, I am." you stammered, blinking and catching up to his question.

He made a noncommittal noise, thumbing through the pages until he landed on the last sketches. It was from tonight—right now—given how it was half complete. True to the drawings preceding it, you’d captured detail and movement from your hiding spot. People drinking, mingling, dancing—

Him.

Interesting.

The overall study was half-finished, and yet he found himself complete amongst your crowd. Somehow with distance, graphite, and a little charcoal, you managed to catch his expression and the detail of his finery.

His gaze lingered, yet his mind worked. He looked at you again, examining—considering—for a moment. The sketchbook clapped shut in his hand, and you tried and failed to suppress a startle. The familiar Vanserra smirk appeared.

“You’ll be working for me from now on.”

You blinked at him slowly, owlishly, as the grip on the sketchbook slackened momentarily. "Huh?!"

"I'm not in the business to repeat myself."

You stammered, failing to find the right words or your mental footing as you clutched the book to your chest. You were sure he’d burn you where you stood for trespassing. As if he read your thoughts—

“While I should try you for trespassing, I find your talents rather…useful to me. At the very least, entertaining," he began, swirling his wine thrice. "You'll find things get quite mind-numbing around here after a few hundred years of monotony.”

You were frozen to the stone, staring at him as your mind reeled. Eris found great amusement from that look on your face.

“Noon. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.” was all you got as he stepped past you and back inside.

— • —

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Shackles and torture if you were honest. You may have been sober doing it, but sneaking into the Forest House was either the stupidest or luckiest idea you had. The jury was still out for that one.

But alas, you would make it last as long as you could.

Now, hours since your timely arrival, you trailed behind Eris as he walked through the surrounding forest with three of his smokehounds. He didn’t give you any instructions. In fact, he said little to nothing to you after fetching you from the gates, and that left you walking a tightrope over a bottomless pit.

You observed him, the dogs, and the forest carefully for a long while. Your bag of drawing supplies bounced on your hip, softly clattering inside in rhythm with the crunch of leaves under boots and paws. A pencil twirled in your fingers as you worried the inside of your cheeks. It felt like you used a lifetime’s worth of luck to have this be the outcome rather than a trial.

After debating for the past half hour and getting annoyed at yourself for hesitating for so long, you bit the bullet.

You watched him walk ahead, glancing between him and the fresh sketch blooming across a new page in your sketchbook. Your hand swished across the page, the pencil arcing like an extension of your wrist, scratching quietly. The rough outline of his form, the fabric shifting with each step or turn, and how his hair stirred with wind and movement.

Eris glanced briefly over his shoulder at the new and delicate sounds from you, the movement unnoticed in your periphery during your focus. He smirked to himself as he faced forward again.

That’s how it went.

Once a week, you’d follow him around for an afternoon and draw. Sometimes it’d be walks in the forest. other days were spent in his study as he worked. The conversation was little, but the silence wasn’t awkward. You’d follow, draw for a while, get paid handsomely and go home.

You also found a new doorway in your mind, like a wall finally collapsing and opening to a new world. Neither your tool nor your hand could move fast enough as they worked in tandem to sketch him. Page after page began to become Eris alone. By the third week, your artist’s block had dissolved, and by the seventh, you found your muse. 

You’d caught yourself sketching details of him on your own time, long after you’d left his presence. From his hand curling around a quill to strong, pale fingers buried in smoky fur to full candid portraits of him. 

There was a page dedicated to just his eyes and all the subtle expressions they’d make. 

Deep at night with nothing but a handful of faelights and restlessness, you found yourself streaking paint across a canvas. Graphite or charcoal could never capture color. From the rich copper of his hair to the muted gold of his eyes. Slow where it mattered, and rushed where it didn't, your fingers danced with brushes until the first rays of dawn kissed the canvas. Only then did you step back to finally see your work.  

A portrait yet not like the clean, sharply elegant ones lining halls of the Forest House. This was raw, capturing his essence.

The eyes you painted glinted back at you, sunlight winking off wet paint. His lips—at first glance—appeared straight. The image of indifference, of the anger and violence begotten by living under Baron. But a few steps closer showed the slightest lift at the corner.  

Your fingers ghosted over the paint streaks along his strong jaw, his nose, sharp brows, and planes of freckled cheeks. 

You managed to capture his likeness, and yet it was dull compared to the vision in your mind.

So, you sighed, leaving the canvas to dry on the easel to go bathe and finally sleep.

The impromptu painting of him stayed tucked away in your apartment between other paused artworks. As you sank into the warm water, you knew Eris could—would—never see it. It was too raw, too free for someone of his station. His personality.

Too raw for your own heart.

You may not have grown up directly under Baron’s thumb the way Eris had, but as a member of the court, there was indirect cruelty you were forced to toughen under.

Feelings of softness were no different than turning belly up. A bleeding heart held in another’s hands was a target between your eyes. Safety was a hoax dressed like a knight and loved the dragon it was destined to slay.

So you buried the blooming deep under bones, blood, and drawings. You crushed it under your boot like the very leaves you stepped on as you followed Eris through the forest yet again.

Eris had become your muse and to remain nothing more, your demise too.

a/n: 🫣