#thanks for the comm! it was a pleasure to work with you~

[rococospade]

commission for @mrslittletall of her Laurence mourning his life and friends

[artist-rat]

commission for @amys2885 of their wonderful tav, Cali, and Karlach 💛

[starswornoaths]

A Fulcrum Dark and Radiant - Commission!

Commission for @sarenhale, who is a delight as always to work with and has been so patient and gracious with me! Featuring oc Arihel and Urianger!

Set during the events of 5.0, Urianger does everything he can to ease the suffering of Arihel as he absorbs more and more Light. When things finally boil over and the night sky is once again gone, it's all they can do to turn toward one another.

word count: 7,945

Commissions: Open!

To be an Astrologian was to study not only the stars, but also to find the gravid pull of one’s focus. The center of one’s universe was, as far as the greatest scholars of Sharlayan could deduce, the core of one’s power. 

The more clinically minded attributed the core of their power to the heaven’s gates and the unlocking thereof. Those with a more romantic flair would often profess that the object of their desires was the source of their strength. 

From what Urianger had been able to glean from his colleagues in school, teachers would insist that, from a purely academic perspective, only the former was absolutely required for the study of stars. The latter, if true at all, was a more volatile source of power and focus: namely, in that it can wither, change, or be lost.

Having the blessing and burden of both facets of study, Urianger understood that it was only a practice of both in equal harmony that would truly open one to the potential to tame the stars themselves. Would that he had understood such an important lesson sooner in life.

Alas, what study he had undergone was of a more practical sort, versus academic. By the time he was able to grasp starlight in the palm of his hand it had come from another sky entirely, on a world far from home.

For a blessing, Urianger had refused to let his focus be idle as they awaited their champion’s arrival to the First shard; a mastery of the stars meant that he could instead turn his focus to the study of aether itself, the properties by which it operated, and how those properties might be altered. That the man he had come to so dearly cherish was so far away from him had made of him another star to draw strength from when Urianger felt himself waning.

But the work was never finished. In its own way, that was a good thing: it helped keep his mind off the Crystal Exarch’s schemes—and his complicity to them. Working out charts of aetheric flow and how best to alter their currents felt at least like some sort of penance for a sin that he continued to choose to commit. It was the less amoral of the manipulations he was a part of now.

Nothing had brought that into focus more clearly than Arihel’s arrival in Norvrandt.

Pretending that they were overly familiar before that point would be insult to both of them; Urianger had always held a deep and abiding respect and admiration for Arihel. For how he continued to try, even in the face of almost certain failure. For who he was inherently as a person, enough that there was always a sort of warmth in his chest when they were near one another.

But that did not mean they were close. Their interactions had been naught but amiable, even friendly. To Urianger’s mind, Arihel had carried himself beyond reproach, but neither of them had approached one another for more than a few brief moments—and almost always for work related dealings.

So it was something of a surprise when Arihel approached him, of all the Scions, for help.

All the more that he came to Urianger’s room in the Crystarium, not long after night had returned to Il Mheg. Arihel came alone, and deep enough into night that Urianger had only barely settled in from their hasty retreat from the land of the fae. 

Conversation between them had not started smoothly even after Urianger had ushered him in for tea but eventually, Arihel had broached the true reason for his unexpected arrival.

“Not going to pretend you didn’t see how I brought night back to Il Mheg,” said the Warrior of Light and Darkness both. “Wasn’t the first time I did it—you probably know that, too.”

For several long moments, Urianger dared not breathe. “Wherefore wouldst thou make such a claim?” he had found himself asking.

“‘Cause I feel like you know everything.” Arihel had answered as though it was obvious.

Ignorant of how the air left Urianger’s lungs at the statement, ignorant of how close to right he was for all the wrong reasons, he sheepishly added, ““and you talked a lot about the different aspects of aether before. Back in Il Mheg.”

There was little and less sense in pretending that he did not immediately see and feel the changes that had taken place in the time since they had last seen one another on the Source. It was one of the few things left that he did not have to lie about. 

For he would know more than most what was happening—he was complicit in the scheme from the moment the Exarch had brought him into the fold. More than anyone, he understood the immense but exact cost of each patch of night sky…and who was meant to pay it.

“I do confess to no small amount of concern for thee—moreso than what hath become customary for thy heroic exploits, that is.” Urianger recalled measuring each word like a tentative step on ice. “Ere you had set foot on the First…much and more had already changed within thee, though I do not understand the depth of such changes. But the changes hath only become more striking since thy arrival here.”

“I…there’s so much goin’ on, so much at stake—Urianger, I can’t come to anyone else with this.” Arihel had said, words almost tripping on his Lominsan accent and mounting anxiety. 

Despite being nearly half a head taller he seemed determined to make himself small in that moment, and it was well that he was pointedly looking at the kettle on the stove lest he might see the way Urianger flinched. The Warrior of Light was now the second person to tell him that, and of direct consequence to his first confidant in this world.

“Thou hast no need to fear reproach from me, Arihel.” he said softly, hands occupied with cups and the filling thereof. “Aught I might do to lessen the burden on thy shoulders, thou needs but ask it of me, and I shall do all in my power to make it so.”

As if to seal the promise in the ways of the fae folk—a habit hard formed over the last three years—he pressed a steaming cup of tea into Arihel’s hands.

“...I believe you.” he whispered half into his tea. “I have to—wouldn’t be here in the first place if I didn’t, right?”

It was Urianger’s turn to lower his gaze. Given all that he withheld from all those he had held so very dear, he felt unworthy. In equal turns, he felt a churning sense of desperation to be worthy of it twist with the guilt, the uoroboros tangled itself around the corrupted fulcrum of his very being. His secrets had brought about this fear within his friend. His secrets would bear salvation to him. Both were sins born of virtue. He could not falter now when it would doom all he loved and cherished—Arihel included. 

Choosing damnation over oblivion, as he always would, Urianger opted for silence to coax Arihel to speak.

Words strung together, halting for the rattling breath and pulls of drink told a tale of corrupted closure. A battle unfolding on the Azim Steppe between a father figure and the man who saw the monster within him. 

Nergaal might have succumbed to his adopted son’s blows after a long and arduous battle, but Arihel was never the same again. 

Both combatants had been granted the Echo—but Nergaal had something more wicked still to darken his shadow: voidsent. Devoured for their essence and grafted onto his soul in grim patchwork, the creatures had both strengthened and consumed the man from the inside out, his body sustained only by his Blessing outrunning the rot. 

When Nergaal could no longer outpace Arihel, the voidsent he had devoured had congealed into a concentrated corruption. Fearful of what would happen should such malfeasance be left to do as it wanted, Arihel had taken it unto himself.

“In the middle of it all,” he whispered after the silence stretched at length. “I’ll never forget those eyes…looking at me. Always, always looking at me.”

Before that point, Urianger had known Arihel’s eyes to be a bright, almost luminescent colour. He had never managed to hold the man’s gaze long enough to tell whether the color of that radiance was a seafoam green or a cloudy sky blue, but only the faintest limbal ring of that hue remained in eyes that now glared a fierce garnet red color. Where Arihel’s eyes once resembled dappled sunlight streaming through the window, Urianger could only now equate their glow to smouldering coals in a dark furnace.

How much longer could Arihel continue to burn before he guttered out to the last embers, Urianger wondered grimly.

As if to shield his heart from the memory, Arihel gave a shudder so violent his torso folded in on itself. 

“Everything already felt off after I took the voidsent into me.” he said in a tone that made it clear admitting it hurt almost as much as the corruption itself. “I thought—I dunno, I thought if I absorbed the Light here, it would balance it out somehow? I thought it might after hearing you talk about aether, at least—”

“Were it a simple matter of pure aether absorption, there might be some merit to the theory,” Urianger said slowly, searching for words to soften the blow, “but as thou hast doubtless discovered, the imbalance of such confluence, and the darkness within thee a direct result of not mere aether but voidsent, only further complicates thy perilous predicament.” 

Even so much time later, after so many moments that reflected this first true meeting betwixt them, Urianger recalled the way Arihel had all but whispered, “Help me, Urianger. Is there anything that can help?”

Down to his marrow was Arihel a Warrior of Warriors, and rarely did he speak of his pain. He was not one to openly disclose his suffering, and tried to do aught in his power to hide what afflictions he was battling.

But Sharlayan Astrology had a peculiar way of drawing the focus to that which is in need of realignment. In finding the fulcrum of one’s desire to heal in the molten core of the patient’s agony, the weak points began to show like stars in the night sky.

“Aught in my power to try, I shall.” Urianger had promised him. “Thou needs but come to me, and I shall render mine all.”

Every time Arihel took back a part of the night sky, he and Urianger would secret themselves away in a private moment all their own, and the Warrior would give his battered aether over to the Wizard’s inspection. 

Grimly, the march toward the Exarch’s gambit proceeded apace: a fulcrum dark and radiant all at once, neither cancelling out one another but burning differently at the same flesh. The more of the night sky returned, the more those voidsent were but flecks on a pearlescent core like the shadow of vultures against a blazing sun. 

The first time Urianger had deeply examined Arihel’s aether, he had done so without touching him. It had been a request of Arihel’s—fear of what had happened with Nergaal had made him averse to physical contact even before they had been pulled to Norvrandt, and the absorption of Light during his time here had only rubbed that nerve raw.

Patience and pure necessity had won out in the end, and the night after freeing Amh Areng from perpetual day found Arihel in the worst pain he had ever been in.

“Harder to hold in now.” he had admitted, words forced through grit teeth stained iridescent from the aetherically charged bile he had begun to cough up. “Feels worse than before.”

That time, Urianger had all but begged to be permitted close enough to touch—out of a tangled growth of affection and fear that had rooted itself in his heart. With baited breath, he admitted that the need to try and protect him outweighed any concern there might have ever for his own safety.

“I could hurt you,” Arihel warned when a hand was held out in offering to him again.

At that, Urianger smiled and reminded him, “As thou ever could.”

For all the fear Arihel had over anyone touching him, Urianger’s first brush with skin and scale was alarming for how soft they were against his hand. At first contact with the apple of his cheek Arihel’s skin flared in heat, a deep flush creeping over warm skin. 

Both of them had held their breaths for long enough that the room had vaguely spun as their aether connected. In stark contrast to the almost tender caress of Arihel subtly leaning into Urianger’s palm, the first tendrils of Arihel’s aether tangling with Uriangers felt almost violent, as if to claw the relief out of him. 

Almost immediately the sensation softened, and Urianger did not miss the way Arihel had frowned deeply as if in concentration.

“Thy control is highly commendable,” Urianger praised softly, trying in vain to balance his friend’s aether. “But I assure thee, thou art safe with me. ‘Tis alright to let go of thy facade. ‘Tis alright to bear thy pain unto me. I shall take as much from thee as I can. Thou art safe in my care.”

Before their arrival on the First, Urianger had known Arihel’s aether to be more fire aspected than anything, warm as a hearth and radiant as the sun. Astral, which might well suit to point to a perfect counterbalance to the Light whorling within him. 

Thus was Urianger’s theory set in motion, attempting to channel enough water aether into Arihel that his aether could be tilted closer to its natural center. Waves woven with the care of a tailor crafting a gorgeous gown, Urianger wove a luminescent night sky of umbral water over Arihel’s heart in an effort to blanket him in calmer tides. 

With each attempt, it became easier. With every touch, every whispered secret between them, Uriagner attuned himself to the ever-shifting sands of Arihel’s aether. Almost without effort, Arihel had become the radiant sun of Urianger’s universe: the fulcrum of his focus and the gravitational pull of his heart. The shores upon which his waters would return in rhythmic ebb and flow of need and understanding, given and taken in kind.

Of course Urianger was going to give his all to try and bring Arihel back from the brink. What else could he do? Whose shores could he find safe haven within save for Arihel’s? Who else could he love but him? What else could he do but continue to try?

If he reminded Arihel, in word and in soul, of the man he had once been before he had shouldered the burden of monsters— first, that of another man and then of another world wholly, if he could ensure that there would be enough of his friend left to save, then it would all be worth it. Urianger could sit with the guilt of betraying his trust, of hiding the truth of the Exarch’s plan, if it meant that Arihel and the rest of his Scion compatriots would be alive. 

Such was the Exarch’s gamble. The die was cast. They had failed long before they had reached the heights of Mt. Gulg in an effort to chase away the last of the Light, but it wasn’t until they had reached its summit that they realized how far gone everything had been.

To the last, Urianger had hoped that G’raha Tia’s plan would come to fruition. To the last, selfishly, Urianger had hoped the Crystal Exarch would be the one to die. This process had been agony enough to Arihel but even if he never spoke to Urianger again, he would at least have lived.

Emet-Selch had done exactly as he had promised, and foiled their plans at the last. It was all that Ryne could do to keep Arihel from turning into the last of the Lightwardens that instant. The Oracle had given every onze of her aether just to stabilize him—and half of Urianger’s, when he offered more as they had ferried him back to the Crystarium. 

No one looked at the sky outside the airship. No one dared breathe a word of the returned poisoning of Light in the sky. No one needed to.

It was only after Ryne had done all she could that Urianger left Arihel’s side, aiding her in finding her own rest once the mendicants had taken over his care. Absence from him itched at some newly deepened protectiveness in Urianger’s heart, dark and radiant and undefinable. 

