#tangible flower

[thecryptidbard]

ALSO can we talk about Hetty’s reaction after Flower tells her “You’re a good friend”???

Think about where she was at this point last year—having also just revealed a massive secret, one that almost irrevocably ruined one of her oldest friendships. She’d admitted in Ghost Court that friends were not something she’d ever had in life—something she hasalso just reiterated moments ago to Sam and Isaac, that one of the reasons she felt so trapped and alone and without options at the end of her life was because she had no friends.

Think about how far we’ve seen her come; in season one, it’s huge growth for her that after Jay’s possession, she admits to the other ghosts that she missed them. Or season two, how in a very un-Hetty move she’s willing to swallow her pride and apologize to Nigel (even though she’s sure she isn’t in the wrong!) for the sake of saving her friendship with Isaac. Or even earlier this season, how closely she’s clinging to Alberta in so many of the episodes, because she’s so grateful she got her friend back after being so close to losing her that she doesn’t even want to be physically separated from her.

And then now, she’s just once again revealed a secret she’s kept for well over a hundred years, in order to save Flower. She’s kept this part of herself from everyone for so long, and the very second she sees that Flower is securely out of the hole, she turns her back to everyone to gather herself and then bolts.

Isaac and Sam make her see that, yes objectively she has people here for her now like she never had in life, but Flower coming in and thanking her is when she actually gets to see and experience the reality of how different her existence is now. “You’re a good friend,” she says, and it might be the first time someone has ever said that to her. And Hetty just looks up at Flower so surprised in that moment, and so heartbreakingly hopeful, because I genuinely think that until right then, she really hadn’t considered it like that before; she just knew that Flower was in trouble and that she had to help her whatever the personal cost, because not saving her wasn’t even an option.

So much of the ghosts’ relationships, especially early on, were transactional, and, especially in Hetty’s case, built around enforcing particular power dynamics: accruing a wealth of back rubs, extorting Pete’s TV time before signing Elias’s contract, or any of the countless occasions she brought up her status as ‘lady of the house’. So the fact that she makes this sacrifice that feels like a loss of power to her is in and of itself big; but Flower acknowledging that, and making sure Hetty herself sees it too, by calling her a good friend—it’s a whole different level of meaningful.

She doesn’t just thank Hetty. She makes sure that she sees what her actions mean to her. And Hetty is so taken aback by it, because Flower saying this to her and meaning it is a gift she was absolutely unprepared for; a “good friend” is not something Hetty has ever known herself to be, up until now. But she very badly wants for it to be true.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

hi! do you draw your comics traditionally? saw u said ‘rescan’ in the previous ask (i’m not the same anon tho). side note, thank you for making my day w your art

[xluxsolarisx]

🤲🏾🌻

🫳🏾the flower emoji makes me think of my flowers...so far i have african violets and poppies and peonies and morning glory and peace lilies. i used to have a LOT more but most of them are at my mom's house i left them there when i moved out. whenever i visit her i'm always so paranoid she won't take care of them properly but they always look fine ^^ especially the roses they have a very pretty pink to orange fade to their petals. i need more flowers now :(

[moonmoonthecrabking]

rtc headcanon: constance never gets cold but always wears a sweater and brings an extra because her best friend is a stubborn ginger who's built like glass and the rest of the choir isn't much better

[vics-pics-jpg]

Westmount Park, Quebec.

[zincbot]

hob. he's just like me for real

[touchingmadness]

Me: "LTLI is just a cute little missing scenes romance fic about my favorite pairing from my favorite video game."

Me, a month and a half later: "Actually, LTLI is about accepting that people care about you even when you don't care about yourself. It's about coming to terms with the fact that people do love you and want to be around you even when you feel like you don't deserve it. It's about learning to value yourself when you're used to being told you're worth nothing."

[criminalamnesia]

GOD I LOVE traitor and how strong you've made the reader. It's amazing! And I eagerly await any future parts, whether it's big proper story or drabbles. BUT, you come first and your life does so you do what you gotta and go be amazing! We can wait. Proud of you X

im so late to responding, but thank you! <3

here’s part six :) also not really proofread so I apologize for any errors! I’ll fix them later!

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the floor, cross-legged amongst broken glass, brittle flowers, and discarded clothes, when someone knocks on the door.

you don’t move, don’t say anything. the noise seems distant— too far off to be real.

besides, if someone is really knocking on your door, they know you’re in here.

and if they know you’re in here, it could be one of five people. your former squad mates, or the doctor.

the knock sounds again. it shakes you from your stupor, yet you still make no move to answer it. let them come in; let them see what they’ve made of you. of who you were. of who you could’ve been.

the person on the other side of the door is speaking now. you register the muffled baritone as it fights to be heard from the hall.

you clench your fists, then unclench them— stretching out your fingers as far as they go. clench them again. unclench. stretch. repeat.

it’s a tick— a calming habit. you don’t think it’s working at the present moment.

the doorknob turns. you still don’t move.

the door is being pushed in, light from the hallway aggressively slicing through the darkness you’d left yourself in. you fought the urge to curl in on yourself.

you’d been so consumed by your anger— are consumed by it— but coming into this room and seeing that damn note was earth-shaking. it was terrifying, and it was a tangible reminder of the team’s unapologetic tactics. simon’s unapologetic tactics.

the voice is speaking once more, clearer now that the door is out of the way— but you can’t make out the words over the ringing in your ears.

a hand gingerly lands on your shoulder, and that’s when you snap.

you whirl around, throwing yourself into the intruder like a cobra striking its prey. clearly caught off guard, the person lets loose a ‘oomph’ and falls backwards as you take out their legs.

everything is fuzzy. the ringing in your ears crescendos, and it brings pain with it. you’re striking your target with reckless abandon, still not registering who is flailing underneath you.

punches land and land and land. nails scrape and scratch and draw blood. all you see is red— all you hear is the sharpening of a knife or the whirring of a saw.

and then there are hands on you, yanking you away from your victim. the red slowly starts to recede, the ringing in your ears subsiding.

it’s only then do you release you’re screaming.

its only then do you see the swollen and bloodied face of your doctor, lying a foot away from you. she sputters a cough, blood leaving her lips and splattering onto the man leaning over her.

“you need to calm down,” a voice speaks into your ear.

“calm down, or they’ll sedate you,” it says, and you finally stop screaming. you take a breath.

clench your fists. unclench. stretch. repeat.

it takes you another minute to calm down enough to realize the person holding you is simon.

the doctor is being carried away now, and you notice it’s johnny and kyle carrying her. you notice john is standing to your left, eyes full of sympathy and guilt as he looks at you.

“get,” you huff, reaching down to slap at the arms circling your middle. “off me.”

simon releases you instantly. you don’t hesitate to put distance between the two of you. a few feet, at least. he just stands there, eyes watching with an expression you can’t place.

“what happened, love?” john’s voice is a soft rumble as he speaks. he moves a hand toward you, but decides against touching you— even if he only wanted to comfort you.

“I—” you start, glancing down at your hands. they’re bloody again.

“I thought it was—” you try again, but stop yourself.

you thought it was what? thought it was who?

you had heard man’s voice speaking to you. your mind had twisted things— had given you something you wanted to hear, deep down— because it gave you the chance to strike.

it gave you the opportunity to tear apart whichever man from the 141 had been there to check on you.

and you know you had wished it was simon.

john takes a cautious step forward at your silence. “let’s get you somewhere private, yeah? somewhere to cool down.”

the fire licking at your veins has subsided in favor of the chill of shame. of terror at what you’ve done— what you’ve done to the one person you had on your side. the person who was truly on your side.

you don’t fight this time. you give a nod, then solemnly follow him down the corridor. simon falls in behind you.

john takes you to his office, opening the door and ushering you inside. you move without protest, stepping into the dark room.

the two men enter behind you, john flicking on the light while simon pulls the door shut. you would’ve laughed at the scenario if you were in your right mind.

but you weren’t.

you weren’t okay. you knew that you weren’t, at least physically, but what you just did…

there was no way you were going to be transferred now. you doubted you would’ve even before you attacked the doctor.

you’re going to be discharged. you understand why.

but it hurts. this is your job, your life. years and years on the battlefield don’t prepare you for life off of it.

“love?”

john’s voice brings you back to the present. you realize you’ve been standing in the center of the room, unmoving and unblinking.

you feel simon’s hard gaze on your back. you want to cry.

how did things ever get this fucked up?

“im fine.” you say, not bothering to turn around. you didn’t trust yourself to keep it together if you faced them.

“you’re not,” john states, and you roll your eyes.

��im not talking about this with you,” you bite out, circling your arms around yourself. “either of you.”

“you should at least talk to someone, love— this isn’t healthy.”

“please, stop.” you tell him, but john was never good at taking orders. he gave them, not followed them.

“you hated the therapist, and you haven’t spoken to anyone else since… everything.” he continues.

“stop, john,” you try again.

“you need to let it out, love. we’re here—”

you spin around then, fists dropping to your sides. “for the love of god, john, shut the fuck up.”

that stuns him into silence, eyes slightly widened and mouth agape as he looks at you. simon doesn’t move from his position near the door.

