probably too late for baby blurbs, but i’m gonna send anyways!
reader and eddie are having a silly argument debate, and you really wanna win. so what does it hurt if you flash your tits at him and… oh, what was eddie talking about again?
“Elsie was a divine caster, not a mage! There is a huge difference.”
Eddie leans back in your bed like a jerk, dark tattoos and pale skin a complete contrast to your blue sheets. He looks imposing against ditsy flower stitching, but he’s at home here. He makes himself comfortable, and if he didn’t you’d force him to.
“Elsie wasn’t a divine caster,” you disagree, kneeling on the floor by your bed with a mountain of unpaired socks beside you, “she never went through the trials. That makes her a simple mage. She would’ve had to submit under the yielded light–”
“Shut up about the yielded light, you don’t even care about that stuff, you just wanna be right.” He grins at you, jaw soft as he slips down into your pillows, bringing a throw cushion against his chest. “You know the yielded light thing doesn’t matter, because Sir Cane was a divine caster and he was from Tolberon.”
You bundle what’s left of the unpaired socks back into the tote bag they’re mustering in and close the sock drawer of your bedside table. Eddie’s grinning ‘cos he knows he’s winning the debate and it’s pissing you off because The Anglebird is your favourite book, and not his, and he doesn’t have to be right about everything. “He didn’t need to submit because he wasn’t actually a divine caster, they just didn’t have a word for it in Tolberon, and it’s the same with Elsie. She could have been one, but she hasn’t gone through any of the basic trials.”
“It’s just a title thing. This is like– baby, you’re acting like the government.”
You aren’t gonna win this little argument because Eddie’s a stickler for semantics, but you should. You’re right. You’re sick of being not right and you want him to say it, and you know you have certain powers over your boyfriend. You’d quite like to stretch all demure and sleek like a house cat in the sun until he’s caught sight of the small of your back, but you’re not, like, manipulative.
You put on a fake effect, raising your brows. “Oh, gosh, is it hot in here?” you ask dramatically.
“I am just overheating like this. Would you– do you mind?” you ask, folding your elbow down into the bottom of your shirt and pulling it upwards, arching into the movement as the fabric slips up your shoulders. With a quick tug, you pull it off of your neck and settle, still kneeling, chest flush with excitement while his eyes go steady on your naked skin. “That’s better.”
You drop your shirt on the ground and look down at your chest. Naked chest. No need for a bra so close to bed time. “Oh, shoot, sorry, baby. Indecent exposure. I forgot I wasn’t wearing a vest under here.”
“What do you want?” he asks, eyes warm with affection and a very obvious second emotion as you cross your arms gently over your chest.
You lean a bit into the act. Just softly. Going all hushed and sweet like he likes, not a lie, but not usually a version of yourself you embody with the lights on. “I don’t want anything, Ed, I’m just overheating.” You offer a sad little smile you know he wants to kiss. “Do you understand what I’m saying, though? Divine caster might be a title, but it’s one you have to earn. Elsie’s a super powerful mage, but–”
“I’ve thought about the whole thing from your perspective as we’ve been talking and Elsie really should’ve had to go through the tribulations of a traditional caster before I give her the title,” he says, all in one breath, his gaze very carefully set in the midpoint between your face and your chest.
You cup the skin where chest so obviously becomes a swell of fat and try not to boast. “You really think so?”
“I barely know what we’re talking about, if I’m honest.” He swallows obviously. You know it is not for show. “I can’t think straight.”
“You’re so perfect,” he says, hiking on his elbows. “Are you coming up here? Please, stop kneeling on the floor. Angel. Please.”
You give a soft, triumphant hum and clamber onto your feet, just long enough for Eddie to spring toward you and pull you into his embrace, sending you giggling and breathless sprawled over his lap as he mutters, “Fucking siren,” by your ear.