That yawning chasm that Arihel had occupied left room for Urianger to reflect, however, on how utterly out of balance his heart and mind were, where his dearest friend was concerned. Little wonder he had rarely known how to handle when they were together; he was in a constant state of dizziness, tumbling from the height of his love for Arihel and crashing into the lows of his knowledge of the man.

Urianger was the one Scion out of all of them that Arihel had chosen to go to when in need of succor. Even if other Scions might have known more of the man, they knew little and less of his aether and soul. 

Not he. Not Urianger, who could sculpt a topographical map of Arihel’s pain and how it had changed with their travels across Norvrandt. Urianger, who was so privileged to know what it looked like when the most immediate of the pain was soothed away, how the sharp ridges and grooves between his brows softened into a tentative smile. Urianger, who could track the worsening of the Light’s poison in how long it took for his hands to stop trembling after a dose of healing magic—

Urianger, who only knew his tragedies. Who only knew of the horrors visited to him at the Steppe. Who only knew Arihel loved vegetable soup because the Scions were beginning to sound like the healers working the Inn at Journey’s End.

Mere hours had passed until Arihel awoke but they passed like days. Urianger scarce kept himself sufficiently distracted with fretting over his compatriots. For a blessing, everyone else seemed otherwise no worse for wear, if keeping their head down in various aspects.

Bereft of purpose otherwise, Urianger returned to Arihel’s room, wherein he found the suites empty of occupants. Thus, he found his purpose, and began to search for where his guiding star had drifted off to. 

There was little and less surprise when he was found wandering with Feo Ul about the Crystarium—but that his stride became purposeful as he caught sight of Urianger most certainly was.

“I was looking for you.” Arihel admitted.

Urianger’s initial reaction was to panic—habit dictated that he was sought out for comfort when the pain became too much. 

“Hath thy pain begun to flare anew? Shall I send for young Ryne to attend you, or Y’Shtola—”

“No!” Arihel cut him off, voice just a touch rougher and louder than intended.

Wincing, he softened and tried again, the mumbled words smudged warmly in his accent. “No. Just—wanted to see you. Talk to you, but—”

Used to Arihel searching for words, Urianger fell into step beside him and waited.

“This is his garden. The Exarch’s.” Arihel finally said, and lowered his gaze to lock with Urianger’s as he said, “I want to walk in yours.”

And thus they found themselves in Il Mheg, approaching the Bookman’s Shelves. Their journey had been a quiet but companionable one, the silence not unlike that which encompassed the bulk of their encounters on the Source.

It wasn’t until they were making their way uphill from the Bookman’s Shelves that the silence was broken—and even then, in a voice interrupting the quiet as gently as a skipping stone on the surface of a lake.

“I wish we had talked more. Before, I mean.” Arihel spoke up suddenly. 

“Before—?” Urianger prompted.

“Before—before everyone started going to sleep.”

There was an almost boyish charm to describing the theft of their souls in such a way. Like a fairytale. Like Urianger was just waiting to wake up and discover this was all a horrible, wonderful dream.

That, not for the first time, he would wake before he gave in to folly and bore his heart to his Warrior.

Whilst in the grips of this dream-turned-nightmare, Urianger sought to soothe the wincing frown that marred Arihel’s face, countering, “amateur though I mayst be in casual conversation, I floundered all the more ere we began to dream on the Source. Doubt not that though the want was there, the courage had not found me. Blame thyself not, I prithee.”

“I could have tried talking to you.” argued Arihel. “Or at least…tried harder. But you’re so smart, and it’s hard to keep up with you sometimes. Figured you wouldn’t want much to do with me.”

“Thy humility prevents thee from admitting to thy own wit.” countered the Bookman as he ushered Arihel unto his Shelves and latched the door behind them. “That thy light shines differently than mine own dims not its brilliance.”

Words chosen poorly, he realized a second too late when Arihel flinched as he brushed past him. 

Another wound he had inflicted. Another sin to be forgiven lest it be devoured.

“Mine metaphor got away from me, I beg thy forgiveness—” he stammered, hands glittering with starlight reaching to soothe out of habit.

“S’alright. I get what you mean.” Arihel answered, waving a hand dismissively without looking back as he continued to move further into the room.

It was Urianger’s turn to flinch.

Such was the same reaction Arihel had given to the knowledge that not only did the Exarch—G’raha Tia—withold critical information about their mission, but had also brought in Urianger as his conspirator. This had always been Arihel’s way, though he now understood the differences—before, such had been in his carefree nature, always banking fires before they outgrew containment. Always letting everyone around him be warm without burning.

These days, he let them go for fear of becoming the fire. With how reserved he had become, the few waspish barks of frustration and anger had seemed as warning sparks in search of kindling.  He had never said as much in so many words, but all that Urianger had been privy to—in both memory and deed—spoke for the Warrior of Light in much the same way it always had.

A string of sneezes from Arihel snapped Urianger out of his thoughts, watching with mild amusement as the man sneezed with such intensity that the leg not supporting his weight lifted and bent at the knee, his tail flailing on its own from pure reflex and knocking over several precariously stacked tomes.

After saying a string of words in Limsan that Urianger presumed to be curses, Arihel knelt down in front of the books splayed out on the floor. 

“I’m so sorry! Wasn’t paying any bloody attention—” he said over his shoulder, scrabbling to try and gather them all in a hurry.

Crossing the room to where he knelt in a few long strides, Urianger knelt before Arihel to assist in the gathering of papers and books.

“Thou hast no need for apologies, my dear friend. ‘Twas the natural consequence of mine own indolence, leaving these tomes strewn about—”

As they both reached for the same book, their hands brushed. Arihel nearly reeled onto his backside for how he flinched and recoiled but Urianger caught his hand before thinking better of it. 

Accidental contact was one thing. It was an easy enough thing to dismiss and pretend at coincidence. Urianger would not have his intentions mistaken: he gave Arihel’s hand a squeeze.

“Just as thou hast naught to apologize for, so too, do you have naught to fear in this place. With me.”

Silence hung heavy in the space between them, even as Arihel had yet to take his hand back. Instead, he stared at Urianger at length, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

Time caught up with them when Arihel caught up with himself, realizing their hands were still entwined. Eyes widening even further—this time out of fear, Urianger realized—he snatched his hand back with such speed that his scales scraped Urianger’s palm.

Before he could hold it back Urianger yelped, more from surprise than any sense of pain. All the same, it was enough for Arihel to bodily flinch and attempt to tuck the offending hand into his own chest, as if to hide as much of himself away as he could.

“I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so sorry!” he wheezed, eyes wide as saucers. “Don’t know what I was thinking, I could have hurt you—”

“As thou hast always been capable of.” Urianger reminded him gently, and showed his unharmed palm for inspection. “And yet, thou has never. Not once.”

“But the Light could have—” Arihel tried to argue.

Urianger cut him off with a shake of his head. “Thou has never.” he repeated in a voice that was all at once quiet but firm. “Regrettably, I cannot claim a similar truth. To mine immense shame, I hath inflicted more pain unto thee than thou hast to me. By an immeasurable magnitude.”

“What?” Arihel balked, his brow furrowing deeply. “But you haven’t—”

Urianger shook his head again and argued, “‘Tis writ plain on thy features, Arihel: I see it in the streaks of starlight in thy hair, in the shift of thy aether. I see it in the way thou hast carried thyself through our most recent trials. Pain is all I have given thee—”

“Okay, that’s not true.” Arihel cut him off firmly, his frown deepening. “Wouldn’t have come to you so many times for help if it hurt.”

Looking down to the hand he had curled into his chest he seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment. Squeezing his eyes shut, his hand shot out to grab Urianger’s again, as if to do it before he could talk himself out of it.

Urianger was startled less by the suddenness of the action and more that it had happened at all but he managed to repress a flinch of surprise, fearful that it would be misconstrued. All the same, he couldn’t help but gawk at their joined hands, suddenly timid with the shift in conversation and the warmth of the contact.

“I…I went to you first because you try to make things better.” Arihel said, words slow and deliberate. “And…and all of this—”

When Urianger looked up at the motion of Arihel’s hand waving at his own face, he was surprised to see how deeply flushed the man had become. 

“All of this,” he tried again, “isn’t your fault either. Not even all of this is the Light.”

“How canst thou be so certain—”

“Nergaal had white hair and red eyes.” Arihel cut him off sharply. “This was starting before I came here, and you know it.”

He seemed to realize that he was starting to get upset, and took a deep breath before speaking again, “Quit trying to find things to beat yourself up with, y’hear? I don’t blame you for it. So don’t blame yourself for me.”

Urianger hid his flinch by tipping his head to look again at their joined hands. Shame had flooded his veins long before Arihel had come to the First, and it now resisted being flushed from him at the reassurance. Unworthy was a chant in his head as steady as his heartbeat, and it would not be silenced by simple words.

“Oi!” Arihel huffed when he attempted to take his hand back in turn. 

Lunging forward to take Urianger’s hand back, Arihel insisted, “If I don’t get to pull away, then you don’t either!”

Which left them knelt among a splayed out pile of books, holding hands and gaping at one another’s flushed faces. For several long moments, neither of them moved for fear of breaking themselves out of this trance.

Belatedly, Urianger realized that this was the longest they had gone with physical contact that served no purpose: for the first time, their touch was intentional without any further goal than to be held by one another. 

Was this not a sort of healing in its own right?

Heart in his throat and blood roaring in his ears, Urianger swallowed and croaked, “Thou hast me at a disadvantage, as thou always has.”

With an intensity normally reserved for the battlefield, Arihel leveled a glare at Urianger as he insisted, “If you’re not running, I’m not running. If you’re running, I’m running with you.”

Meeting Arihel’s gaze as evenly as he could, he promised, “As thou sayest.”

Almost immediately, he had to lower his gaze from those piercing eyes, burning like coals in a fire. He felt the heat of that stare as it remained on him, even as Arihel let go of his hand and picked up the stack of books they had collected.

“We should actually put these on shelves, y’know.” he said.

When Urianger grabbed the other stack of tomes they had rearranged, Arihel stood and offered him an outstretched hand. In accepting the offer and letting himself be helped up, Urianger felt the deliberate nature of both the offer and the way their hands stayed linked for several seconds after he was upright.

“Verily, thou hast the right of it.” he said when their hands at last disentangled. “‘Tis only right to put away that which I stacked unto the floor in mine academic fervor.”

Arihel’s bark of laughter startled Urianger, who jumped just a little at the burst of noise before they both looked at one another for a moment and dissolved into fits of giggles. With the stuffy, warm stillness of this sanctuary, it felt like they were two young academics trying not to get caught by the Librarian being loud between bookshelves. 

Like they could have always been friends.

Like Urianger was always going to love Arihel.

It was less that the tension had left them entirely and more that it waited politely at the door while the two of them put away stacks and stacks of books. They could have stopped at just the two stacks that had been knocked over but time passed more pleasantly when they passed it together, and the decision to keep tidying up had been silently agreed upon between the two of them.

Everlasting Light burned outside but through the wide, dusty windows of the Bookman’s Shelves it almost passed for beams of afternoon sun, honeyed through the faint tint of the thick glass windows. Time mattered both less and more when the night was not coming. 

Long had it been that Urianger was helpless to the gravitational pull of Arihel. Voidsent and Light and a doomed future could not change the way he was drawn closer. 

Filing books on the shelves was just as good an excuse as any to be near—never mind that Urianger was putting them in the wrong places and that future Urianger will have to redo this entire section of the wall to his typical exacting standard, it was worth being able to be close enough that he felt Arihel’s warmth radiating against his side.

Arihel was not a star that he needed to wield nor master, to claim nor even to touch. That Urianger was warmed by him, in his orbit, was more than enough.

And as they worked, conversation inevitably began to bubble up. Slowly at first, with a few murmured questions about placement and equally soft replies. But with time, Arihel began to ask about some of the titles—what is this one about? Can you tell me about it? 

Ever weak to the opportunity to teach, Urianger gladly answered any questions until eventually it turned retelling Arihel stories he had collected over the years. Some of them weren’t even among the books that he had here but were on shelves a world away, doubtless collecting dust without his custodianship. Stories that had helped him learn how to socialize with others— “Always was I a timid and meek child, terrified of the prospect of conversation,” he explained with a chortle to himself. “I didst rely heavily upon fairytales and ancient myths to shape my words when I had none myself. Thus did I speak this way.”

“So it’s like a cover?” Arihel asked without judgement. “Like pretending you’re a character in a book makes it easier for you to talk?”

Urianger nodded. “Donning the mask of a character in a hero’s tale permitted I couldst speak at all. Were it not for Moenbryda’s outgoing radiance, I fear I may not have made a single friend during my younger years. My peers thought me ‘weird,’ though I suppose they were not incorrect in the assumption.”

“I would have been your friend.” Arihel replied with immediate surety. “We would’ve been weird together.”

A smile bloomed unbidden on Urianger’s face at that. “Of that, I do not doubt. Not for a singular beat of my heart.”

When the last books were shelved, their hands brushed. A glancing sunbeam of warmth in this stillness. The two of them froze again, hands hovering in the space between them and only just connecting.