“you are the last people i would ever fucking talk to! I don’t even want to be talking to you right now, but you won’t stop trying. trying to talk to me, trying to make it up, trying to wriggle your way back into my good graces.”

you pause, sucking in a breath. “johnny must’ve relayed the message, and that’s why you’ve back off a little— but one wrong fucking move and you’re swooping again! you aren’t my dad, you aren’t my lover, you aren’t my friend, and you’re sure as hell not my fucking captain anymore.”

“so please, john, leave me be. the four of you have done enough.”

the room is silent for a beat, then two. then three. and then simon takes a step forward, removes his balaclava, and looks you square in the face.

he doesn’t open his mouth to speak, so you take the chance to.

“don’t start with me, simon. just don’t.”

“the note,” he says. “you read it.”

you just look at him, a disbelieving scoff leaving your mouth as you give a nod. “yes, I read your fucking note. and I saw the stupid flowers, too, after seeing everything else you wrecked. tell me, how long did you wait after you tied me up to tear it all apart?”

he just watches you. you want to scream.

the note flashes back into your mind.

‘hope you can understand.’

“does it make you feel better, thinking what you did was right?” you ask him.

“I wouldn’t have done it differently.” simon tells you.

you clench your fists. unclench. stretch.

breathe in, breathe out.

“and if the roles were reversed,” you said, watching him. “if you were in my position, would you have expected me to do what you did?”

“yes.” he says, without hesitation.

“you’re unbelievable,” you huff. “is that how little I meant to you? all that time, wasted?”

“that’s not what I said.” he tells you, and you shake your head.

“no, but it’s what you meant.” anger is bubbling up again. you feel overwhelmed; shame and fury battling inside you. the ringing building up in your ears again, emerging from the background.

you can’t do this.

“what i meant is what i said.” he takes another step forward. “you’re just too damn stubborn to listen, always have been.”

“just go, simon.” you tell him. “both of you. go.”

“I wouldn’t change what I did,” he says again. “to protect my team, my family, I would do whatever it takes.”

you bite your tongue. you don’t want to keep arguing with him. he was an unmovable object— there was no way to reason with him.

“im not sorry it happened.” he speaks. “i did what i thought i had to do. what i had to do to make sure my team was safe.”

“and you should understand that, considering this team is all you have, too.”

you don’t respond— and even if you were going to, a knock on the door breaks the tense silence in the room.

johnny pops his head in, his eyes full of concern. “doc’s alrigh’.” he says, his gaze catching yours. “jus’ some bumps and bruises. she’ll be jus’ fine.”

“and she uh— said she’s not pressin’ charges or anythin’. says she still expects to see ya in a few days for your check-up.”

that’s what breaks you.

a tear slips from your eye, falling onto your cheek. another follows, then another, and you’re sobbing as you fall to the floor of price’s office.

the three men are staring, but no one makes any move to comfort you.

probably wise, considering what you did to the last person who tried.

you faintly register the click of the door as it shuts again. you don’t look up— your head in your hands as you cry.

cry about what you’ve done, what you’ve lost. mourn your career and your family and your love for the man who doesn’t regret what he did.

unbeknownst to you, simon is the only one still left in the room. his steps are silent as he approaches you— leaving only a foot of space between your bodies now.

he watches you as he sinks to the ground across from you, his long legs folded over each other, the fingers of his left hand twitching as he finds himself wanting to reach for you.

he still cares for you. his feelings for you were what made him do what he did in the first place.

the love he felt for you, twisting into betrayal and hurt and agony. fueling his actions, his desire to hear you admit your wrongdoings.

passion made people dangerous. passion in love, passion in rage. it was a fine line, and simon had crossed it.

he understood what this meant for you. recalls the conversation he had with price earlier— how laswell was planning for your discharge instead of your transfer.

this was the end of your time with them, and in the military. the hands of the 141, damaging one of their own beyond repair.

he finds himself mourning alongside you, then. mourning what was and what could’ve been.

what should have been.

“im sorry for what we did to you,” he says, but it comes out as a whisper that you don’t hear.

“im sorry.”

thank you all again for your patience! I plan on tying this little series up soon :)

as a reminder, I no longer do taglists. if you want to be notified when I post, follow @troiastitans and turn on notifications. I only reblog my works there.

I hope you all enjoyed :)

[isaacathom]

for some reason when i get into the Florian de Kasimir mindset and just start rambling in character i come up with some weird phrases that i like but i can't use. in an au (?) version where hes fallen in love with a bard (?) he confesses his feelings with something like "i dont know any of those words you poets use that have emotions so big you could fit a whole person in them, but i know what i know, and what simple words i say for it. i love you" which is a bit overwrought but i like the imagery of fitting a person in the emotion of a word.

and then, in a different ramble about the shit hes been through, "ive been knocked down so many times ive grown tired of the stars" which is the sort of thing i can imagine doing a two panel comic of but i have no idea how lol

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

I love OFMD for many reasons, from genuinely fantastic writing to a great story to amazing acting to wonderful poc and queer characters, but I think the single best thing OFMD has done for me on a tangible level is giving me a little something I like to call the Stede Bonnet Test.

The Stede Bonnet Test is very simple. If I'm about to do something that harms no one but would make me happy and feel like a more authentic version of myself, and I start talking myself out of it because I remember how other people might describe this thing as cringey or stupid or I'm reacting from a place of internalized homo/transphobia, then I ask myself: "would the narrative punish Stede Bonnet in this situation if he walked away?" and if the answer is yes, then I do that thing.

For example, when I was replacing my old set of kitchen knives and I was considering getting new ones that have a cute flower design I really loved, I almost talked myself out of it because I didn't think they were very 'manly.' When I caught myself and applied the Stede Bonnet Test, I concluded that yes, Stede Bonnet absolutely should buy these knives or the narrative would punish him, probably by stabbing him with one of the more 'manly' knives he bought instead. So I bought the knives and they still make me smile every time I use them.

It's improved my life in real, tangible ways. My house is decorated more in the style I like, not what I think it should be like. I spend more of my free time on hobbies I love. I spend more time with my friends. I strongly recommend it.

[pickingupmymercedes]

A thousand times over - Lewis Hamilton

request: Hii! Omg, I just saw a comment on instagram that was so cute it made me think a Lewis fic would be so much cuter. You're my favourite writer for F1 so I know you'd eat this up. So a guy commented that when his wife takes off her wedding rings for baking/gardening/painting/etc and he finds them, he waits til she's done then gives them back to her by proposing to her again. - @happy-golden-hour

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: pure fluff

wordcount: +1K

a/n: The three times Lewis reasks y/n to marry him, and the one time the roles are reversed.

a/n.2: Thank you for the idea bestie, took me a while but I couldn't decide on a single scenario, so there's 3 and a surprise one. Hope you like it ❤️

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

The Gardening Proposal

The morning sun made the garden golden, its rays filtering through the leaves and casting long shadows from the pine trees across the lush grass. Even though it wasn’t even 8 am yet, you were already lost in the peaceful new flower bed you had been working on for the past week. The air was crisp and fresh, a bit of fog still lurking deep in the woods that surrounded your country home, adding to the serene atmosphere.

Lewis looked over from the porch at the scene, his ever-attentive eyes lost in thought as he admired you. His fingers played with the golden band of your wedding ring he had found on the kitchen counter just minutes ago. The soft glint of the ring caught his eye, reminding him of the love and commitment you shared.

Before you could even feel his presence, he cleared his throat to catch your attention. Your vision as you turned was him, in only his basketball shorts, kneeled in the grass by the flower bed. In his hand was the band you had left in the kitchen the previous day, placed carefully so it wouldn’t get amidst the dirt.

"Love, would you marry me, again?" Lewis said softly, holding out the ring between his fingers, his gaze filled with warmth and affection. His voice was gentle, carrying a hint of playfulness that always had you melting.

Surprised but delighted by his heartfelt gesture, you accepted the ring, feeling its familiar weight as he slid it back onto your finger. The metal felt cool against your skin, a tangible reminder of the bond you shared. "Thank you," you whispered, your heart swelling with love and gratitude.

Lewis chuckled, his eyes sparkling as he looked up at you. "Well, is that a yes?" he began, his voice filled with warmth and humor. His playful tone made you laugh, easing any lingering nerves.

Tears of happiness welled in your eyes as you nodded, your voice filled with emotion. "Yes, a thousand times over" you replied, sealing your promise with a passionate kiss. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air around you, a perfect moment in your blossoming garden.

The Workout Proposal

The early night lights danced around in your bedroom windows as you read your book. You had just finished an intense workout in your home gym, the exhaustion and exhilaration leaving you feeling both drained and sleepy. So, after a shower, you had wrapped yourself in a plush robe, seeking comfort in your bed for a bit before thinking about dinner.

A while later Lewis found you, curled up in bed. A smile tugged at his lips as he admired your relaxed demeanor, his fingers playing with the ring he had found placed at tv console in the gym, now safely tucked in his pocket. Scooting closer to you on the bed, he gently pulled you into his embrace, his warmth enveloping you. His touch was gentle, and with a contented smile, you nestled closer to Lewis, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. His arms wrapping around you protectively.

In that intimate moment, Lewis gazed into your eyes softly. "I love you," he whispered, his voice soft but filled with conviction. "And I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy."

“I love you” You whispered back as you looked up at him, although not without a questioning look, as to why the sudden confession.

He let out a chuckle and reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the ring, his features full of adoration as he asked you for the thousandth time "Will you marry me, again?" his voice barely above a whisper.

Overwhelmed you took a moment to gather your words, your heart pounding just like it had when he asked for the first time. “Yeah, always”, your voice steady and certain. As he slipped the ring onto your finger, sealing your renewed commitment, your hands reached for the back of his neck, pulling his lips down to yours.

The Candles Proposal

The aroma of a Sunday roast filled the air, mingling with the comforting scent of herbs and spices. You were in the kitchen, focused on preparing a delicious meal for Lewis's family. His mother was by your side, offering her expertise and sharing cherished family recipes.

As you started making fresh pasta from scratch, you carefully removed your new wedding ring, placing it in Lewis's hand for safekeeping. He smiled, understanding the gesture, and pocketed the ring, promising to keep it safe.

The meal was a success, filled with laughter, stories, and the warmth his family always provided. As you two got back home late at night you headed for the shower, to clean up and decompress.

When you returned to the living room, you were greeted by the soft glow of candlelight. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, and soft music played in the romantic and intimate background that Lewis had created.

In the center of the room, Lewis knelt on one knee, his eyes filled with love and determination. The ring you had entrusted to him earlier glinted in his hand, catching the candlelight. "Since I still don’t believe it’s true… would you marry me?” Lewis asked softly, his voice filled with warmth and affection as he held out the ring to you.

"Yes, Lew" you replied, your voice filled with love and gratitude. "I would be honored to marry you, over and over again." Surprised and touched by him, you felt a wave of emotion wash over you. The love and thoughtfulness he had put into this moment a reminder of the lengths he would go to show the love he felt.

The Surprise

As you entered the newly painted nursery, a smile spread across your face at the sight of the lovingly decorated room. Your heart swelled with anticipation at the thought of welcoming your baby into this home and to finally start your own family.

As you admired each detail, your eyes fell upon the wedding band resting on the dresser. Curiosity piqued, you picked up the ring, a tender smile playing on your lips as you realized Lewis had left it behind, probably had taken if off when he was painting.

Knowing he must be in his study, you made your way there, your heart fluttering with excitement. Entering the room, you found Lewis absorbed in his work, surrounded telemetry and car part’s designs. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your head against his shoulder.

He turned to meet your gaze, a soft smile lighting up his face as he pulled you onto his lap, his hands automatically resting on your 6 months-bump. "You know, I can't physically kneel like you always do" you teased, a playful glint in your eye, "but there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

Lewis chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he waited for you to continue. With a grin, you reached into your pocket, retrieving the wedding band. Holding it up between you, you met Lewis's gaze, your heart overflowing with love and joy.

"Would you marry me?" you asked, your voice filled with warmth and affection. Lewis's eyes shimmered with emotion. Without a moment's hesitation, he nodded, his voice filled with love. "Yes, I’ll marry you, every day if need be"

As you slipped the ring onto his finger, sealing your renewed commitment, you knew that no matter what life had in store, your love would always be the guiding light that led you through every joy and challenge.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

[mariasont]

Dress Code - S.R

a/n: got a little carried away with this one, but ugh just imagining spencer reid coming to my defense has me down BAD

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader

summary: in which spencer reid doesn't appreciate an agent questioning the length of your skirt

warnings: fluff, a rando flirting/being rude with the reader, mini skirts 4 life, definitely not appropriate for work but spencer doesn't give a FUCK

wc: 1.5k

"Interesting choice of attire for the FBI," the man's voice commented as you paused in the midst of penciling in his meeting with Chief Cruz. "Isn't that skirt a bit... short?"

The man was tall, though not quite as tall as Dr. Reid. His hair, a dark shade that caught the light as he moved (more so because of the liberal amount of gel in it), was neatly trimmed, but it lacked the effortless charm of Spencer's curls.

You had unwittingly set a standard, with Dr. Reid as the benchmark. You tried to go on dates, to distract yourself from the boy genius, but those dates turned into a mental tally--he's not as smart as Spencer, not as kind, not as attractive. 

Maintaining an unshakeable smile, you stood up from your work area. "You think? I just love how it twirls when I spin!"

You demonstrated--the pleated hem of your pink tweed skirt billowing out around you. You wobbled on your heels, a giggle escaping you as you used the desk to steady yourself. Spencer's gaze followed your every move as you tucked a couple stray curls behind your ears.

Spencer intended to maintain a respectful distance, to grant you some space, but he found himself consistently drawn towards you, as if pulled by gravity itself. You were irresistibly captivating, and it wasn't lost on him that this allure undoubtedly affected others just as much.  

His gaze sharpened into a glare, almost tangible in its intensity, directed at the man who hovered too close in your personal space, eyes trailing where they shouldn't as the fabric of your skirt fluttered with your movements.

The agent let out a soft laugh, inching forward to prop his elbows on the desk's edge, his eyes subtly scanning your legs. "I'd wager it becomes quite the tactical distraction during interrogations."

"Oh, I don't go into the interrogation rooms, silly!" you laugh, a melodic ripple in the air, as you ease back down into your chair. 

You cross your legs, one over the other, the action accentuating the graceful lines of your figure, skirt settling into place with a soft rustle. 

The man's smirk broadened, his eyebrow lifting in a choreographed motion. "You don't say?"

Your smile is radiant, blissfully unaware of the sarcasm in his voice. You tilt your head, a soft gesture as you rearrange a vase brimming with colorful flowers on your desk--a thank-you from Garcia for the cupcakes you gifted her with last week.

"Yep! I'm the first face people see here, and I want to make sure it's a good one!"

He nodded slowly, a sly grin spreading across his features. "The first face, huh? I suppose with a view like that, it's hard for anyone to get past the front desk. But isn't it a bit distracting for the agents?"

"I believe it's all about focus. And our team has an exceptional ability to focus, no matter the environment."

It was a welcome surprise to watch Dr. Reid make his way toward you, his walk a familiar lanky stride that somehow managed to be both awkward and graceful. You like his tie today, still crooked, but charming, and it was decorated with blue stripes that trailed up the side. Despite the sharp lines of his suit, there was something so undeniably soft about him. 

"Dr. Reid, I..."

Spencer didn't let him finish his thought. "And speaking of work, I believe Chief Cruz is waiting on you for those files. Best not to make him wait."

You weren't speaking of work, but the agent was quick to excuse himself, nonetheless.

"He seems nice, doesn't he?"

Spencer's lips twitched, on the verge of breaking your idealistic bubble, but he stopped short, arrested by the sincerity shining in your eyes. The idea of spoiling your untainted perspective felt almost sacrilegious, not when your smile was so genuinely sugary it nearly could've brought him to his knees right then and there. 

"Yeah," he conceded, his eyes trailing over your complacent face. "Nice."

You looked down at your skirt, plucking at a thread that had come undone. "You don't think it's too short, do you?"

You stood, ensuring he had a complete view, your palms delicately pressing the fabric down. Spencer's eyes opened a shade wider, the unexpected display catching him off guard. The skirt's length--or lack thereof--left little to the imagination, your thighs on full display, but he'd keep that thought to himself, and with any influence he had, everyone else would as well. 

"No, it's fine, you look lovely."

"Lovely?" your eyes basically shimmered in this light, your chin gently resting in the curve of your palm as you fixed him with an intent stare. "That's high praise."

"Deservedly so."

"Dr. Reid, I'm blushing."

And you were, pink radiating across your neck and cheeks, but he was sure a similar rosy shade was coloring the tips of his ears.

You rose from your chair, circling the desk to position yourself directly in front of him, close enough for him to detect the light scent of Dubble Bubble on your breath. He, almost instinctively, found himself leaning in your direction. 

"I just love how it feels," you noted, hand brushing against the cloth. "It's so soft, see?"

You extended the hem of your skirt towards him. Spencer's hand hesitated, then tentatively touched the fabric, clearing his throat in the process. He was even closer now, the scent of your perfume--what he thought was a mix of roses and a hint of citrus--engulfed him. The skirt was soft like you had said, but it was the warmth radiating from your skin that sent a jolt through him. 

His knuckles grazed against your thigh, whether intentional or not he really wasn't sure. His usual clarity wasn't up to par, not with you standing so close, looking so nice. The world seemed to spin when he was around you.

You let out a giggle, a soft and effervescent sound that seemed to steal the air from his lungs. "Do you see what I mean? It's like wearing a cloud."

His hand snapped back as if touched by fire, his face awash with a flustered glow. "Yes, it's...very soft," he managed, raking his fingers through his hair, his gaze darting to any point but your legs, the memory of its softness scattering his concentration.