Arihel’s expression suddenly crumpled. “We’ve wasted so much time.” he rasped. “Why did we wait so long to just sit and talk?”

Because I knew I wouldst love thee from the first moment we met, should I seek to befriend thee. Because I was right. Because I am a coward.

“For mine own part, ‘twas a fear that I wouldst have naught to say of interest to thee—nor aught of enough to interrupt thy work.”

When Urianger made to take his hand back, Arihel caught it with his own and tangled their fingers together. 

“I wanted to talk, you know.” he huffed. “I even tried to, a few times! But it was like my tongue went stupid when I was around you and I couldn’t say much.”

Urianger squeezed to keep his grip as he lowered their twinned hands. He studied the tangle of their fingers in favor of yet more reflection on all they could have been before.

“Though the prospect of lamenting what we did not speak of in the past be a tempting chalice to drink from, we shall not find satisfaction in the act, I think.” he pondered aloud.

Daring to be bolder yet, knowing what they were about to face, he held Arihel’s gaze steady with his own, unguarded and afraid, as he murmured, “I would instead consider sharing what we wish to, in this moment, in this place. I would propose that we choose to make of the present what we will.”

Arihel nods slowly, eyes drifting away in thought. It was enchanting, watching the way he bit the inside of his cheek when mulling something over. 

When he looked back to Urianger, he seemed just a bit less guarded than before. “I don’t…think I’m ready to walk away from this yet.” he admitted quietly, lashes fluttering as he visibly fought with the urge to look away. “This feels nice, being here. With you.”

Heat bloomed on both of their faces, and though they trembled with the want to distance themselves, they both remained right where they were. Together—for no other reason than they wanted to be.

“Come, then. Let us wander our own path a while longer.” Urianger offered with a gentle voice and an extension of his hand. “Together this time, if thou wouldst have me.”

There was no hesitation in the way that Arihel took his offered hand. Even when Urianger led him out the door and into the everlasting glow of the Light, Arihel did not so much as flinch when emerging from their sanctuary. As if he trusted that Urianger would never lead him astray. Trusted even now, even after everything that had happened.

Unworthy and deeply aware of it, his heart fluttered all the same.

As they approached the nearby bank of Longmirror Lake, he could feel Arihel’s curiosity rolling off him in waves, steps beginning to turn syrupy and slow but never truly stopping. Ponderous, but not doubting. Never doubting.

“All will be well.” Urianger promised him. “Thou needs but have faith.”

“I have faith in you.” Arihel affirmed as their boots began to sink, gently, into to sodden earth of the lakeshore. 

Urianger did not break his stride, his grip on Arihel’s hand sure and firm as steel as he murmured an incantation and held his focus on the water that rose to meet their footfalls.

Not once did Arihel hesitate. Not once did he stop walking beside him, nor let go of his hand. At first, Urianger had put it down to blind faith, until Arihel looked down a few steps in and realized what was happening.

“Don’t look away.” Urianger rasped, still keeping his focus on the spell. 

Stunned by the lack of formality, Arihel remained transfixed on him as they continued to walk across the surface of the lake. It afforded Urianger the space to weave his spell protectively around them. The lake only just rippled with the brush of Urianger’s robes, the light splash of their feet tapping against it in the most shallow of invasions, steps wrapped in starlight, the surface of the lake stretching and warping to keep them aloft.

It is enough for them to make it to the roof of a submerged house that stood above the surface of the lake, the two of them sitting on it with all the fanfare of resting on a log at the side of the road.

“I like your light more.” Arihel said softly.

A canopy of deep, shifting umber whorled sluggishly over them, dense enough to devour the ever-burning Light, softening it into something like moonbeams and accented with the glittering of the stars themselves. It remained even after they had no need for the water walking spell, Urianger’s focus pulled to Arihel so naturally as to forget to release it.

A blessing, so it seemed. The effort made it harder for him to be anything but his truest, most honest self.

“My light?” he asked softly, almost fearing the answer.

Arihel nodded, reaching out after a moment of debate with himself to tuck a stray hair behind Urianger’s pointed ear. “This—it’s like starlight. Like you know just enough to show me who you are without blinding me.”

His hand lingered on the apple of Urianger’s cheek as he whispered, “So I can see you.”

“I will admit, I maintained it to keep thee shielded from the Light.” Urianger confessed, almost timid but grateful for his little piece of the night sky, grateful that he could stand in a softer light. “But the night sky has always held a greater comfort to me than that of the day. Little wonder that I took to Astrology so readily, when in need of healing magic.”

“I like seeing you like that, when you’re enjoying the stars.” Arihel said as though agreeing with him. “S’part of why I wanted to bring back the night sky so badly. Because you love it so much.”

It was a rare thing for Urianger to be well and truly stunned to silence. When fumbling for something to say, many a poetic turn of phrase from the books he so dearly cherished was enough to fill the silence until someone else deigned to fill the void. Moenbryda often made a game of trying to fluster him into being nonverbal. 

Little could have robbed him of words more thoroughly than the focus of his affection, the center of his gravity, telling him with all the weight of discussing a favorite book that Arihel brought the night sky back for no other reason than because Urianger loved it.

“I heard you describe it to Y’Shtola, and it felt. I dunno. I could tell how much you missed it. So I wanted you to have it back, even if it’s different from home.”

“Betimes, I would struggle to remember what the night sky looked like—or the day’s sky, for that matter. Everything was bathed in shimmering gold and opalescence from the moment of mine arrival.” Urianger admitted. “In a way, I believe I studied Astrology due in no small part to mine own homesickness. It all felt less out of my grasp, when I wrapped the stars ‘round my fingers.”

“I’d think about what you were doing here all the time, before I came.” Arihel nodded. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until that first time I absorbed the Light—oh!” 

He startled at that, as though something had only just occurred to him. “You weren’t there for that yet—that was in Lakeland, before we went to Il Mheg.���

A peculiar but darling flush spread across Arihel’s face, a deep red that almost turned scarlet nearly matching the red on his scales and in his pupils. As if caught, he admitted, “I lose track of when you were here, I think about you often enough that I sometimes picture you in places I know you weren’t at. Like you were in the corner of my eye in all of them.”

For several long moments, Urianger did not move. Even his breathing was shallow in that moment, as if scared to disturb the steadily shrinking space between them.

“Thou thinkest of me that often?” he asked in a rasp, the air leaving his lungs on the question. “Truly?”

“I feel safer with you around. Even in my own head.” Arihel answered immediately. “‘Specially in my own head.”

And through it all, Arihel did not look away from Urianger once. Not even when his archaic speech patterns fell away from his focus, when he chose to choose to be just that little bit more vulnerable, just that little bit that was more than he had been with anyone since his days in Sharlayan. Like he didn’t have to draw on a hero he looked up to as a child just to have the bravery to speak. Like he was free.

He must have been quiet for just long enough to worry Arihel, who frowned up at the suspended cloud of illusory night sky.

“Is it hard to keep up, though? You shouldn’t tax yourself—”

“The concentration of this spell would be far more daunting, were it not for thee.” Urianger said before he could stop himself. “Astrology, and the practice thereof, requireth a foci—an anchor to which all the magic of its wielder centers its casting. It is the gravity of that magic user’s very star.”

Arihel gawked at him, lips parted as though to say something. A moment passed, and he closed his mouth with a heavy swallow. 

Despite this, his voice sounded dry when he asked, “Do you mean—?”

“Thou art the sun of mine own sky. The center of mine universe. The focus of my devotion, my study, and my cause.” Urianger confessed, words soft and touch softer, as he reached up to press Arihel’s hovering hand flush to his own face. “I wouldst wrap the stars around your center of gravity. Thou needs but ask it of me.”

“I…I want…” Arihel breathed. “...I want so many things, in this moment.”

“Tell me,” his astrologian begged.

“I want…I want to be better. I want it to be night, so you don’t have to do that. I want to be your focus.” Arihel began with tentative words, but the longer he looked at Urianger, silently urging him on, the more the words tumbled out of him with reckless abandon, “I want to know you better. I want you to know the happier parts of me—the better parts of me than what I ask to heal. I want—”

At that, his flush returned tenfold. Were it physiologically possible, Arihel might be glowing, Urianger thought. He might be glowing regardless—he was beginning to resemble an aetherically charged rolanberry.

“You want…?”

“I want to kiss you very badly.” Arihel admitted in the quietest voice Urianger had ever heard. “I have for a while now.”

If he did not fear Arihel taking it the wrong way, Urianger might have laughed at how utterly darling that he was being in that moment, how utterly dear he was to him always. He wanted to laugh in joy, to weep in sorrow at what had been done to his beloved. To howl in indignation at the situation that had put them here to begin with, that this was what it had taken for them to bear their hearts to one another.

In lieu of all that, Urianger prayed, “Please—”

Was there a pull from the hand on his face, or did he fall into Arihel with no prompting at all? Had they both come together in the middle, stars colliding in the scant space between them? The hum that reverberated from Arihel in to Urianger at the first tender caress of their lips certainly made that seem likely. 

“I want all of that and more with thee.” Urianger murmured as he rubbed their noses together. 

Foreheads pressed together to catch their breaths, Arihel’s eyes slipped shut as a pleased, rumbling click rose in his throat. The subtle tip of his head into Urianger’s palms when they cupped his face told him that he still had his Warrior’s attention. 

Knowing this, he persisted, “I want us to win the day in that way that those heroes in tales so oft do. I want to win back all our tomorrows. I want to know thee in the shade of the moon, in the light of the sun. In light and darkness, I wouldst know every piece of thee, and bear mine all to thee in turn.”

Clinging to boldness, he kissed Arihel again and whispered against his mouth, “I love thee. I want thee to live.” 

At that, Arihel opened his eyes and looked at Urianger—really looked. His hand had remained on his face, thumb softly stroking the apple of his cheek. He grew just still enough to worry Urianger but moved to kiss him more deeply before he could open his mouth to voice it. 

“Let’s be alive here for a little longer.” he all but begged when he took his lips back momentarily before diving back to plunger Urianger’s mouth for his every coherent thought. “Just a little longer. Let me love you here for a few seconds more. Then, I give you back the night sky wrapped up in a pretty sash, we save G’raha Tia, and get to the business of living. Sound good?”

They would make their way back to Lakeland in a few more minutes—by way of teleport, at the insistence of Urianger to conserve Arihel’s strength. They would return to their fellow Scions, solidify a plan to save the day, and then…and then…

And then…tomorrow would come. A tomorrow that would let them all live to see it, to know themselves and one another.

But that was tomorrow. In this moment, on this sunken in roof on a fully sunken house, peeking just over a lake on a star far away from home, Urianger held a piece of the night sky overhead just for them, just for Arihel to kiss him under.  A taste of the life they would fight for in the next few hours, sampled now, to remind them of just what they were fighting for.

[lowkeyrobin]

TREVOR SPENGLER ; you make loving fun

summary ; you, Trevor's first proper non-toxic partner shows him true love, and how great it really is when you find your person

warnings ; language, mentions of making out, talk about toxic people/exes, verbal abuse, and emotional neglect

disclaimers ; Trevor is described as bisexual, reader is a garbage fan (green flag)

word count ; 1k

I'm working on reqs rn dw guys 🙏

masterlist

Trevor knew that the second he'd met you, he'd fallen head over heels.

The only thing he was worried about, after being reassured by both his mom and Pheobe, was how you'd treat him. His last ex was terrible to him, and by that point, he felt like he was an abuse magnet.

Thankfully, nothing was ever physical, he thanked whoever or whatever was looking over him for that, even fate itself.

Talking about past exes, his last ex-boyfriend first, he'd essentially treat him like shit and try to hide their relationship. He'd use him for pleasure and attention and then ignore him and act like he didn't know him. Trevor was always there for him, but he was never once available for Trevor. That shit ended quickly thanks to his mom convincing him to end things, plus moving away again made it easy.

His ex-girlfriend was slightly the same way.

For context, Trevor was never popular, but he wasn't ignored or bullied in school either. He was attractive enough to be boasted about, I guess, but he wasn't gathering hoards of girls to swoon over him either.

She used him as popularity points, as she was one of the half-popular girls who wanted brownie points for dating someone on a lower social level than herself. Trevor never saw it and had to deal with the consequences. The fighting, the way she'd scream and yell and argue with him over the simplest things. She treated him like a charity case.

So, he was fairly afraid to hurt himself again. He wanted to pursue you, he did. He was just fucking scared.

But, with enough pressure and reassurance from Pheobe, his mom, and new friend Lucky, he gathered the courage to ask you out. During that process, he rambled about how smitten he was for you and had to genuinely stop himself as he realized he'd never felt like this for anyone before. You weren't someone he just wanted to occasionally hold hands with and kiss. He wanted a genuine, healthy relationship with you. He wanted to be treated right, just this once.

But you, knowing about his past relationships, knew what he needed. And you were dedicated to showing him what actual loved looked like, what a real relationship felt like.

From dates at the roller-rink, to movie nights inside, you showed him that you could love him like how he needed to be loved. He needed to be shown that what he went through before wasn't normal and that you would never think to hurt him like people in his past did.

You made loving fun for him, he'd never smiled and had so much fun with someone, ever.