You offered a beaming smile, naively unaware to the sheer havoc you wreaked on his senses. He needed to get back to work to prevent any rash decisions--like taking your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours right there, an act that would certainly mar his professional record. He also wasn't sure you'd appreciate that. 

As though you had plucked the thoughts straight from his mind, your fingertips brushed softly over his chest. "Goodness, I've been rambling on, haven't I? You probably have, like, super important stuff to do."

Your touch seemed to still the air between you, Spencer's breath hitching, momentarily losing his train of thought. "Oh, uh... well, no, it's actually kind of a slow day for me right now."

Your hand, moving from his chest to rest on his arm, offered a tender squeeze. "Oh, that's good, isn't it? You guys are always super busy, it's about time the universe gave you a break, huh?"

Just as Spencer opened his mouth to reply, you bit your lip, cheeks flushed with a sudden realization. "Oh no, I totally just jinxed it, didn't I?"

You quickly rapped your knuckles against the desk. 

Spencer cocked his head to the side, a bemused chuckle escaping him. "What?"

Your words bubbled over with delight, closing the gap between you and Spencer until you were almost chest to chest. "Look at this, I'm the one who is teaching you something for once!" Your smile was wide and uncontainable. "So, knocking on wood--it's supposed to ward off bad luck or reverse a jinx, just like I might have done."

A myriad of scientific retorts teetered on the tip of his tongue, each one ready to debunk the notion of luck and its superstitious rituals. But those thoughts dissolved in the glow of your smile, as radiant and illuminating as an 1800-watt lightbulb. 

"Really? That's fascinating," he mused, his smile soft. "I'll have to remember that."

"Right? Oh, and don't get me started on finding a four-leaf clover. I swear it's lucky. I found one once, and I had the best day ever."

To him, it seemed like you didn't have anything other than good days, despite the statistical improbability. 

"I don't doubt it," Spencer replied with a knowing smile. Noticing the same agent coming out of the hallway, he excused himself. "Well, I'm going to get back. I'll, uh, see you later?"

"You know where to find me," you said.

As you spun to retreat to your desk, he offered a last, discreet glance at your skirt, more specifically the shape of your ass in it, before following after the agent.

"Walk with me, yeah?" Spencer suggested, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was out of character for him, but the way his jaw tightened suggested he didn't care. Once the distance granted privacy from your ears, he stated plainly. "Her attire is not up for discussion. If there's a concern, I'm the one you talk to."

The remainder of his day passed just as slow, and in the back of his mind, he entertained the thought that he had your knock-on wood to thank for that.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[zukkaoru]

dazai needing a cane post-meursault and he clearly hates using it so to make it more ~fun~ kenji buys several different packs of stickers for dazai to decorate his cane with. and dazai pulls out a fake smile and thanks him and proceeds to shove the sticker packs in his desk drawer and forget about them entirely. until kyouka approaches him a few weeks later and quietly tells him that kenji is worried he didn't like the stickers. and dazai, lying through his teeth says "oh, no, i really did like them! i just haven't decided which ones i want to use yet, they were all so good!" and he watches kyouka report this back to kenji and kenji looks so relieved that dazai figures. what the hell. and he digs out the stickers and pulls off the first one he sees and sticks it on his cane, then lifts it up so kenji can see. and kenji just starts beaming

for several more weeks, that sticker is the only one on the cane. and dazai keeps looking at it. and he'll rub his thumb over it. and it does kinda make having to use the cane more fun, because he's got a little cartoon cow with him wherever he goes too, and he can hear kenji's voice in his mind whenever he sees it saying something supportive that he fully believes with his entire heart to be true. and dazai runs his fingers over the cow so much that the colors start to fade and it starts to peel. so he takes all the stickers home, scrubs off the first one, and he spends hours painstakingly mapping out where to put different stickers and decorating the cane.

and it helps! because kenji didn't just get farm animal stickers - there are sticker sheets reminiscent of all the ada members. tigers for atsushi, bunnies for kyouka, cats for fukuzawa, snowflakes for jun'ichirou, candies and desserts for ranpo, a school-themed sticker sheet with notebooks and pens for kunikida, and one with various weapons for yosano. he still thinks the cane is stupid, and the stickers are stupid too, but they make him smile and it's easier to use the cane when he can at least get some entertainment out of looking at it. and maybe he buys slug stickers himself to add to the collection, and lucy gives him a sticker with the cafe's logo, and ranpo gives him a raccoon sticker and naomi and haruno find a cute flower-themed sticker sheet and suddenly the cane doesn't feel so much like a burden or a hinderance or a weakness. suddenly it's just another new part of himself he's found while with the agency, and it's a tangible reminder that he has more friends than he ever thought possible - people he trusts, people he cares about and who care about him in return. he has something like a family now, and they want the best for him, even when he doesn't want the best for himself

[hsjazebel]

Passion in Tokyo*

Word count: 2280

A/n: just a japanrry fic

Content warning: smut, 18+, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, daddy kink

masterlist

Tokyo welcomed us with its orderly chaos and its frenetic beauty. As we walked through the crowded streets, Harry seemed to have a secret hiding behind his playful smile. I couldn’t figure out what he was up to, but his excitement was contagious and it made me feel like I was in the middle of an amazing adventure.

Every place we visited seemed to be carefully chosen by Harry, and every look, every gesture, was full of meaning. I wondered what he was up to, but I didn’t dare ask him, fearing to ruin the magic of the moment.

When we finally arrived at the Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, the golden light of the sunset tinged the surrounding landscape with warmth. Harry seemed engrossed in his thoughts as my heart pounded as I waited to find out what he had in store for us.

As we walked through the garden, the rustling of the leaves and the sweet scent of the flowers created an enchanting atmosphere. Harry held my hand gently, but his gaze reflected silent determination. I wondered what he was thinking as we ventured deeper and deeper into the heart of the garden.

At a certain point, we came to a romantic little bridge that crossed a quiet lake. The sunset light danced on the water, creating golden reflections that illuminated our path. Harry stopped in front of the bridge, his gaze scanned the horizon with a mixture of emotion and serenity.

My heart began to beat faster in my chest as I wondered what was about to happen. It was as if time had stopped, leaving just the two of us in a moment suspended in eternity. With a sigh, I turned to Harry, ready to face whatever fate had in store for us.

The tension in the air was palpable as we exchanged meaningful glances. Harry took a deep inhale and knelt in front of me, revealing a small box hidden in the palm of his hand. My heart leapt in my chest as my eyes filled with tears of joy and wonder.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice shaking, “ever since I met you, my life has changed in ways I never imagined. You are my light, my smile, my everything. I can't imagine spending a just a moment without you by my side. I would like to ask you... would you like to marry me?"

My hands trembled as I opened the box, revealing a gorgeous, sparkling ring. My words were lost in the tumult of emotions overflowing inside me. With a bright smile, I nodded slowly.

Harry looked at me with eyes bright with hope and love, and my breathing deepened as I watched him. The words hung in the air for an infinite moment, before they finally came out of my mouth with a sweetness I didn't know I possessed.

'Yes, Harry,' I replied with a trembling voice, 'yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'

A smile of joy lit up Harry's face as he stood up and hugged me tightly. The weight of the box in his hand became a tangible sign of our commitment to each other, a symbol of our love that would last forever.

The sunset colored the sky with shades of pink and gold as we exchanged sweet promises and whispers of love. In that moment, the world around us seemed to disappear, leaving us alone in our universe of happiness and hope.

After accepting his proposal, the air around us seemed charged with electricity, as if every single molecule was impregnated with our newly recognized love. The erotic tension between us was palpable, a wave of desire that grew with each heartbeat.

We looked at each other intensely, without words, but with a profound understanding that went beyond verbal expressions. It was as if we were reading each other, revealing our innermost desires without having to utter a single word.

Slowly, our mouths came closer, attracted by an irresistible magnetism that bound us to each other. The first contact was delicate, a light touch that sent shivers along my skin. Then, the kiss became deeper, more passionate, as if we were to merge our souls into a single entity.

My hands ran down his body with a firm determination, exploring every curve, every line, as if I wanted to memorize every single detail of him. I felt the heat of his skin under my fingers, and my body burned with desire as I abandoned myself completely to him.

His lips were soft and hungry, devouring mine with an uncontainable passion. Our breaths mixed in a frenetic rhythm, as if we had to share the same oxygen to survive. It was a kiss that exuded desire, union and promises of endless love.

Our tongues intertwined in a sensual dance, exploring every corner of each other's mouths with insatiable curiosity. Every moan, every sigh, was an expression of our unquenchable passion, a language that only the two of us could understand.

In that moment, in the heart of Tokyo, under the starry blanket of the night sky, we had united not only as lovers, but as soul mates destined to walk the path of love and passion together.

After that intense moment of passion, Harry took a deep inhale, his eyes still burning with desire as he looked at me with affection. “Y/n,” he whispered huskily, “I think it's time to go to the hotel.”

His voice was full of promise and anticipation, and my heart was still beating fast in my chest as I nodded slowly, unable to speak due to the intensity of the emotions we had just shared.

With a knowing smile, we walked hand in hand towards the hotel, our pace impatient and full of expectations. Although the city around us was still in turmoil, our world was reduced to that moment, that place, the promise of a night of passion and shared love.

Once we arrive at the hotel, Harry gently closes the door behind us and turns to me with a look full of desire.

“How about waiting for daddy like a good girl on the bed?” he tells you in his usual low tone of voice.

You nod without saying anything and head to the bedroom that was separate from the rest of the suite.

You undress to just your underwear, already knowing that Harry will appreciate what you've done.

You wait what seems like a lifetime when Harry finally makes his way into the room. He has two glasses of white wine in his hand and has unbuttoned the first 4 buttons of his shirt, revealing some of his tattoos on his chest.

“I see you've been a good girl, waiting for dad only in your lingerie that he bought you” she tells you, letting out her usual mischievous smile and handing you a glass of wine.

You both take a sip from your glasses, then Harry takes yours from your hand and places both little holes on the nightstand next to the bed.

“I think it's time to celebrate.”

He lays you flat on your back and starts running his hands all over your body leaving wet kisses here and there.

“You know,” he says, they detach their mouths from your body, “when I bought this I already imagined how it would feel on you, but seeing it in person is a completely different thing. You're a fucking goddess.”

You stand there in silence, letting out a moan every now and then, it feels like your brain has turned to mush, the only thing you can think about is Harry.

Meanwhile he got dangerously close to the area where you need him most, and slowly takes off your black lace panties.

He inhales deeply as he uses his hands to open your legs. “You always smell good to me don't you? And always so wet! Who made you so wet?”

“You… it was you”

But Harry doesn't seem happy with your answer, giving you a light slap on the inside of your thigh. “I didn't hear, who made you wet?”

“You daddy, it was you!”

“Good girl,” he tells you, leaving a wet kiss near your crotch. “Since you were a good girl I think you deserved a present.”

With the help of his thumbs he opens your pussy lips, and smiles when he sees your clit already erect and smooth with your excitement.

He doesn't wait a second longer and dives into your pussy, licking your clit first, making tight circles with his tongue, and then he draws licks that go from your hole to your clit.

Harry was so good at giving head, the best you've ever been with. The little grunts he let out when he tasted your nectar straight from the source turned you on even more.

With his hands you grab his hair and pull him closer to you as you ride his face.

In the room the only noises that can be heard are your moans and the wet sound of Harry's tongue meeting your pussy.

He moves his mouth away from your center and you moan at the loss of contact. “I think she's ready to take daddy's cock now, don't you?”

“Yes, yes daddy, I need you, I need your cock.”

Smiling at your words Harry quickly strips off his clothes and you can finally see his cock, standing with the red tip already dripping with precome.

“How do you want me, pretty girl?”

“I want to be on top.”

“Go pretty girl, ride me.”

Harry sits on the bed with his back against the headboard of the bed, spreading his legs slightly and stroking his cock.

You slowly sit on his cock, it was big and long and despite the several years you were together at the beginning you always had a little difficulty taking it.

“Such a tight pussy for daddy, isn't it? You always hold me so good.” Harry tells you, looking at the place where the two of you are connected.

When you sit on his hips, with his cock buried deep inside you, both of you moan enjoying this moment of intimacy.

After you adjust to the size of him you start to move on top of him, placing your hands on his pecs for leverage, but Harry takes your left hand and kisses your ring finger, where the ring is placed.

“You look so beautiful, riding me naked with just this sparkly ring. I still can't believe you said yes to me."

You smile at his words. “I will always say yes Harry, today, tomorrow and always”

He crosses your left hand with his, and with his other hand he takes you from behind the neck and dives on your lips, bringing you to a kiss full of love and passion.

He feels your hips start to slow down and he can tell you're getting tired, so he places your hips flat on the bed and meets your hips with upward thrusts.

You moan into his mouth in response, and he brings his hands to the cheeks of your ass, first leaving two smacks, and then taking a cheek in each hand and starts railing you harder.

“God, you feel so fucking good” he moans in your ear.

The sounds in the room were highly pornographic, the noise of your wet pussy being pummeled by Harry's cock was the only sound that could be heard, other than your moans and a few grunts from Harry.

“I feel your pussy squeezing me, are you ready to come for me love?” he tells you gently, a stark contrast to the thrusts inside you.

“Uh… yes, I need to come, make me come daddy please, I want to come with you” you whine.

“You know what the rule is, love, you come first. So come on, let me feel that pussy coming holding me so hard.

With three more thrusts from Harry you finally feel your orgasm hit you like a train. Your legs begin to tremble and you feel the muscles in your abdomen contract.

“Just such a beautiful girl, cumming so hard on daddy's cock. Do you want me to fill you with my cum? Is that what you want?"

You nod frantically as you catch your breath. “Yes daddy, I want you to fill me with your cum, I want to feel full.”

And so after a few more thrusts you feel Harry's hot sperm filling your insides, and you stop with your head on his chest listening to the pounding rhythm of his heart. Our breaths mix in a relaxed rhythm, as we enjoy the stillness after the passion.

“You are so special to me, Y/n,” Harry murmurs in a soft voice, his fingers gently stroking my hair.

I hold myself closer to him, his warmth wrapping around my body like a security blanket. “And you mean everything to me, Harry,” I reply with a tender smile. “I couldn't have imagined a better night.”

We get lost in our thoughts, relaxed and fulfilled by the deep connection we share. The air around us is filled with a sense of peace and serenity, as if the whole world had stopped to allow us to enjoy this moment of happiness.

With a delicate kiss on the forehead, Harry holds me even closer, and I close my eyes, completely immersing myself in the feeling of being loved and protected in his arms. In that moment, there is nothing but the two of us and our love, an island of calm and happiness amid the chaos of the outside world.

[milswrites]

The light which persists

~ Azriel X Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel finds his source of happiness in the most unlikely of places.

Warnings: Smut 18+ Minors Dni (p in v)

It's strange how Azriel could identify the very moment in which his life had just changed forever.  All it took was one look, a second-long glance in your direction, and the shadowsinger was certain that his entire world had just shifted. Whether it be by the cauldrons design or his own, Azriel had no doubt that your fate was to be entwined with his.

It was unbeknownst to Azriel, how a flower as lovely as you could bloom in the toxic gardens of the Court of Nightmares. Yet here you were, sitting across from the male in this tedious meeting, a soft smile adorning your lips as Azriel admired you in all your beauty. A rose untouched by the thorns of her less than savoury counterparts.

The radiant aura you permeated acted like a beacon, a glowing light of warmth and comfort. Your bright signal subconsciously drawing Azriel into your safe harbour. He had yet to hear your voice and Azriel was already sure that whatever sweet nectar poured from your lips would coat his mind like honey, pulling him deeper still into the soothing waters of your tangible soul.

Azriel failed to register the dull words which Kier was speaking, his thoughts occupied by you and only you. In fact the shadowsinger found it impossible to tear his eyes from you. Afraid that if he were to do so for even a second, whatever hypnotic spell you had cast upon him would be severed and his world would be rudely shifted back to the mundaneness of its usual orbit.

Instead, his hazel eyes stayed locked on you, Azriel’s searching gaze committing your delicate features to memory. Noting the slight furrow of your brows knitting together and the growing pout of your plush lips as you listened to Kier’s absurd proposition, his chest tingling with satisfaction at the sight of the flames which flickered in your determined eyes. And when you finally spoke, each syllable which fell from your lips had Azriel clinging on for more, entranced by the power which laced every well-spoken word.

Azriel had only received but a taste of your presence and yet he was already addicted. The tantalizingly delicious way your light coursed through his veins was a feeling the male wished never to forget. He would bottle it if he could, squirrel away a piece of your light and take it back with him to Velaris so he could experience the high which had been gifted from you whenever the male wished.

And so, with your gravitational pull too mesmerizing to resist, the shadowsinger became a ghost in the ebony halls of Hewn City's palace. A shadowed phantom haunting the corridors, hoping to receive just a glimpse of your warming light with the goal of replenishing his well. Returning day after day to silently bask in the glory of your presence.

Even his shadows had fallen victim to your siren’s song, enraptured by the comfort your luminesce provided. The smoky tendrils slipping from Azriel’s control in order to seek you out and soak up the warmth of your prevailing light.

It was therefore no surprise when you noticed the new little followers who trailed after you like lost puppies as you walked through the winding halls of the palace of nightmares. Bringing you a warm satisfaction when you were able to return them to the blushing shadowsinger who always seemed to be hiding nearby.

It wasn’t long before the days where Azriel’s visits to the Court of Nightmares which were once filled with harrowing screams and cries for mercy were now few and far between. Instead, no longer needing to pine after you from a distance, his visits involved friendly walks through the gardens in Hewn. The twisted vines and dull flowers failing to hold a candle to the beauty which was you.

Azriel’s senses were right that day he had first met you, it was destined for both of your fates to be intertwined. Far behind were the days of being strangers, and soon, so were the days of being friends. The shadowsinger’s growing love for you was why it didn’t take long for the cruel city to become one of Azriel’s favourite places to be.