He loved making out with you in his new bedroom at the firehouse, and your soft kisses of reassurance when he was upset or stressed. He'd always find his stomach and lungs genuinely in pain from how much he laughed with you. He was infatuated with you, with holding your hand and caressing said hand with his thumb, with wrapping his arms around you to just hold you like that in silence.

His photos app is filled with pictures of you, over 500 through the past year. His lockscreen? A picture of you two at the county fair under dark blue neon lights.

He watches you sitting in the window, your body barely fitting onto the ledge. Thank God for bay windows, but christ, the people who made this building over 120 years ago needed some better architectural design here. What was the bay window for if not to sit in it?

He'd only woken up a bit ago, having been in the shower as you entered his room, awaiting his arrival. His family thankfully loved you, and would let you in no matter what.

"You look nice today," He comments, running a hand through his hair.

You turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. "Do I not usually look nice?"

"No, no, I mean, yeah! You always look nice!" He quickly sputters, "I-I like your shirt. Garbage, they're cool"

You lightly smile, reassured in his loyalty and kind-heartedness by his answer. "You're fine, Trev, I'm playing" You chuckle, "You've never even listened to Garbage"

You pull the sleeves of your undershirt down, feeling a cool wave hit your body like the wave of water at the beach. Your baggy jeans cover you perfectly as the sun peaks out from the clouds.

"You don't know that!" He exclaims, crossing his arms, "All your Spotify playlists are public, I can listen to whatever you are with a couple clicks"

"Okay, bud" You throw your hands up in a sarcastic annoyance. "Whatever you say, pal. I guess we gotta break u-" You quickly stop yourself, looking up at Trevor with slightly widened eyes. "Holy shit, I'm so sorry"

You quickly hop off the ledge of the window, your hands clenched into fists as you stand in front of him awkwardly, awaiting his reaction.

"I'm so sorry, that was uncalled for, I didn't mean to say that-"

"It's fine, Y/n/n" Trevor looks at you with a confused yet laid back expression. "Why are you apologizing?" He catches himself, finding the answer on his own, "Oh, well... it's not that big of a deal, it's okay" He shrugs, "It's fine"

"Sorry, uhm-"

Trevor quickly wraps you in a hug, resting his arms over your shoulders. "I love you, okay? I've never loved anyone so fun and amazing to me, joking about shit is fine"

You nod into his shoulder, "Sorry"

"It's okay" He chuckles, rubbing a hand over your back. "You're fine, it's alright"

"You're the fun one, by the way" You mumble.

"Hm?"

"You're the one who makes loving fun, Trev"

He silently smiles, his face flushing as he holds you a little tighter.

[aceouttatime]

Commission for the lovely @kage-bot of Verros, a very handsome turian (with some gorgeous renders I was able to use for reference)! As someone always happy to sketch out some pretty spacebirds, I Super Enjoyed working on him. Thank you tons for the support--you were a pleasure to work with! <3

Commission type: Waist, Colored Sketch; $55 USD Interested in a comm? Check my availability, style, and pricing HERE!

[freyzrc]

Thank you so much Artie for commissioning! Always a pleasure do draw Gojo! 😊♥ - I'm sorry that comms are a bit slow atm, I've been ill the past weeks and have yet to make a full recovery but I'm slowly working on everyone's comms!

[tswaney17]

“𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮, 𝓐𝔃𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓵, 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓸𝔀.”

@elriel-month | Hold Tight & Don’t Make a Sound🤭

So excited to share this commission with you! I’ve headcanoned Elain calling Azriel her shadow as a term of endearment for years now and love the idea of her putting on a pretty, little outfit to welcome him home after a mission. Of course, we had to make this a little cheeky too. 🍑😏

@ruisfree was such a pleasure to work with and her talent is beyond anything my mind could’ve imagined for this piece. Thank you, lovely, for bringing this idea to life! 💕

🎨 @ruisfree | Comm by me.

Characters belong to @therealsarahjmaas

𝗗𝗼 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. 🫶

[strlingsav]

I’m simply in love with your portrayal of Simon/Ghost. This fandom has so many incredibly talented writers, I am glad I stumbled upon your work! Your interpretation of his character is among my favourites 🥰 if it interests you, I would like to request a comfort fic w a femme reader who is perhaps not active on the field herself, but more on the intelligence/IT side of the operations (you can totally change this if you want, it’s up for your interpretation!) who is capable but suffers from insecurity and imposters sydrome (yep I am totally projecting🤫🤐) and during a mental breakdown bc of the stress from work, Ghost of all people, who she previously has only seen during a few briefings and never has approached bc of his intimidating reputation, finds her. Cue to the stoic scary big man who has previously only stared her down turning out to be actually very supportive and appreciative of her work because he always has noticed her. It’s up to you if want to keep it sfw or not! But a dash of softdom/service top sprinkled w some praise kink wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world🥴 I would love to see your take on this if this idea interests you, and it’s totally fine if it doesn’t 🥰 it’s always a pleasure to read your work regardless! Have a good one! ✌🏻💕

Thank you very much!! I appreciate that very much 🥹🫶🏻 I can definitely do this!

Support

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Ghost stumbles upon you, after-hours, during a breakdown.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

It was approaching two in the morning. You were running solely on caffeine and nicotine- neither of which were helping your dry eyes or headache. The light of your monitors was the only source in the room, completely enshrouded by darkness as you stared blankly at the screens. You'd hoped it would help you focus, think more clearly, but so far it had only isolated you further, brought nothing but pressure and stress.

It wasn't supposed to be difficult, it was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be easy for you. You'd studied computer technology and engineering for years- built and coded programs for organizations all over the world. You'd worked within the military for nearly a decade, providing the most proficient and reliable support among your similarly-rated peers. You were quite literally an expert, but you didn't feel like it. Not with the unfinished assignment sitting before you.

Laswell, Price, the entirety of 141- they relied on you. They relied heavily on your abilities to guide them through their fieldwork, to do the digging they couldn't reach while on location. Though, as you leaned back in your chair, your lip red and raw with irritation, your back aching, you didn't feel reliable. You felt the familiar sting of failure, of total disappointment.

It bubbled up in your throat, escaping in a series of curses, shoving yourself away from the desk before you wound up damaging thousands of dollars of equipment. You paced, stared, and paced. Your mind swimming with questions, re-thinking every sequence, every key, every exhaustive search you could possibly pull- and still hadn't decrypted the data.

Your hand slammed down on the desk, scattering the pens and piles of paperwork you'd accumulated over the many hours you'd spent stewing in front of the code screen. The cursor blinked at you- waiting, taunting you, filling you with dread.

"Y'alright in here?"

A gruff voice pulled you from your anxious stupor, and you yanked your hand from the desk, gasping sharply. You looked up, finding Ghost at the doorway.

In the dark, you could hardly make out his silhouette, but the outline of his mask was a stark contrast against the pitch-black room.

"Didn't mean t'scare you," He said, taking a few steps forward. "Heard somethin' in here."

You let out a sigh, your heartbeat relaxing back into its regular rhythm.

You'd heard his voice before, usually over the comms, and seen him during briefings, but you'd never spoken in person. You knew he had a reputation for being tough and commanding; it put you on edge watching his looming figure in the darkness. He was undeniably intimidating, especially as he stalked toward you.

You stepped back, letting him around the desk to see your monitors.

"You're up late," He said, examining the screen.

"Trying to decode this shit," You huffed, forgetting about his domineering presence once you refocused on your failure. "It's taking me longer than it should."

"Looks complicated," He replied, his eyes meeting yours briefly.

"It is. It shouldn't be, but it is," You sighed again, sitting down as he looked over your shoulder.

"How long you been at this?"

You ignored his question, leaning in to further examine the code screen.

"It's late. You should sleep, get back to it in the mornin'."

You furrowed your brows, looking over your shoulder to find him closer than expected.

"I don't need sleep," You shook your head. "I need to figure this out. I'm close."

An epiphany sparked in your head- a brute force attack you hadn't yet tried. You quickly typed in the keys, waiting with baited breath as the screen paused.

A flickering script reading 'denied' came across your screen, typed out in front of you for confirmation. Validation that you'd failed, again.

"Fuck!" You shouted, cradling your head in your hands. "I-I can't figure this shit out, I can't do it." Your voice broke, hoarse with strain.

You looked up at him, your eyes now watery with frustration and anger.

"'Ey," He said, leaning forward. "Relax. I dunno much about this shite, but seems you're doin' alright."

You tilted your head. "Laswell needs these documents for Shepherd tomorrow, and I've got nothing to show for it. It'll be my ass getting dismissed. It's not alright."

"Shepherd can wait," He said. "You've saved our arses more than a few times."

"It's not enough."

"It's more than enough. Relax, you're givin' me a bloody headache."

"I can't relax," You looked up at him with blood-shot eyes.

"If anyone can do it, 't's you. Seen you handle worse than this." He gestured to the screen, a flippant motion.

You sucked in a deep breath, nodding slowly. You were more than shocked to hear the comforting words from Ghost. A man revered for his deadly hands, ferocity. The irony made you giggle, short and quiet, though he heard it.

"What's funny?" He asked, moving to lean against the desk.

"Just didn't expect you to be so supportive. Appreciative."

"I see what you do," His gaze was unwavering as he stared you down. "Couldn't do it m'self. Owe you my life, if not more."

"Not quite," You quirked up a brow.

"Yeah- quite. Raid in Las Almas, no other escape routes, Price called you in and we were on the way out in minutes."

You bit your cheek, nodding slowly, your eyes shutting as you digested his words. He was right- you'd done your fair share of evac and location support, never losing a soldier. Regardless of how horribly the assignment was going, you couldn't deny only you had the capacity to complete it.

"Thanks," You nodded, looking up at him. "I'm just in my head, stressed out."

He cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter.

You leaned back, grabbing a cigarette from the nearly-empty pack on the desk, and lighting it up.

"You want one?" You asked, offering him the package.

He took one, offering a quiet, "Cheers."

He lifted the cover of his mask up above his nose- it took every ounce of strength not to immediately watch his lips as he stuck the cigarette between them. Even then, your eyes glanced at the newly-discovered flesh, diverting your gaze when he locked eyes with you.

You inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine coat your lungs, before exhaling into the monitors before you.

"Should get some sleep," He said, standing up.

"Yeah," You nodded, shifting to lean forward. "Yeah, I will. Just a bit longer."

He sighed, bringing his gloved hand down on the keyboard.

"I'll break it in half if I need to," He said, his voice low and threatening.

You swallowed, raising your brows at the unexpected reaction.

"Alright," You huffed.

You stood to your feet, putting your cigarette out on the ashtray beside your mouse. He did the same, arms folding over his chest as he waited for you to leave your station.

His adamant opposition to letting you continue was admirable. Attractive, even. You hadn't anticipated feeling grateful, or happy to have had him find you.

You'd kept your distance from him, though you'd always find your eyes gravitating toward his. He'd already be staring, watching you from across the briefing room. At first, you'd been terrified, wondering if you'd done something to piss him off, but nothing ever came of it. Instead, he'd lift his head to find you, check over his shoulder to look at you.

He found you intriguing, attractive. A brilliant woman; smart, educated, someone he was glad to have on his team. He'd seen the countless hours you put in, the calm tone of your voice every time there was a stress signal from one of the men. You held it together for them- the least he could do was the same for you.

He liked the way your eyes studied the screen, the way you'd chew your lip raw. Though it wasn't in your best interest, he found it alluring. His mind wandered when he'd see you, nothing appropriate at all- only to satisfy the heat that curled itself inside his intestines when he laid his eyes on you.

He remembered seeing you for the first time, wondering who you were: laptop on the desk, pen in hand, bright-eyed and eager to please. Immediately, he'd fabricated images of you in his mind- images that he'd play through during the lonely hours of the night.

"Why are you up?" You asked suddenly.

"Couldn't sleep. Don't sleep much."

You shook your head, "And yet, you're lecturing me." A small smile lifted your lips.

"For your own good," He answered.

"That's interesting," You mumbled.

"Why's that?"

You breathed in, "You've only ever stared me down, don't think we've had a conversation before."

"Y'can say a lot without talkin'," He retorted.

"I wasn't sure whether you wanted to fuck me or kill me," You grinned.

"What's the consensus?"

"Still not sure," You held back a grin.

"Would've killed you by now."

You laughed, "That's not very comforting."

"Should be. Only leaves the former."

He moved closer, standing up straight as he unhooked his legs.

You were pleasantly surprised, though your nerves had been roused from their short slumber. Heat washed over your cheeks, climbing up your spine before returning to the crest of your thighs.

"Think y'could use some stress relief," He said. "Y'seem pent-up."

You pulled your lip between your teeth, your eyes shifting between his. It was tempting, more than your mortal being could possibly resist.

"Maybe," You uttered, your hands twitching with anxiety as he neared you.

He cocked his head, "Maybe ain't an answer."

"Yes," You blurted. "I could. But not if you're taking pity on me."

He chuckled, a sound you'd never heard before from him, though it was somewhat deformed. Amusement and disbelief rather than enjoyment.

"Sweetheart," He cooed, his chest nearly pressed against yours. "It ain't pity. Y'should know better."

"We'll, you're not exactly approachable," You said, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Haven't had the pleasure of speaking with you before."

He nodded, "S'alright," He said. "Had enough o' watchin' from afar, though."