It was the highlight of Azriel’s day, wandering through the winding avenues of Hewn City as he made his way to your home under the cover of his obedient shadows. Following the faint glow which led him through the familiar streets, its presence holding the draining aura of the wretched city’s air at bay until he had safely passed through the threshold of your home.

And just like the day he first met you where you knocked his world off kilter with only one glance, a single look at your beaming face as he entered was all Azriel needed to feel the worries of his arduous day start to slowly ebb away.

A single look being enough to remind the male just how in love with you he had grown to be. Thankful that the prayers whispered from the dark cage of his childhood had finally been answered, because the gods have given him you.

Only you had the power to illuminate his life. Your presence a lighthouse which called him back from the festering darkness of where he once inhabited. Azriel could withstand anyone, any place, even the looming evil of the Court of Nightmares, if only it meant he was weathering them with you.

One look was all it took to muddle his senses and scramble his thoughts. Clearing Azriel’s mind of all the sweet things he had planned of saying to you as his lips came to meet yours instead.

Azriel kissed the same way he fought, rough and calculated. Each skilled brush of his tongue and sinful nip to your swollen lips done with the intention of drawing sounds of pleasure from you. But Azriel didn’t only kiss to please, every swirl of his warm tongue sought to absorb more and more of your comforting light. The two of you locked in a passionate kiss which was only growing wilder as he attempted to sate his never-ending hunger for you.

His scarred hands explored every inch of your body that they could possibly reach as his salacious lips moved to devour the soft skin of your neck, sucking and biting at your sensitive flesh until the purple marks of his labour began to appear in the wake of his reddening lips. Pleased with the desperate manner of which Azriel was attacking your neck you teasingly pulled away from the male, lips pulling into a smile as you goaded him, “What no hello? You’re not going to ask me how my day has been?”

Groaning at the distance you had created between you, Azriel closed the space once more, leaning forwards until his lips tantalizingly brushed against your ear. Using his teeth to gently tug on your lobe until his lips upturned into a cocky smirk, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he spoke lowly, “Why should I when we both already know that your day is about to get a whole lot better?”

“Confident in your skills are we?” you teased, not missing the twinkle which flashed in Azriel’s lustful gaze.

“Why don’t I show you?” Azriel asked, hovering his warm lips over your own, your sultry eyes glancing up at him through the shadow of your eyelashes, “And then you can tell me just how good my skills are.”

Azriel fucked well, there was no doubt about it.

Having done the act with him hundreds of times you were familiar with his unforgiving pace and the brutal force behind his thrusts. Azriel fucked like a man starved, seeking to steal every ounce of pleasure from you possible with each wild snap of his hips.

Yet tonight something was different, Azriel still drew the same cries of strangled pleasure from your lips, though his hips worked at a slower pace. The male taking his time to tear you apart, the leisurely pounding of his cock into your heat working to slowly bring you to your completion.

Tonight Azriel wasn't just fucking you, he was making love. His eyes, once blown black with lust, were now filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher and each languid thrust of his insatiable hips pulled soft moans and whimpers from your mouth. Your sounds matched by the shadowsinger's strangled groans escaping from his own lips at the newfound softness of the moment.

His stable hands entwined with your own, fingers laced together as he gently moved your hands to rest on either side of your head. Trapping you beneath him as he patiently drew you closer and closer to your high. Azriel was an expert of torture, never failing to stop the arduously slow rhythm of his thrusts no matter how much you cried for him to go faster.

The heat from his loving gaze becoming too difficult to withstand at the steady pace he was keeping and so you snapped your begging hips to meet his, allowing his cock to hit that sweet spot inside your core, urging the male to seek his high quicker.

A low rumbling laugh tore from his mouth, that cocky smirk once more returning to his lips as he continued his torturous pace. "So good for me princess," he crooned, his words stirring the butterflies in your stomach, aiding to pull you closer and closer to the high you were nearing, "You take me so well." The regular pulse of his hips unwavering, the repeated rhythm inching you closer and closer to satisfaction.

"Keep your eyes on me" he warned as the blissful wave of release began to wash over you, a scream of pleasure escaping from your lips as he finally began to speed his thrusts, "Don't stop looking at me my love."

It was Azriel's turn to reach his high, but it wasn't just satisfaction he was chasing, it was the glowing ball of light which stemmed from you that Azriel longed to absorb. Each mighty thrust working towards reaching that light, growling with the effort of reaching his completion.

Once he had found it, and that familiar golden glow had settled in his chest, Azriel's hunger was sated as his high washed over him and he spilled into your aching core. Panting in time with you as he carefully drew his cock from your heat and pulled your aching body into his soothing embrace, whispering sweet words of affirmation into your ringing ears. Aiding in bringing you down from your crushing high.

It was in the wake of his overwhelming pleasure, still inebriated by the intoxicating feel of your warming light, that the words slipped unceremoniously from his lips. "Come with me" he blurted, that unknown emotion from earlier still dancing in his begging eyes.

"What?" you asked breathlessly, unsure what it was that the male was asking for. Sensing their master's wavering nerves, his shadows had made their appearance. Slowly travelling across your heated skin, their soothing caress, acting to cool your burning flesh.

"To Velaris" he explained, the words leaving his mouth with a anxious gulp, "Come with me to Velaris."

Your eyes blow wide at his question. Thoughts becoming clear as the wave of your pleasure retreated. It was love you had seen in Azriel's stare, which you had felt in his passionate thrusts and searing kisses. Love which fueled his shaking nerves at the prospect that your answer would be anything other than yes.

"You deserve so much more than this cursed city" he continued, gentle hand coming to meet your cheek, his grounding touch drawing you from your tempestuous thoughts, “The world deserves to see so much more of you, you’re wasted here. This city, it just kills off everything good, everything pure. You deserve to live, to share your light with likeminded people."

"My light?" you questioned, not quite understanding what it was that Azriel was trying to convey.

Azriel moved the now shaking hand which was settled on your cheek to rest against the center of your chest, taking a few minutes to absorb the steady beat of your heart before continuing to speak.

"I don't know what it is, or why it's there. But I see it, the same light I only ever see on one day of the year, on Starfall. It calls to me, you call to me. . . I don’t know if we are mates, but I just get this feeling, the same one I felt on the day I met you, that this light was made for me. That it’s guiding me towards something. . . towards you.”

You looked down to where his hand was resting but was disappointed to see there was no light shining, yet the intensity of your lovers gaze already told you everything you needed to know.

“Is it there now?” You ask, noting the way Azriel’s hand had stopped trembling at the realisation that you believed him.

“Yes” he smiled softly, and whilst you couldn’t see the light yourself you could have sworn you saw the reflection of a warm glow in his hazel eyes, “it’s always with you, like my shadows.”

As if answering their masters call his shadows had begun to swirl around where his hand was placed, you could only assume they were dancing with the mysterious light that Azriel had likened them to.

“So Velaris huh?” You ask, looking deeply into Azriel’s hopeful eyes, “When do we go?”

And with those four words all of Azriel’s wishes had come true. The male no longer needing to bottle your calming light, sipping at his reserves until he was blessed with your wonderful presence once more. No, this time when he left he would be bringing his star to Velaris with him. To his home.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel does everything he can to make you feel better after a civilian casualty steals your ‘sunshine’. —a fic featuring reluctantly adoring miguel and his sad spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 4k

cw character death, violence, reactive depression

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Miguel," you say, your voice grained by the communicator in his ear, "this universe is almost the same as mine, right?" 

Miguel stares down at a Doc Ock variant you're staking out, lying in wait for the anomalistic antagonist to make his first move. He's trying desperately to maintain his focus but you have a nice voice, and you ask him with a confidence that betrays your total faith in him. You haven't considered that he might not know. 

Well, Miguel does know. He's not sure he should start this discussion and distract you, but he has trouble saying no to you in any capacity, so he does. 

"I don't know every difference, but yeah, they're the same. Same geography, world leaders, roughly the same fast food chains." He bites his lip. He's at work, more than work —you're attempting to save an entire dimension, here— and he shouldn't feed the conversation anymore. But he knows you'll be interested in this. "Donuts aren't a thing, here."

"What?" 

"They have donuts, but they aren't called donuts, and they're nowhere near as popular." 

"This is a very strange way to flirt," Lyla says, her flickering hazed by a golden aura as she changes rapidly between laying on her front, legs kicking, and her back, as though she's in a therapist's daybed. She floats across his vision lazily.

"That's because I'm not," Miguel says. 

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Talking to Lyla." 

"How come Lyla doesn't talk to me?" you ask sweetly.

Miguel can see you in the distance, your simple black suit like an ink splodge against the blue grey glass of the skyscraper you're standing on. Anchored with a web and your body tensed, you're perfectly parallel to the ground below, as though you're standing on the windows. 

"It's not that I don't want to," Lyla promises. "Miggy won't let me." 

"That is not true." 