You breathed out, long and cathartic as it passed your lips. Releasing every worry and anxiety, relieved to be able to focus solely on him- on Ghost.

His hand reached your waist, softly pulling you into him, finally connecting your bodies. You let out a quiet grunt, your hands raised at your sides as you took in the feeling of his body against yours.

"Y'can touch me," He grinned. "I won't bite 'less you ask."

As if you weren't already aroused, soaking your panties, he only made it worse. The heat of his hands on your waist had drawn out any thoughts in your head, his voice so close- so clear in front of you was mesmerizing.

You apprehensively moved your hands to rest on his shoulders, your palms gliding against the taught muscles, another extended sigh as you tried to ignore the burning in your gut. He liked the contact, your small hands searing a brand into his skin.

He stared at you for a few moments, his eyes raking over your face, the face he'd seen in his dreams more than anywhere else. He must've made a pact with the devil, something sacrificed to have you in his hands- finally.

He leaned in, soft lips touching yours. It was fleeting, the softness, before he backed you against the desk with no regard for the equipment on it. Still, his lips held your attention, his tongue gliding between your lips to clash against yours. It was open-mouthed, messy, especially as he lifted you to the desk and bullied himself between your thighs.

You moaned faintly when his hand slid down your side, taking a handful of your ass and squeezing harshly. His other hand worked your shirt off your torso, parting only for a moment when the fabric passed your neck. His hands on your bare skin created a feeling of tightness in your gut- especially as he squeezed and grabbed at you, truly appreciating the curves of your body against him.

To your chagrin, he was still fully clothed, in his fatigues, like he lived in them. Even at two A.M., the man never quit. You weren't complaining; you rather liked the sight of his fitted uniform, especially as it squeezed his forearms and thighs, showing the bulk of muscle and veins beneath tattooed skin.

You were antsy, however, to feel him. All of him, against you.

"Take it off," You whispered against his lips, tugging at his jacket with clenched fists.

"Bossy woman you are," He teased, pulling away as he unbuttoned the shirt.

"I know what I want," You shot back, your eyes now narrowed in on him.

He hummed, satisfied with your answer. "That so?"

You nodded, smug and prideful, a sense of power- you had complete control. Your hands supported your weight behind you, leaning back, watching the show as he stripped from the shirt. It fell off his torso, revealing the toned muscles beneath, and he yanked the other sleeve off with impatience.

Your jaw was slack, looking over him as he neared again. This time, his hand slid up your throat, gripping the delicate area with a firm hold. He forced your eyes to meet his, a noticeable grin on his lips.

"You listen to me, sweetheart," He said, in your face. "And I'll take care o'you. Spread your legs."

You shivered, an audible gasp leaving your lips. The things you'd have done to hear filthy words leave his mouth- the voice that rung in your ears at night, made your pussy flutter. Now, he'd offered his services to you, rather enthusiastically, too, admitting he'd wanted it for a long time. If nothing else made you feel better about your shit progress, he surely could.

He kept eye contact while his hand worked open your pants, pulling them and your panties down your legs with speed and precision. He wasted no time pressing your thighs to your chest, tucking you into an uncomfortable position before kneeling in front of you.

"No thinkin'," He warned. "'Less it's about cummin' on my face."

Your head fell back, groaning softly, lifting back up again only when he pressed his lips to your pussy. Then, you watched with anticipation building in your gut, trembling in your limbs and a heavy ache settling in your womb.

He slid a warm tongue between your folds, a gentle touch you hadn't expected from the brute of a man. He watched you the entire time, took in the sight of your lips parting, sucking in a long breath, shutting your eyes as you basked in the pleasure. He couldn't help but form a grin, his lips engulfing your pussy in an open-mouthed kiss.

His attention moved to your clit, faint licks crossing the sensitive area that coaxed quick jolts from your body. He settled into a rhythm, and your body adjusted accordingly, leaning into the new and overwhelming feeling.

"Yeah, right there," You said, a hushed tone, like you were speaking to yourself.

He grunted in response, another warning.

"Sorry," You said again. "Feels so good." It was a quiet whine.

You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, grab at something, anything that would connect you to him, so you settled for his forearms. Your palm gripped the flesh of his arm, squeezing, just as he did to your thighs.

His tongue expertly traced your clit, circles and delicate licks that made your back arch, opening yourself up for him to taste.

"That's it," He uttered, muffled by your pussy. Even speaking against you made you clench, stare down at him with lust on your face. "There's a good girl."

You exhaled, nodding in agreement, submission to his mouth as he returned to his rhythm, falling in tandem with the heavy breathing leaving your chest. His eyes hadn't left you, watching and studying your expression for every hint of pleasure. He was intent on learning exactly what you like, though it was difficult to discern through the flurry of expressions on your face.

Your brows drawn together, jaw open as you choked down a gasp, breathing heavily into the dark room. He could make out your face, but your silhouette was blackened against the light of the monitors. He could see the swell of your breasts, your thighs, the curve of your waist against the backlight. He could even see your eyes, when you'd drop your head to watch him devour you.

You began to shake, tensing against his mouth when he continued at a consistent pace. He was thorough in every aspect of life- this was no exception. He didn't let up, even when your pussy drooled with cum, instead, he licked it up with his tongue, moaning softly against you at your taste.

He stood to his feet, unbuckling his belt as he stared at you. Your chest heaved, toes curled, leaning back as you watched him. The light danced on his abdomen, highlighting every hill and dip on his torso, the scars that scattered the skin. It was a sight that had your brain resetting, recovering as though you hadn't been covered in a layer of sweat and left breathless from your orgasm.

His cock stood erect when he yanked his trousers down, and he didn't stall any longer. He stalked forward, leaning into you, his hand on the desk behind you as he pushed his cock through the tight barrier of your hymen. He was absorbed, swallowed by soft inner-muscles and velvety walls, slick with your cum and arousal.

He pressed his lips to yours again, not allowing for much deliberation or accommodation- he was far too aroused to wait. You planted your heels against the desk as he thrusted his entire length into you, quickly meeting your cervix with a gentle graze. It made you suck in a sharp breath, and move away from his lips.

You saw his eyes, the look of possession and pure lust in them. You merely stared at each other, a nauseating intimacy while he thrusted inside you, further disturbing your lower stomach with a tightness.

"Oh God," You choked, your hands reaching around his shoulders, clinging to him. "Don't stop- don't fucking stop."

His hand reached around you, holding you against him, the other gripping your thigh with a bruising constraint.

"Fuckin' Christ, you're tight, sweetheart," He breathed in your ear. "You all wet for me?"

You nodded, breathing an enthusiastic yes into his ear, clenching at his back with your fingers. Your nails dug into the slick flesh, feeling his muscles move as his hips tilted back and forth into you.

All you could smell, hear was him. The scent of his heavy body soap, like pine, mixed with the cigarette you'd offered him earlier. His breathing in your ear, heavy pants as he relished in the tightness of you- the slippery walls encroaching on his cock.

"Such a good fuckin' girl," He mumbled against your neck, his lips dragging against your skin. "Say you're a good girl," His voice rumbled through his chest. "Fuck me- all for me."

It was haze-inducing, incoherent mumbles, quiet gasps and sobs as you clung to him. It worsened when his fingers played your clit, sliding between your bodies to rub over the sensitive spot.

"I'm a good girl," You gasped. "I'm your good girl."

"'At's right, sweetheart- takin' me nice and deep."

It didn't take long to clench around his cock, another wave of nauseating pleasure that rendered you absolutely useless as he drove into you.

"Fuckin' hell," He stuttered.

You'd constricted his cock, pulsating around him with every contraction, nearly sobbing into his shoulder when he continued with his thrusts.

He finally pulled out, tugging on his cock as he released his cum over your stomach. He exhaled sharply, before gathering his composure.

You grimaced as you stood to your feet, trying to clean yourself off as best you could.

You watched him shrug his jacket back on.

"Get some rest," He nodded once, gesturing to the doorway. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

"Is 'check on me' an innuendo? Should I wear my good underwear?" You grinned, pulling your pants back over your backside.

"I'd shag you if y'had on a bin bag, sweetheart."

"You're sweeter than you let on," You teased, laughing.

"Not for most," He cocked his head. "Guess you're lucky."

"Well, thank you," You smiled.

It was genuine. A distraction, however unexpected and unusual, that did make you almost forget about the assignment.

"I'll be around," He paused. "If you're feelin' like takin' your frustrations out."

"Goodnight, Lieutenant."

He walked off with a short nod. You paused for a moment; the temptation to curl yourself up at your desk and continue your assignment was gnawing at you. You clenched your jaw, took a deep breath in when you recalled Ghost's words, and finally decided to turn off the monitors.

[worldofheroes]

Unexpected

pete “maverick” mitchell x fem!reader

summary: you take a shower in Maverick’s office bathroom and something unexpected (but welcomed) happens.

warnings: 18+, language, unprotected sex

wc: 968

a/n: based on this request! oh my this is… something else 😅🥵😍

“Okay, y/c/s, that’s enough. It’s late. Head back to the tarmac,” Maverick says over comms.

“One more run?” you ask.

“No, Lieutenant. Land your plane, that’s an order.”

“Yes sir,” you mutter, turning your plane around.

After you land, you go through your post-flight checklist.

“Y/c/s,” Maverick calls out.

You stop and slightly turn your head.

“You’re doing great, you know that, right?” Maverick asks.

“I can do better.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, y/n,” Maverick whispers.

“No promises,” you mutter.

Silence falls between the two of you.

“Listen, I just want to shower and head home,” you say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“The showers are on the other side of base,” Maverick states.

“Yeah, I know?” You furrow your brow.

“My office is right over here. Has its own bathroom. I’d rather you use that one than head across base at this hour.”

“Mav, it’s a military base, I’ll be fine.”

“Please,” Maverick says.

You pause, weighing your options. If you just go with him to his office, you’ll get home faster.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Lead the way.”

Maverick nods and heads towards his office. You follow a few yards behind him.

“The bathroom’s through there,” Maverick says awkwardly, motioning towards the door.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

You push the door closed, but it doesn’t close all the way, which you don’t notice.

You start to get ready for your shower, taking your hair down, brushing it, turning the shower on, and you start to undress.

After you pull your shirt off, you look in the mirror and make eye contact with Maverick, who’s watching you.

He looks away. You open the door a couple inches more.

His eyes meet yours again in the mirror. You pull your sports bra off, leaving you now topless in front of your instructor.

Maverick steps inside the bathroom, closing the door completely behind him. He moves closer to you.

Your breath hitches in your chest. Maverick pushes your hair back out of your face.

You start to pull his shirt off, and he helps you, tossing it on the floor.

His hands slide down the sides of your body, and start to undo your pants. Your hands also make their way down his body, doing the same.

The two of you pause there, studying each other.

You step out of your underwear, and Maverick follows your lead.

A whimper escapes you. Maverick closes the space between you, and his lips land on yours. A hand caresses your face.

“Maverick,” you whisper.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you, kissing you again.

“I need to shower,” you tell him softly.

He nods, moving his hand away from you.

You step in the shower, and shortly after, Maverick joins you.

Without realizing, you move closer to Maverick and wrap your arms around him, letting the water fall on the two of you.

You think you hear Maverick moan.

He kisses you again, pressing himself against you, and you can feel his hardening cock.

“Mav,” you whisper.

“You can’t blame me,” he says with a small smirk.

You smile slightly at the light-hearted comment. Your hand slides down his torso, and you wrap your fingers around his cock.

There’s no guessing that a moan comes from Maverick this time.

“Shit,” he mumbles.

“Do you want..?” You trail off of your sentence.

Maverick nods. “Can I?”

You nod.

Maverick gently pushes you against the tile of the shower. You gasp at the sudden coldness against your bare back.

He grabs one of your legs and lifts it up, holding on. Maverick presses the head of his cock against your center.

“Oh,” you moan. “Please,” you beg.

Maverick pushes into you.

You both moan in pleasure as he works you open.

“Fuck, Pete,” you say, throwing your head back.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he says, kissing your neck.

“You like it when I call you Pete?” you ask in a slightly teasing tone.

“Fuck yes,” he groans, burying his face into your neck.

“Then fuck me harder, Pete,” you say.

“Shit, yes ma’am,” Maverick practically growls as he thrusts harder into you.

You try to keep your moans quiet, but Maverick’s cock is hitting you just right.

“That’s it,” he encourages you.

“Oh, Mav,” you cry. “I’m gonna.. I’m gonna come.”

“Shit,” he mutters. “Where can I?”

“Fuck,” you moan. “I want your cum filling me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Pete, I want you to fill me.”

“Shit,” he mutters again.

His pace quickens even further, and you feel yourself reaching that edge.

A few more thrusts and you come undone, moaning in pleasure as Maverick reaches his orgasm moments later, cursing and saying your name.

When you both come down from your highs, Maverick kisses you, hard. He releases your leg from his grasp and you push your body against his.

“What are we going to do now?” you whisper.

“Haven’t thought about it yet,” Maverick replies, sucking on your neck.

“Mav,” you lightly scold him. “I don’t want any marks.”

“Mm,” he hums against you, now kissing your collarbone.

“Mav, seriously,” you tell him, pushing him away.

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know, y/n,” he mutters, not making eye contact.

The two of you stand in the shower in silence, the only noise being the running water.

“I still need to shower,” you mumble, looking away from your instructor.

“I’ll leave you be and try to think of something,” he says.

You nod.

Maverick leans in and pauses for just a moment before he kisses you again, this time softer and more delicate.

“I don’t think we made a mistake,” Maverick says as he steps out of the shower.

“I don’t know, Mav.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

You close your eyes, letting the water run down your body as you try to think of what to do next.

[batwritings]

Hi Bat! Merry Christmas, if you celebrate! I feel like it’s been a while since I’ve seen you do group headcanons; can I get Keegan, Ghost, Gaz, Konig, Horangi, and Soap (if that’s too many, I completely understand! you can just pick a few.) on a mission alone with their lover, maybe infiltrating a facility of some sort, when their darling simply just pulls them aside declares they want to give them a quick handjob/blowjob, out of neediness. Maybe the reader’s just a little too into the thrill of them possibly getting caught, or maybe they just can’t wait until they get back. Thanks!!

-Hybrid

Okay but like...I'm fairly certain I would be said reader. >.> Not that I like thrills, I just have ZERO shame. /hj Also, Merry Christmas for those who celebrate, as well as a blessed Yule and a Happy Hanukkah and holidays! Enjoy!~

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keegan P. Russ Keegan normally took missions as a ghost VERY seriously. He knew communication was essential during these missions, especially when dealing with Rorke back on the loose. So when you pulled him into a nearby closet for a quick little thrill, he was quick to ask what the actual fuck you were doing. Unfortunately, Keegan is weak as hell for you, so the moment you get your hands on his member, his eyes roll back a bit. "Make it quick kid," he growls, switching the channel on his comms so the both of you aren't heard, even on accident. You're true to your word, making sure there's no evidence of your little stint. "Pull something like that again, and you'll regret it once we're home."

Simon "Ghost" Riley Simon Riley is a no nonsense man, even more so on missions. But even you could see how his anger was affecting him and the decisions he was making. As an intervention, you pulled him aside while the team was switching positions. "You need a quick destress," you tell him, getting on your knees and pulling his member out before he can protest. Any argument Simon tries to make is muted the moment you get his cock in your mouth. He's finished as quick as it started as you help him straighten his appearance. "Not a word of this later." He threatens, despite his soft brown eyes telling you that he was thankful.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick Gaz, albeit serious about his work, is much more impulsive than the rest of the task force. Which means he's a bit more amenable to following you when you pull him aside for a moment. He's genuinely confused until you get on your knees, which he gives you a smirk in response to. "Cheeky thing aren't you?" He groans when you get your hands and mouth on his cock. He's so tempted to ask you to leave the cum splattered on your lips and cheek but Gaz knows better. "Next time we should take care of that before we go yeah?"

Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin Horangi has become a lot more at ease with himself over the years, and in that knowledge comes learning when to give into urges. He's never been one to let his relations with you interfere with missions for KorTac, but even a man as strong as him had a weak spot. He'll contemplate if the quickie is worth it before inevitably following you off. "씨발," Horangi would curse, trying his best to cover his noises. He felt lowkey bad for slightly abandoning the mission in exchange for pleasure, but the smile on your face made it worth it. "There'll be more where that came from if you can be good and patient."

König The normally reserved König you knew in closed quarters was gone on missions. As a colonel, he had a bit of a reputation to uphold. And yet...here he was, getting pulled to the side by you for a quick blowjob. "Scheiße, quickly now schatz," he'd groan, head knocking against the metal wall behind him. You hit all the right spots, all the points that normally made him sob in pleasure, whining quietly as he comes across your face. "Good pet...now, let's rejoin the others. We'll talk about this later in my quarters."

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish Probably the riskieset of this group of people. Soap is the type of person who would do it while doing recon and still respond to comms calls. He wants to see how far the two of you could go without getting caught. "He's moving LT," The Scotsman would report to Ghost, immediately groaning when you lick over the head of his cock. Moments after he comes, he'd be on the move, helping you up as he messily puts himself away. "More later yeah?"

[mooonjin]

Imagination - Pt. 2

Notes: heres part twooooo, i see a lot of you in my inbox AND the comments ectioln in part one that really like shy clones so hehe here it is THANKS COR PREVIOUS SUPPORT THO OMGGGG <3333

Pairing: Tech x gn!reader

Summary: What happens when Tech has nothing to do, has your voice stuck in his head, and has free time to himself?

Warnings/Tags: 18+ work!! minors shoo flyyyyy -  kinda sub!Tech, m masturbation, minor dirty talk, fantasy thoughts ⁠—tell me if I've missed anything!

< Part One

"What's left on the list?" Echo peered over Hunter's shoulder, not needing much effort  considering he's slightly taller.

"Rations, but most of the stalls have upped their price because of the Empire," Hunter sighed, his thumb rubbing over the little datapad precariously as his eyes scanned over the list.

As you handed Omega the little toy Hunter purchased for her, your wrist comm went off. Your eyes squinted for a millisecond, wondering why it was Tech that had only activated your channel and not the Batchers.

Initially, you heard nothing, just some static coming through due to the silence, "Tech? Hello?" The others began wandering off to the first stall to bargain the price for food. You followed them at a safe distance, still keeping them in your peripheral.

"Hey, Tech? Is everything okay?" Techs hand slid over his cock, completely oblivious about your worried voice coming through his wrist comm while he was... taking care of something.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared into the dull, green button on your wrist. Nothing had come through for a good two minutes and you genuinely began to worry immensely for Tech. In a small fit of panic, you walked towards the rest of the guys, about to alert them before you heard a muffled whimper.

Was he hurt? Was he being held hostage? Was someone imprisoning him? All of your questions  were answered by the next noises you heard. A modulated, satisfied sigh followed by a needy moan which you assumed was Tech.

You immediately stopped in your tracks, only a few meters way from the Batchers. You quickly covered your wrist, doing your best to muffle the not-so-friendly noises. Unfortunately, you caught Hunters attention.

"Everything okay?" Hunters eyebrows furrowed, raising one slightly in confusion at your very awkward pose whilst covering your wrist. You mentally cursed yourself. Hiding this situation from him would be nearly impossible.

"All good! Uh, comm broke a bit so I'm trying to—y'know, fix it up! Yeah."

"Alright then." He did not look too convinced. As Echo waved off the marketeer, you sneakily fled into an empty alleyway. You'll catch up to them eventually, you just had some... business to take care of.

You gently uncovered your wrist comm, being met with the noises of what was definitely Tech moaning.

"Kriff..." Tech whimpered, his thumb swiping over his sensitive tip. His slick hand pumped his cock with the images of you, wearing his helmet, as he pounded you into his mattress. Oh, how your voice would sound, all modulated and muffled as his cock drilled into your warm cunt.

His hand sped up slightly, the other gently caressing his balls to give himself more stimuli. He lets out a hearty groan, the image of you pumping his cock spurs his mind. Wilder and more explicit scenarios fill his head.

You lean closer into your comm, trying to hear better.

"Not quite, not— ah... mmph, not yet..."

His whimpers drove you insane, your cunt clenching under your blacks. This was a public place so getting caught would either get you fined, judged by, commented at or even killed. Your ears were in heaven, the sound of Tech desperately getting himself off was music you've never heard before and you almost had front row seats to it.

"Need to slow down, ha, mhm..." His hand was slowly moving up the length of his cock, restraining himself from cumming to early. He was eager to draw this out considering the time he had before the rest of you came back. Tech was in a state of ecstasy, the pleasure shooting throughout his whole body, causing his abs to clench every once and a while.

After he felt his orgasm drop down a little, he continued his previous pace. A small pearl of precum sat on his tip. It looked enticing.

Tech was so sensitive. He hadn't gotten himself off in several rotations so edging was his worst enemy right now. A high-pitched whimper came through your wrist comm, the tone of the noise he usually used when he'd go on rambles.

You rubbed your thighs together. These civilian clothing's were constricting you, like you were boiling alive as you listened in.

"Ah! Gaah, mmm... ha, please," Tech didn't know what he was begging for. His breathing sped up, his gasps becoming more consistent as he felt his orgasm creep up on him again.

You had to bite your knuckles, trying to be silence yourself. Tech's moans fueled the fire burning in your core, your arousal building as well. You closed your eyes, now letting your imagination run wild.

Tech was playing with his sensitive tip, the overstimulation bringing him closer and closer to cumming. He groaned as his other hand slid up his chest to try out a new feeling he saw whilst watching a holofilm.

"Please touch my nipples, ah—mm! Kriff..." You almost opened your eyes, shocked to hear the filthy words come out of Tech's mouth.

The image of Tech twisting and pinching his nipple gave you butterflies. His light-brown, pink tipped nipples sitting on his chest that could be covered in multiple bite marks if you were there with him.

Techs hard cock was longing to cum. His hand pumping furiously under his tip, the spot which seemed to bring him to his climax. He was missing something, he continuously brought himself to the edge but he couldn't cum.

He bit his lip, frustrated and desperate.

That's when he finally traced back to your modulated voice coming through his wrist comm earlier.

"Mmm, gonna cum—!" His whimpers climbed in decibels, the comm picking up his climax, white spurts painting his lower abdomen and parts of his hand.

You clenched your fist your wrist comm sat on. You would do anything to see what you just heard. Techs short-breath gasps was all you heard before you opened your eyes. Your ears filled with the bustling noise of the town, realising you're sat in an alley.

You slowly stood up, your knees almost quivering as you peered behind the wall to see if you could spot the Batchers. By the time you began walking around to find them, Tech had cleaned himself up, changing into his blacks again and buckling back his cod pieces.

You heard the muddling noise of what was probably him picking up his abandoned wrist comm. You heard the click of the comm before a terrified gasp came through.

"Hello? Is this transmitting?" Your eyes widened. You had to play this off somehow.

"Tech, hey! What's up?" Your had to shove down any sort of stammer so your response wasn't suspicious.

"Oh, I was only curious if my comm device had broke, never mind then."

You panned your eyes, finally catching the Batchers at a food stall, "All good then, we'll be back soon." You immediately ended the transmission, saving yourself from further embarrassment.

You caught up with Hunter who had his arms crossed as he carefully observed Echo bargaining with the marketeer, Wrecker using his physique to intimidate him. Poor marketeer.

"And where have you been?" Hunters voice was low, his eyes staring you down.

"Got sidetracked, lucky I found you, huh?" You chuckled, covering up your ordeal in the alleyway a few meters back town. The littlest drops of sweat on your forehead caught Hunters eye, his expression hadn't changed, still not looking convinced.

That's until he gave you a shit-eating grin as if telling you, 'I know what you did'.

Curse the heightened sensed Sergeant.

-

Post-Notes: tyty for reading! hope you enjoyed a bunch!! im also aware that there r some ppl int his tag that didnt really register the @ so pls send me smth whether its my form or my ask telling me your exact user!!

~ ~ ~

@elsastoes @nekotaetae @lokigirlszendaya @imalovernotahater @backyard-bear @namesmox @littlecrowtime @urfriendlyneighbornightfury @thebomb-diggity @gt13tbbart @therealnekomari @dangraccoon @yourusername1

my taglist form!

[hana-no-seiiki]

COMME ON FAIT SON LIT, ON SE COUCHE.

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈. ✧ PAIRING: YAN! NEUVILETTE x SCUM! READER (ft. yan! other characters + mystery major pairing)

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈𝐈. ✧ TW/CW: Typical Yandere Themes: Stalking, Delulu, Yun’s vv broken French. Canon Divergence.

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈𝐈𝐈. ✧ SYNOPSIS: When given the power to flood the world with your admirer’s tears and skip work, who were you to reject it? | This happens prior to the Archon Quest

dedicated for le sims ( @o-tears-o-tides ) , aka the object of my platonic love and affection. happy birthday employee!!

Fucking with Neuvilette was your lifestyle. Figuratively that is. You wanted him to work harder if you were to provide him with the more literal definition of the term but regardless —

— making him suffer was your favorite hobby.

You held the prestigious role of documenter at the esteemed Palais Mermonia, where the dramatic tale of "Furina's Courtroom Crying Sessions" unfolded under the watchful eye of Neuvilette. In addition to chronicling these legal theatrics, your literary talents blossomed, weaving novels and insightful commentaries based on the trials you meticulously transcribed. This dual creative and professional endeavor earned you a devoted following throughout Teyvat and established influential connections with prominent figures across the nation.

Your relationship with Monsieur Neuvilette started off differently than what many would assume. Those privy to your early interactions could discern an undeniable enchantment on your part towards this man. Undoubtedly, he exuded an aura of elegance, elevated prestige, and an unwavering work ethic, all of which captivated admirers across the spectrum of society. His demeanor possessed an intoxicating allure for young ladies and gentlemen alike, leaving an indelible mark of respect and awe upon those fortunate enough to witness it.

“Monsieur Neuvilette.”

You greeted him with a slight bow, resisting the urge to smile at his presence. He reminded you a bit of someone from back home. A man that you’d do anything to receive a single praise from.

“Ah, Mx. [Y/N] to what do I owe you the pleasure?” He looked up from his documents. He too had to resist the urge to beam at your form. After all you were one of if not the only person he felt like he could never have enough time with.