Projections cover Miguel's vision, powered by his favourite lying intelligence. Movements are mapped in a bright marigold yellow, though the net turns red to signify potential danger, chance percentages bouncing up and down. Doc Ock raises an arm and it turns an eye-straining red. He sits down on a park bench and his body turns yellow again. It's a smart program, but it can't account for everything. 

"Something isn't right." 

You hum appreciatively. "It feels weird, how he's acting. Like he's two separate people." 

Doc Ock glitches hard, the air around him fractured by colours in varying depths, like a tangible, physical screen tone. They've been coming faster. He doesn't have much time before he begins to tear apart, and that tearing will prompt panic. Panic will prompt anger. 

"What should we do?" you ask. 

Miguel doesn't know. He regrets asking you to come with him, not that you aren't capable. When you first joined the Spider Society you'd hadn't been Spider-Girl in your own universe for very long, and you weren't particularly proactive. You were kind-hearted but lackadaisical, and after worming your way into his life, a flower budding between concrete slabs it shouldn't have the power to crack, (he seriously doesn't know how it happened, only that you'd been bringing him things, carefully wrapped foods and trinkets you'd made, your bad conversation, and suddenly you were worrying about him and doting on him in the strange way that you do, suddenly, he was doing the same), you decided you wanted to help. You've trained hard on Spider-led courses at the Society, improving your overall fitness, your stamina, your technique, to become the fighter you are now. You can hold your own well. 

Miguel knows what motivated you. You want to look after him. You'd all but admitted to it. And that's why Miguel wishes he asked someone else to come with him, because you'll put yourself in harm's way as he would for you, to protect. 

"Why did you want to know if this universe was the same?" he asks, the nano of his suit morphing over his hands, claws growing long and minaciously sharp.

"Oh! Because, I used to have these favourite cookies called Butter Leaves, but they stopped making them in my dimension 'cos of the Whey disease. Even when it was better, loads of companies couldn't come back…" 

You give him the entire history. He already knows it. He tries to listen to you with the attention you deserve anyway, only he's weighed the options, and taking down Doc Ock feels much more important than listening to your cravings. 

"They were really thin and they had this sweet coating brushed over the top. You'd like them, I think." Miguel drops the last hundred feet to the ground, ignoring the jarring heat in his ankles at such a landing without having rolled into it. "If they were a little softer and had some sugar they'd taste just like polvorones, Miguel."

"You could say that about lots of things," Miguel argues, tone measured as not to alert bystanders nearby of his presence. 

"This doesn't feel like a good idea," Lyla says. Standing now, alert. 

Miguel toggles the communicator so you can't hear him. 

He wonders if you'd even notice him speaking over the intensity of your excitement, "I know it's not professional but maybe we could go and look? After we beat the bad guy. They're more than worth it, I swear," you say hopefully. 

"It's fine," he says to Lyla, throwing out a hand, shins braced and ready to burst into a tackle. 

"It feels off, you both said it." 

"It always feels off. He's in the wrong dimension, his presence caused a shift. The wrongness is unavoidable, like the body–" 

"Rejecting an organ transplant," Lyla says. "I know. You say it constantly." 

"If you know, why are you asking?" he asks, deadpan. 

"Good to know your girlfriend can ask questions and I can't. You're a trailblazer for equality, O'Hara."

Not my girlfriend, he thinks, but he isn't sure how true that is. Miguel realigns his eyesight, the holographic netting that pinpoints anomalistic stress a menacing red where it maps Doc Ock's limbs. The colours are abrasive against the yellow-green leaves fluttering in the breeze to the grass below, trees like arms stretched toward one another standing behind the simple brown bench where Doc Ock murmurs drunken-sounding ravings. 

Miguel's fangs slice through gum and lock into place. He tries not to salivate. The paralysing agent produced gives him a numb tongue. 

Miguel attempts to work quickly. Approach the target. Lock the target in. Incapacitate. He rears back and takes a deep breath. 

"Wait! Behind! Behind you, Miguel, there's something behind you!" 

He twists backward without hesitation and swings his arm around a cold neck. He squeezes hard, hears a metallic crunch similar to a mortar and pestle, but the person in his chokehold isn't a person, it's a robot. 

"Octobots!" Lyla shouts. 

"HELPFUL!" Miguel shouts back, grunting as a robotic arm curves around his back, and then a second, a third. 

The hills of his muscles strain against white-lacquered steel, a sweat breaking at the back of his neck as he groans, desperate to stop the octobot from crushing his arms to a powder. He can practically hear the creaking of his humerus. 

Around him, civilians scatter, screaming for their lives as a small horde of octobots descends on the park. Doc Ock doesn't react to the chaos. He sits there muttering to himself as people run past him and his octobots play cat and mouse. Miguel finally snaps the arms off the robot holding him with a pissed grunt, punching the carcass of machinery away from him while you tuck and roll from a dive to the ground. In an impressive show of your improvement and coordination, you throw out a web as you roll and hit Doc Ock square in the face, a second binding his chest to the bench. You spring to your feet, shooting at bots one after another. You must take down six by the time he's gathered his bearings. 

"On your left," Lyla says. Miguel smashes a bot at the apex of its white body and she laughs. "Nice. Behind." 

Miguel falls into the fight as though it's a well-practised dance. With the stress maps locked on, quick-thinking, and Lyla's pointed direction, Miguel can decapitate or incapacitate each bot swiftly as long as they don't get a hold on him like the first one managed. 

You're like Lyla in that a good skirmish seems to set you off —you're giggling, cheering, enjoying yourself much more than you should be. "This is just like that video game," you say, leaping onto a moving octobot and shooting webbing at the joints, gumming them up until they can't move. "With the girl and her super powered puppy, you know that one?" 

"Of course I don't know that one." Miguel brings his claws down into the aluminium shell of an octobot as it swipes your legs from under you and tears it in two. It cracks like a halved apple, the gore of its inside sparking and smoking as it hits the ground in tandem with you. Your head whacks hard into the concrete pathing beneath. He doesn't have time to help you. 

The arm of a bot races forward like a stinger. This one must be the head of the hive, the Queen bee so to speak, far more complicated than the others in the plating of her ivory bodice and chain-mail like shielding on her arms.

Miguel swears under his breath and vaults at it. 

He pulls your droid feed up in his display, watches you writhe from one side and the other as your pained moans play in his ear. You clamber onto wobbly footing as Miguel descends, the screeching cry of metal while it's shorn apart beneath his hands not half as loud as your useless gasping —you're winded, likely concussed. 

"Civilian entering range," Lyla says. 

"What? Where?" 

Lyla has your drone's camera spin on the spot to show Miguel the civilian stupid enough to enter an active fight zone. They aren't stupid at all, it figures, but unaware. A man in activewear jogs the beaten path with headphones in, eyes to the ground. He stops for a moment to look at his sports watch, and like the octobot can tell, it shakes Miguel like a bothersome flea and surges for him. 

You're closest. 

"Y/N!" Miguel shouts, knowing it's too late before he so much as closes his mouth. You turn, your head braced in your hand, breathing hard with pain. Miguel would take it back if he could. 

You can't save the civilian, but you can watch him die. 

—

People look at him like he's a ghost, sometimes. Wide-eyed, horrified, they move aside in the halls. They treat him how he feels on his worst days, like someone who should've died a long time ago. Today, things are different. 

No less than three Peter Parker' have stopped to stare at him unabashedly. Nearly all make the same jokes, Late for a date?

He'd honestly prefer feeling like a ghost. He can't deal with their derision and he doesn't want to, ignoring their looks and their judgement as he treks to the elevator that's gonna drop him outside of the medbay. The only person he wouldn't mind poking fun at him is you. 

You aren't in the mood. 

Miguel doesn't acknowledge your prone form at first. He walks to your bedside table to deposit the bouquet he'd chosen, peonies for good health and strength, swapping old for new, changing the water in your small shared sink. He may orchestrate the Spider Society, but Miguel's special privileges can't reduce the extreme turnover rate of the medbay. You have curtains to partition the room for privacy, and you got the bed by the window, and that's as much as he could get you. You deserve better. 

Miguel opens the window to drown out the smell of antiseptic. He stands in front of it, his shadow stretching over your twisted hip. You're not sleeping, you're resting. Doctor's orders.

Miguel wishes you'd deign to rest in your own bed, or his, but you're a little too catatonic for a safe discharge either way. 

He sighs quietly. You likely hear it with your enhanced senses and still you remain an impassive lump under your blue hospital blanket. 

"Good morning," he says, instead of the thousand other things he wants to say, that he's too much of a coward to ask. "Let's get up." 

He doesn't give you any choice about it. Starting slow, Miguel rounds the bed to meet your eyes through your sluggish blinking. Perhaps you'd been more asleep than he thought. 

Gentle, Miguel peels down your blankets enough to push his hands under your armpits. He pulls you up into a sitting position, and it —it breaks his heart. He's a monolith, he's hurting, he has years and years of loss and grief behind him and it doesn't matter, it finds him again. His heart breaks at your limblessness and your willingness to be positioned like a paper doll. 