“It’s just that I thought you’d be home by now. In any case I have this coffee a friend gave me but I can’t drink it . . .” You looked to the side, breaking off eye contact from your superior. He would have frowned at the action had it not been accompanied by a sweet gesture of yours. You always excused your good deeds with some nonsense about self-interest but he knew you well enough that he could see through it all.

“Thank you.”

Then, you realized that it rained whenever he felt sad.

And when there’re intense rains there would be no work.

And when there was no work, you could stay at home or go out and do whatever the hell you want.

Also he liked you and whatever but that was besides the point! You could slack off and fulfill your sadistic needs.

And so began your journey to find what made your senior co-worker tick. Most of the time it was when you gave other people your attention ( aside from Furina for some reason ). A single headpat towards either Freminet or Lynette caused some light rain. Rejecting his advances caused the skies to stay blanketed for hours. Whenever you were absent it poured cats and dogs.

And lastly, when you and Lyney were practically fucking with words it was as if the Raiden Shogun herself was here to cry alongside him.

The man practically saw you as more valuable than the water he drowns himself with.

It was all you ever wanted and more.

Despite your excessive amounts of free time, you still found yourself to be stressed and tired. Due to your high profile job and connections, it was a must to move from place to place frequently as to avoid paparazzi among other dangers to your health and privacy.

You were planning to check the Fortress of Meropide that day to . . . have a date with Lyney. Don’t look at me like that! You two are the ones with the weird taste in scenery.

“Oh! Your Grace. How do you fare?” You bowed politely. You could feel the glare from the magician beside you burning as bright as his vision.

The man was a menacing person from looks to begin with, but there were also other reasons you often felt something crawl up your spine whenever you two met.

He always stared at you like you had done something wrong. When he was the former criminal between you two! Really, what a crude man. His trial was one of the biggest hits of your career so at least you had that to owe to him.

You still remove the chills you felt when he simply admitted his guilt.

“Mx. [L/N]. I was told to deliver this to you.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that the Duke of Meropide also worked as part-time delivery men.”

“Trust me, this is works for my own self interest more than the sender.”

You gave him a pointed look. Well those words didn’t seem suspicious at all. You shrugged as you examined the object. A letter. Cold pressed paper — the expensive kind too, bound together by stamped blue wax and what seemed to be a miniature lakelight lily.

Inside — in the most elegant cursive you’ve ever seen — was . . . a poem. It read as follows;

Ma gouttelette du ciel,

Telle une étoile dans la nuit,

Ton amour est mon miel,

Dans ton regard, tout est infini.

Tes sourires, doux rayons du jour,

Illuminent mes jours comme un phare,

Dans ce monde, tu es mon seul séjour,

Ton amour est ma plus belle fanfare.

La tendresse de tes mains,

L'éclat de ton rire mélodieux,

Sont pour moi de précieux biens,

Qui éclairent ma vie, radieux.

Ma gouttelette du ciel,

Dans ton amour, je m'égare,

Ton essence est mon miel,

Chaque moment avec toi est un phare.

It only took one line for you to recognize Neuvilette’s work. His water tasting hobbies was somewhat common knowledge to the public, and Lyney was less of a poem man and more of a showy partner.

And so, after making sure his eyes were on you, you ripped it apart.

“That’s a bit too harsh is it not?” Lyney spoke with a nagging tone, yet his eyes were filled with the utmost delight.

“Monsieur Lyney. You know of its contents? Has your father ever told you not to pry into other people’s business?”

“Perhaps. But we’re friends aren’t we? Friend’s don’t hide anything from eachother.”

You sighed. You hated it when he knew where to hit. “. . .Then can you do me a favor and use your vision for its disposal?”

“My pleasure.”

Orange flames barely appear for a moment before it is doused by the sky’s tears. But even then it was enough to destroy the letter.

“Your Grace—“

The clock was ticking.

A few months after you’d heard his screams, you found out that the traveler would be arriving to their next destination soon. There was only a small fragment of a moment to lose for preparation. The rain was getting unbearably strong. You could not count the amount of times you’ve had to replace your umbrella.

In any case, you had invited Charlotte for a chat at the cafe. Partly because of her vision which helped with the rain, and mostly because you wanted to gossip with her as you usually did when slacking off.

Those works of yours outside of your actual career at the Palais Memornia don’t make themselves after all.

“Rumor has it that young women of have been disappearing of late. Do you have any clues on this phenomenon yet, Charlotte?” You leaned unto the table. Your signature smug smile on your lips as you presented your question to the young lady.

“Not yet. Wait — aren’t I the journalist here? Why are you asking the questions? Don’t tell me you missed another deadline again.”

“I just want to get ahead on my writing. The Steambird must have gotten a lead, no?” You dipped on your tea as you spoke, gaze directed at its reflection of your face and the dark skies above.

“So you can slack off some more?”

“T’was what my doctor had prescribed. I need to take care of my mental health too, yknow.” You smiled, poking your cheek in a cutesy manner.

This was no good. You were getting nowhere in your investigation and your anxiety bit at you as time could only pass by. You bit your nails. What would he do? How would he bypass such a situation? Oh, how useless you were without him.

“[Y/N]!”

You almost don’t react to that name as you were overtaken by your thoughts. It seemed that you spent too much time worrying that Charlotte wasn’t even at your side anymore.

“Ah, Lady Furina. How may I be of service?” You stood from sit in a jolt. You were guilty of looking down at the archon from time to time but appearances must be kept in public.

“I came to personally escort you to Palais Memornia. We have a case that requires your presence.” She coughed. An unusual shaken demeanor on her. Not that she was a completely confident person all the time, but this look on her particularly screamed fear.

But what would an archon be afraid of?

“Urgently.”

“A case? But with this rain. . . surely — “

The rain abruptly stopped and with its sounds disappearing, a deep voice makes its way into your ears.

“It is yours, [Y/N]. You’re under arrest for suspicions of colluding with the Fatui.”

“Monsieur —“

He looked away from you before you could finish your call. You feel metal touch your skin as none other than Wriosthesley himself puts cuffs around your wrists.

“Stay put, Mx. [Y/N].”

You eyed the Iudex from beyond the ‘glass’. This chamber had not existed the last time you visited the Fortress. Yet here it was, almost an exact same replica of your room — yet it did not feel like home at all.

You supposed Fontaine in its entirety was not home at all.

“You framed me.”

You were lazy. Incompetent even. But you would never collude with those miscreants.

At least, those were the lies you fed yourself in order to feel better about the betrayals you made in a day to day basis.

You could imagine the looks on your colleague’s faces. Would they be surprised, neutral, would they even care at all? Or would they be so utterly hurt by your actions that they fall into a spiraling abyss of despair?

You yearned to witness it all.

“All you had to do was to accept me.” His gloved hand touches the material between you two, a ripple forming from his touch. You were surrounded by what seemed like primordial water.

“I would have forgiven your sins. I would have made you be reborn anew. Innocent and pure as water.”

The water parted for a brief moment but you do not dare do anything foolish. You stayed put, remained still as Neuvilette reached through, and allowed the dragon to drag his thumb across your jaw and lips.

“All you did was push me away.”

And then — he pulls your head through the opening.

You close your eyes. One smallest movement would have your neck turn into foam.

“[Y/N], ma gouttelette du ciel.”

Perhaps, you had no need to see all the other’s fall into hopelessness. After all, the man who put the most trust and adoration into you was right here with you.

If only you were able to empathize with him. If only you were able to return his feelings and live a fulfilling life filled with love.

If only you weren’t cursed to feel nothing for him at all.

“Comme on fait son lit, on se couche.”

After all, what the Doctor wills is what the patient gets,

and if you must sleep in your deathbed this day and suffer the Iudex’s judgement — then so it shall be.

⟣┄─ ˑ IV. ✧ DIVIDER

[ TRANSLATIONS ] [ MY FRENCH IS VV RUSTY SO PLEASE TELL ME IF THERE ARE BETTER REPLACEMENTS/TRANSLATIONS FOR THESE] :

Ma gouttelete du ciel- My droplet from the sky/heaven/my droplet of heaven etc.

Comme on fait son lit, on se couche - You made your bed, sleep on it / You dug your own grave.

[levi-ackermvn]

happy friday !! i hope y’all are crying with me ( and sloane ) ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚ anyways, i will NEVER, EVER get over this beautiful, yet heart wrenching commission by the incredible koldangreyart on twitter (*^Д^*)ゞ thank you so much for constantly exceeding my expectations with every comm. it’s always a pleasure working with you <3

[ DO NOT REPOST, EDIT, OR TRACE!!! this artwork was commissioned for my fic so please do not steal it ]

[ this is an oc x canon post. if you do not like it, please kindly leave. any negative, hateful, or weird comments that has nothing to do with my post or fic will be deleted ]

unpublished excerpt below <3

Her gaze drifted aimlessly over the wreckage, each fragment a shapeless blur as she struggled to grasp the remnants of reality. A relentless throb pulsed in her head. A dense fog muddled her thoughts, pierced only by the persistent ringing in her right ear. Rain battered her face, mingling with the soaked grass beneath her. The cold droplets seeped into her skin.

The acrid scent of smoke invaded her lungs. Every inhale was a jagged knife, searing through her chest. Then, a more familiar odor pierced through the haze—something unmistakable and metallic, something she couldn’t escape all those years as a scout.

Blood.

Too much blood. 

Dread curled around her heart, its terrible grip tightening with each passing moment. Was this sickening stench coming from her? Was she the source of all the blood that tainted the air? Am I... dying? No. 

She had felt Death’s shadow before, beneath the Reiss family’s church. These current wounds she had, whatever they were, couldn’t produce such an overpowering smell.

If it wasn’t from her… where did it come from?

Her eyes searched the wreckage anew. A sense of urgency driving her as the throbbing in her head grew louder, desperate to uncover the source of the ghastly smell. Gradually, the shapes around her grew clearer, revealing a figure sprawled face down beside the riverbank, disturbingly still. Sloane blinked hard, willing her vision to sharpen. A green cloak, emblazoned with the Wings of Freedom insignia, crystallized into agonizing clarity. 

No.

A raw, anguished sound tore from her throat, shattering the very air—a wail she hadn't known she was capable of. Tears began to cascade down her cheeks, lost in the unrelenting rain as if the heavens themselves wept with her. Instinctively, she dragged herself toward him, each movement a searing torment as she sought to bridge the vast distance between them. The ache in her body faded into insignificance, now overwhelmed by an unspeakable fear. 

Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. 

The thought surged within her like a fervent incantation, imploring to whichever unseen force might grant her this one mercy.

Please.

Please don’t take him from me too.

Sloane had weathered the storm of loss time and time again, each one carving a deep, invisible scar. With each passage of sorrow, she was able to piece herself back together, little by little, until the raw pain softened into a distant memory. But… if he were to die, if he were to slip away from this cruel world they vowed to save together, leaving her to endure this unbearable fate alone, it would shatter her beyond repair.

She clawed her way through the mud. Her fingers dug into the sodden ground, feeling the soil beneath her nails. Once, this same earth had been a source of innocent delight, evoking the carefree days of her youth, where every inch of her had been joyfully smeared in the spirit of adventure.

Now, the sensation only made her skin crawl. 

Her cries grew frantic as she summoned all the strength she could possibly muster to bridge the distance between them. Each excruciating inch she covered felt like a thousand lifetimes, her limbs trembling with the effort.

Some part of her clung to the fragile hope that this was but a horrific nightmare. A cruel illusion from which she would awaken in the sanctuary of his arms, discovering him whole and well, just as he had always been.

Please let this be a dream. Please let me wake up.

But that hope dwindled away when she at last reached his side. With trembling hands, she carefully turned him over. The sight that met her eyes unraveled her completely.

Levi’s face, his beautiful face—a canvas she adored with every fiber of her being—was now barely recognizable. She could not see the arch of his brow, the creases of his forehead, or the slant of his mouth beneath the sea of red. The blood, a relentless tide, coated his pale skin, defying even the rain’s mournful efforts to cleanse him free of the stain.

She peered into his eyes, yearning to glimpse even a whisper of life within the familiar steel blue. One eye was ravaged and awash in crimson, yet both stared back with a haunting emptiness. 

The knife inside her heart twisted further.

Her sobs clamored in her ears, loud enough to deafen the rain’s ceaseless patter and the faintest of breaths that may still rattle in his chest.

[aceouttatime]

strong ladies make me so bisexual. lord have mercy--WE MUST STAY FOCUSED.

Commission for the lovely @capt-biglou of his turian engineer, Eli! You were a pleasure to work with, and I had fun playing around with her outfit! Thank you again!!!

Commission type: Full Body; Colored-Shaded Sketch; $65 USD Interested in a comm? Check my availability, style, and pricing HERE!