Miguel arranges the sad pillow behind you and puts the remote for the adjustable bed frame in your hand. The last time you'd been here in the medbay after a training exercise fractured your ulna, you'd spent pretty much the entire time messing around with your bed, even as they crafted your cast. It made for messy work. Miguel must've told you to quit it fifty times. 

Your fingers curl around the remote. 

Miguel perches on the mattress on one knee to fix the protective style your hair is in. Nothing serious, just smoothing the tiniest of stray hairs and making sure it's still comfortable. He strokes your temple absentmindedly, checking you over one feature at a time. Tired eyes, nose tip looking parched, your lips chapped. Frowning, he sits properly, and he pulls your big hospital bag from the bedside table, his hand falling to your wrist to say, Hey, I'm here, and I'm not going far.

He finds your smaller bag of toiletries and necessities and unzips it. He tries not to think about the last time he had to take care of someone like this as he cleans your face with a wet wipe, two fingers wrapped in the wipe and petting at your skin carefully. He notices the life returning to you inchingly, his touch a tether you're pulling on, so he prolongs his actions. He smooths moisturiser over your face extra slowly. If you asked why, he could say it's cold, but you don't ask.

Your face shiny in the sunshine filtering in through the wide windows, you almost look like yourself again. 

"Are you hungry?" 

You shake your head. An almost imperceptible gesture. 

"This is why you don't feel well," he says. "You're not eating enough." 

"That's not why," you say.

He aches to hear your voice. I know, he thinks, but doesn't say. 

"Eat something," he says. 

You shake your head again. He managed to bring you back and squash you back down in less than a minute. He really doesn't like himself, at that moment. Often, but especially now. He's failing you. He failed you with the octobots and he's failing you now. 

Miguel refuses to fail someone he cares about again. 

He takes the remote for your bed and lifts the top section so you can sit back comfortably. He shakes the blankets out over you, and he puts away your things. Hopeful, Miguel places new pyjamas and underwear with your shower caddy at the end of the bed and pulls a strict pose, hands crossed over his chest. 

"I need to go. Shower, eat breakfast when it comes. Please." 

You give him a look that might mean Yes but probably doesn't mean anything, laying down as much as the bed allows and turning your face from him toward the flowers. Miguel leaves, stopping a ways away to look back, and watches through the gap of your curtains as you reach out to touch the flowers he'd brought. Your pinky finger is less than an inch from the petals when your movement stutters, your hand falling back to your chest with a soft thud. You close your eyes. 

When Miguel returns, he's thankful to find you've done as he told you. Showered, changed, a discarded breakfast tray at your feet. You've attempted the oatmeal and left the toast to go cold, congealed butter white against golden yellow. 

Miguel swaps the tray for his bags. He's hoping you might be tempted to look while he's gone. He knows before you would've known the entire contents of the open bag by the time he'd left the room, but he returns having taken your tray to the rack and is sorely disappointed. 

That's fine, he decides. You don't have to look. He doesn't mind laying things out for you. 

First port of call: extra pillows. He pulls the plastic wrapped 'hotel pillows' up onto your sheet and tears the plastic. They pop out. He didn't think for pillow cases, so he slides them behind your hospital pillow and pushes you down by the shoulders, not cruel but not particularly gentle —you actually laugh at his handling. He bites back a smile. 

"What, you got me presents?" you ask as he dumps a blanket onto your lap. It's one of those soft, shiny fleece ones patterned with those characters you love so much, the girl and her super powered puppy. 

You rub your hands over it appreciatively and spread it out over your legs. "What's that mean?" he asks, pointing at the Chinese characters, '超級汪汪!'. 

"Chāojí wāngwāng!" you cheer, an impression missing the majority of your usual pep. "Super woof. It's his level five power up. He yaps and Joyce gets her HP back." 

Miguel pretends to know, like he'd forgotten, and you're reminding him. "Ah."

You're watching now, interested. He puts his back between you and the bag and you whine weakly, "Miguel." 

"What? You think these are for you?" 

"Please, I want to see." 

He gives in like a cheap tent, passing you a packet of pearly beads for your bracelet making, skeins of variegated thread that change colours, a packet of pencils with frogs on the lids, a plushie. You don't know how to react and Miguel doesn't know what to say. He honestly doesn't want to say anything, vulnerability stopped being his thing a while ago, but he clears his throat. "Do you know what I look like in the middle of Miniso? Picture it."

Miniso being a Chinese home goods store lined floor to ceiling with plushies.

You laugh weirdly. Miguel knows it's guilt holding you back. 

"One last thing." He sits down on the bed next to you, hands big enough to cover the box in its entirety. "You were wrong, by the way. Extremely wrong, these don't taste a thing like polvorones." 

He passes you the box. You take it into steady hands, smiling widely, your thumb brushing up against the black cursive font. A box of butter leaves from one of your sister dimensions.

"I don't know if they'll taste like they did. Are they the same ones?" 

You nod, loosing a breath between parted lips. "Same ones." 

"If you don't eat them all, I won't get them for you again." 

"That's so mean," you murmur. Miguel would apologise if he thought you meant it. 

"That's how it is. Eat your cookies. I'll come back later to make sure you actually ate dinner." 

He stands. You immediately grab him, cookies dropped in favour of braceleting his wrist in your warm fingers. 

You look up at him through your lashes, a frown dampening your pretty features. At least, in his eyes. 

"Please don't go," you say. Your eyebrows pinch together. It's even more heartbreaking than your catatonia, this pleading loneliness, like you think he won't stay. 

"You have to talk to me," Miguel says. He softens at your chastised wince, sitting back down again. "Did you want a hug?" he asks. 

It's an apology to offer it, though he should've asked you this morning, or yesterday, even the day before. You'd been inconsolable when it happened. Miguel's never seen you that way. Your sunshine shattered, your shoulders shaking under his hands as he led you away from the scene, he didn't hug you like he wanted to. It wouldn't have made a difference at the time. You couldn't speak. You could barely walk. 

Seeing something like that happen leaves a mark, even if you've seen it before. 

You sweep aside your gifts and twist your legs to climb onto your knees. Miguel hadn't realised how much you wanted to be close to him until you're bordering his lap, your arms sliding over his shoulders, your pyjamas soft and smelling of antiseptic under his nose. A switch flicks at your nearness. He pulls you into his lap and sandwiches you there, chest to chest, thankful for his stature because it means he can encapsulate you effortlessly. He can hide you from the world for a short while. 

You choke him half to death. 

"It's okay," he says, your back curved into the length of his forearm, leaning forward so you can take the weight off. "You're okay." 

"I don't– it's not me. I'm not worried about me." 

"It's over," he says. "What's done is done." Which isn't to say it isn't tragic, or that it didn't leave a permanent mark on the world. But you're punishing yourself for a crime you didn't commit.

"It's all my fault," you whisper, your cheek pressing to his shoulder, face hidden in the juncture of his neck.

He tilts his head toward you. "It's my fault. I jumped in. I wanted it to be quick."

"I let him…" 

"You had a grade ii concussion, you didn't let anyone do anything. I'm lucky you didn't pass out right there. I'm lucky you had the ability to defend yourself, because I left you defenceless." 

"No, you didn't, it–" You rub your cheek against his shoulder. "It happened really fast, you were making sure that bot didn't get me because I was stupid enough to leave myself open–" 

"Stop it."

It's harsh enough to stop you in your tracks. Miguel sighs hard, hair blowing away from his face. 

He lays down backward, skewiff on your bed, and pulls you with him in a secure but gentle hold. You make a quiet 'oof' as you go down. Apologetic yet again, Miguel rubs a line up and down your back, fingertips between your shoulders, palm flattening as he reaches the small of your back, your shirt inching up. He's sure you look foolish to anyone watching, but for once, he's past embarrassment. 

"I don't want to hear you blaming yourself. It's not your fault." 

You've twisted on your side on the mattress rather than crush his pelvis, though your chest remains pressed to his. You twist a strand of his dark hair around your finger. "Why did you bring me all this stuff?" you ask softly. 

"To make you feel better." 

"But why… do you… want that? Why does it matter that much, that you'd waste time going to get me things?" 

"Why do you think?" he asks. 

Your lips ghost the column of his throat. "Mm… 'cos you're nicer than you let on." 

"Wrong." 

You laugh again. He's more grateful than he'd ever say aloud. 

"Because you care about me too much." 

Too much is right. He feels like he's at the stern of the universe's most important ship. The universes, plural. That ship is heading square for an iceberg, for the precipice of a gargantuan whirlpool, and there's nothing Miguel can do but hand out buckets and veer sharply to the left, hoping it will be enough, knowing deep down that it won't be if something doesn't give soon. And he's lived a life, two lives, before he even met you. He's tired. He doesn't want to lose anyone else, and he hoped he could do that by never caring again. 

What a stupid hope. 

"I just want you to feel like yourself again," he admits. 

"I really wanted to save him." 

"You can't save everyone." 

He knows better than most. 

"I know," you say, no tears left to cry, voice impossibly small. 

Miguel wraps his arms around you and doesn't let go for a long, long time. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you so much for reading, I really really hope you enjoyed! please think about reblogging if you liked it, I appreciate it &lt;3