[luxstring]

Thank you @windalchemist001 for commissioning and entrusting your OC's to me. It was a pleasure working with you ☺️🙇‍♂️

MY COMMS IS STILL OPEN

‼️PLEASE REBLOG, LIKES WON'T HELP ME WITH THE ALGORITHM‼️

[phyrestartr]

Simple Things [2] - Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

# SFW, fluff, comfort, flirting, light angst, male!reader, dad!reader, spider!reader, implied depression, mentions of trauma, mentions of past relationships, mentions of manipulation, old men just doing their best, miguel is a sweetheart and a nerd, multi-part drabble collection

[ 1 ] Smoke Break | [ 2 ] We Change Like the Seasons | [ 3 ] Meet The Kids

Notes: WOW I DID IT?? AN UPDATE AYO!! No promises, but I might try to update this drabble collection every Saturday or smth 🤔 The thought for this was to make it a sorta prelude to establish the reader's relationship with Miguel, and to cement him into the universe a little bit before closing up this sequential collection and delving into shite that's more random and based off rando prompts or smth. Dunno, but we'll see!

--We Change Like the Seasons--

After your candid smoke break with Miguel, the universe apparently thought it'd be funny to throw Mercury into retrograde and absolutely wreak havoc within HQ.

Miguel, the man deciding he was responsible for all,  got affected the most: on bad days, comms exploded with barked commands and a plethora of scoffs; on worse days, a twisted frustration would fray his voice and heat his stare; on the worst days, he grit his teeth and flexed his claws whenever anyone so much as thought to come near him. Miguel didn't scare you, though. His temperament paled in comparison to what you'd faced in the military.

But you would hear the whispers sometimes, discussions about your leader going unhinged or feral. You knew how bad people moved, though, and you'd decided too long ago that Miguel was anything but a bad person. Prickly, sure, hot-headed and temperamental at times, too, but he cared. If he didn’t, then he never would have thought of funding and organizing an entire HQ and society for spider-people. He wouldn’t work towards saving everyone’s everything, either. You couldn’t help but appreciate his strong leadership, even if he did lose his temper every now and then. 

But still, you ended up keeping your distance for a time. Life had gotten busier, and you couldn’t bring yourself around HQ as often suddenly. You weren’t part of the “elite strike force” that Miguel had going, so it didn’t really matter in the end; you weren’t one of the best, you weren’t special. All you wanted was to help where you could, as much as you could. The important shit could be left to those more ingrained in all of this.

–--

Miguel felt your absence around HQ. It was like noticing the sun setting a little earlier on its way to autumn, the realization that the world would have a little less time in the light each day. A small thing. A simple pleasure one didn’t realize they basked in until too much time had passed since it disappeared. 

His mind wandered to the times he saw you before the small talk, the way you always gave little nods in greeting, whether you were passing by or coming for a meeting, and the way you sought out the younger spiders to check on them. And how could he forget about that pie you brought him? He wasn’t used to someone doing something thoughtful for him just because they wanted to. He told people where to go, what anomaly to fetch, but he never expected anyone to be so…you. 

"Heeey, Miguel? Head stuck in the clouds?" Lyla asked. 

"I–what?" Miguel blinked, suddenly feeling how dry and tired his eyes were from staring blankly at orange screens. "Santa Muerte. How long was I–" 

"Liiike ten minutes?" She smiled as Miguel sighed and rubbed at his face, willing the fatigue away. "But you got a special delivery." 

Miguel squinted over his shoulder. His expression relaxed when he saw it–a familiar, lone tupperware container. It sat near the very back, where the elevator doors were, hidden somewhere in the shadows. Last time it'd appeared on his centre console. Why so far away this time? 

"Thanks, Lyla," Miguel mumbled. He padded to the box and popped the lid open, indulging in the sweet scent of sugar cookies. A pleased purr rumbled in his chest as he peered inside, first spying an incredibly misshapen, large cookie that sat on top. Words in red scrawled across the creamy white layer of frosting, reading something to the effect of, "for Pa's frend Meegull." 

Meegull.

His hand rubbed over his mouth. Warmth bloomed in his chest, curling into an emptiness he’d long acknowledged, but refused to fill. Did he have a right to? After everything he’s done–

But those thoughts could be set aside for a moment, carefully and tenderly, acknowledging the state of his own fragility. This moment, this little thing, was a gift from someone else. Time and care spent into forging that spark in his chest for just a moment.

He could see ripples of the past: the messy chaos of the kitchen, smiles shared between father and daughter, a little girl refusing her father’s help and wanting to write the message all on her own. 

Miguel had been there too, once. In the sun and the rain, playing goalie for a little sports star, teaching her to dribble and pass and play nice with the other girls on her team. His little one was so like him–competitive, snarky, bright. She burned so bright she turned his heart to ash.

“You okay?” Lyla peeped, peering over Miguel’s shoulder. 

Miguel took a deep breath. He nodded. “Yeah. I’m–I’m fine. Just…yeah.” 

His confidant nodded. “Yeah. I get it.” Lyla adjusted her sunnies before flickering down to the box and reading the garbled message. “Awe, that’s cute.” 

Miguel huffed a laugh and nodded. “Yeah. It is.” 

“You think he’ll bring his daughters around?” Was that hope he heard in his little AI’s voice?

“Well, if he does,” Miguel started as he snapped the container closed, “I’ll have to make sure I thank them.”

–-

You laid on your back, one leg crossed over the other. Your wakefulness ebbed and flowed to the rhythm of whatever song buzzed through those old headphones of yours. They were beaten up things, artifacts that should have been replaced three times over already, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it; your girl loaned them to you on base all those years ago, and whenever you picked them up and felt the soft, crackled leather against your fingers, you'd be reminded of easier times, simpler days–a past where you were blissfully unaware. 

The memories hurt, sure, but the little bit of peace she brought you soothed your heart, while at the same time breaking it into two jagged parts. You wished she still stood by you, that you might find yourself whole again if she were still there. Maybe your serenity would have lasted, turned into marriage, evolved into something unreal, but that's not what happened.

Sometimes, you'd feel the icy prick of needles when you reached for the decrepit Sonys. They'd pierce all over, from your temples down to your ankles, and they hurt. God, did it ever hurt. Just like whatever they injected you with–whatever she injected you with–that bonded to your DNA, that made you more than human, and less than human. 

God. It hurt.

You remembered her so vividly. Behind the veil of black obscuring the vision of closed eyes, you saw her standing there, the spitting image of what your little Isabella would look like when she grew up. Only, you hoped she'd have the good parts of Liliana, leaving behind the frigid woman who lured you into an experiment. 

"You're gonna be fine, honey, just trust me. Your DNA's a perfect match. You're the only suitor for the test--you'll be the next Captain America."

Honeyed words, simple lies, sweet nothings–she did everything to trap you, but you would have bent a knee at "please."

"I trust you." 

But you really shouldn't have. 

Your hand curled tightly around the phone on your chest as you recalled the pain: the acidity eating your eyes, the boiling in your veins, the snapping of rearranging bones. It wasn't normal, not in the grand scheme of Spiderman and how his powers felt when they manifested. But you weren't exactly normal, either, considering you once coexisted with another in your body. 

Heat washed up your face. Your eyes slid open slowly, and you stared up at a perfectly clear, azure expanse of sky, blurred through molten, crystalline grief. Christ, why was this happening now? You'd done so well for so long, kept it all together. Why–

The door to the balcony hissed open. You rubbed your face, willing the pear-cut diamonds away, not letting them rest on haggard skin. Losing it in front of somebody wasn’t allowed. You weren’t sure if you could come back from it. 

“Good to know I'm not the only one who sleeps on the job," Miguel remarked, voice warm and latent with snark. 

You couldn’t help a huff of amusement yourself. "Great minds think alike, hey?"  You yawned and sat up, letting your headphones slip down to your neck while you messed with your nest of fluffy hair. "This is the only place I–uh, I…" 

You blinked dumbly in the face of a to-go cup held out to you. The roasted scent of fresh coffee wholly distracted you from whatever the hell you were trying to say, but you didn't reach for it. Was it even for you? You wanted it, but–

"This is the part where you take it," Miguel teased, reaching it slightly closer to you.

You grasped it with both hands, feeling a weird, pleasant, happy boom pulse through your chest and down your arms, rushing a dusting of rose to your nose and cheeks while your mind flailed helplessly. What the fuck was this? The hell were you supposed to do with this? Well, drink it, duh, but…

"I, uh…yeah, thanks." You held the drink close and let it warm your cold hands. It felt nice. "But, uh, why–?" 

"That's a stupid question." Miguel didn't even look your way. He leaned against the wall, though, and sipped from his own cup.

You were the one left fidgeting this time. You picked at the cardboard sleeve, tearing tiny rips into it before finally letting yourself indulge and take a sip. It was sweet, slightly too sweet, but in a very…well, Miguel kind of way: expected to be bitter, but decidedly the opposite.

"Didn't know how you take it," Miguel grumbled, hints of (oh?) embarrassment in his voice. Hah. Cute. 

"Hey, tastes fine to me. Better sweet than bitter, yeah?" You hummed as the tiniest of smiles fought its way to the surface. "'Ppreciate it, Boss. Seriously." 

Miguel's shoulders lost their tense edge. "Well. Least I could do, since you keep feeding me." 

"That's just my fatherly instinct kicking in; I got a mighty strong urge to take care of any reckless kiddos that run amok. Y’know, the ones who leap before they think, the ones who forget to eat, yadda yadda." You sipped your coffee again and intentionally ignored the indignant look sent your way. 

"Good to know you see me as a reckless punk," Miguel huffed. 

"Mh. Feel free to call me 'daddy.'" 

That got a laugh out of him, just a few breathy beats. "Oh, wow, I think I'll forget you just said that, actually." 

"Your loss." You smiled slightly against the rim of your cup as you stared out at Nueva York. "Can’t say daddy is much of a turn-on in bed these days, though. Not when you have little ones," you mumbled to yourself more than to Miguel. But the man had enhanced hearing, so of course he heard. 

"You're joking," Miguel said, exasperated. 

Your gaze met his and you quirked a brow. "Hm?" 

"You really had people call you that in bed?" The distasteful sour expression Miguel wore reminded you so much of your littlest one when she ate something she hated. You had to rush to swallow your coffee before you laughed.

"Yeah. Not my favourite thing, but it happens. Besides, I'm not about to tell them to knock it off in the middle of things." You shrugged and picked at the plastic lid. "Men 'n women 'n everyone in-between think it's sexy to call a guy that these days, y'know?" You shook your head and sighed softly, but still amused.

"These days," Miguel repeated. "How often are you–?" 

"A man's gotta eat, Boss." You smiled at him, letting that atrocious playboy slip out to say hello with the sort of smirk you gave him. You almost thought Miguel's ears turned a bit red, but it was probably just from the cold. 

"You can't tell me you're not getting any," you half-asked, half-remarked. “A guy like you?”

Miguel cleared his throat and sipped from his cup. "Guess I just haven't found anyone in a while." 

"Yeah?" You tilted your head back against the wall as you stared up at the clouds. "Huh. Not even any of the spiders?" 

"It's just–what's the point?" He burst. "At the end of this shitshow, all of us are going back to our dimensions, back to our lives and we won't get to–" his breath hitched, "we don't always get what we want." 

You dragged yourself up from the ground, being careful not to drop your drink, headphones or phone as you stood by your fellow Spiderman. You ditched your phone in your pocket before clasping a warm, heavy hand on Miguel's unyielding shoulder. 

"Miguel," you started, looking at him earnestly while he stared forward, eyes hard, but softening with the murmur of his name, "you can't think like that. Everything ends. It has to." 

"Not comforting." 

"Hey, hey, I'm not done." You gave him a small, friendly shake and felt his muscles almost relax under your touch. "Listen, if everything lasted forever, nothing would be special, yeah? Life would be meaningless, love wouldn't matter. But you get a chance to have that happiness–" 

Memories of roses in her hair came with a gentle gust of peculiar warm wind, so out of place in the playful nip of autumn. If you took a moment, if you closed your eyes and breathed deep, you might've caught the whisper of white jasmine riding the coattails of summer nights long since passed. That was your happy place. Somewhere you wished you could have stayed longer. Somewhere you were glad you could wander back to moments of quiet loneliness.

"--and it'd be a real shame to give up on that." 

Maybe it was the vibrato in your voice, or maybe it was the words you spoke resonating with him, but something sparked in whirling carmine irises, painting them a colour so like Dahlia's favourite red roses. You couldn't help but stare. You couldn't stop the thorned buds blooming in your chest, either. 

Miguel smiled, then. Light and sweet, with a sweep of those eyes, half-lidded and thoughtful, gazing back to the city. More flowers bloomed. 

"And here I thought you were a soldier. Where'd all that come from?" He asked quietly. His brows furrowed, though, worrying over something. 

"Eh. Lots of therapy." You pat his shoulder a few gentle times. "But I'm serious, y'know? Good things come to an end. And, y'know, if it really hurts ya, you can just use your fancy gizmo to go visit, yeah? Or, I mean, you can just find someone to fuck." 

Miguel gave you a look and the mood shifted away from genuinity back into clownery (thank God). "To fuck?" He balked. You nodded wisely. "You-- I'm too old to be sleeping around."

"Hey, hey, I sleep around. You're never too old." You almost managed a glare at him. "Sometimes I just wanna mess around, get laid, maybe accidentally find The One–" 

"Oh, you’re hoping to find 'the one,' huh?" Miguel remarked, definitely believing you. “How’s that going for you?”

You sighed dramatically and leaned into him like your will to live was running out. "Oh, It’s brutal. Lots of trial and error. Such a shame." 

"Mmh, I'm sure."