#tremor and sinking are better and they can do both!

[unma]

I think that post could be summarized as: PM is scared of Rupture despite it being the second weakest damaging status in the game, and it's only second weakest (above burn) by a bit. Like, burn is suffering, but at least it can clash well and easily maintain its goddamned status. Here at rupture inc, we gotta pick one.

[hoshifighting]

Really enjoyed the screaming back reaction. Could you do one where reader actually leaves the house after an argument.

seungcheol doesn’t hesitate. the second you grab your coat and storm out, he’s right on your heels. “where do you think you’re going?” he asks, grabbing your wrist gently before you can reach the end of the driveway. “we’re not doing this, not like this. let’s talk, okay? i’m not letting you walk out.” he’s frustrated, as if the mere thought of you leaving makes his chest tighten, he wants to give you space, but the thought of you out there, alone and upset because of him, eats at him.

jeonghan watches the door close behind you, an incredulous smile tugging at his lips. “seriously?” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. he thinks you’re just blowing off steam, that you’ll be back in no time. but as the minutes tick by, then hours, his confidence wavers. the sky outside darkens, and with it, his composure. he finally picks up his phone, dialing your number with shaking hands, his voice frantic when you answer. “where are you? are you okay? please… just come home.”

joshua moves faster than you expect, cutting you off before you can make it out the door. “you’re not driving like this,” he says calmly, but there’s an edge to his voice. he takes the keys from your hand, his expression softening as he sees the anger and hurt in your eyes. “i’m not letting you go out there when we’re both like this. let’s just… let’s talk, okay? please?” his voice is gentle, coaxing, but firm, making it clear that he’s not letting you leave.

junhui feels his heart drop the moment you walk out, tears welling up in his eyes almost instantly. he tries to hold them back, but by the time the door closes, he’s already crying. hours pass, and he doesn’t move from the spot, tears still falling freely. when you finally come back, you find him sitting on the floor, eyes red and puffy, still crying. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, barely able to get the words out through the sobs. “please don’t leave me like that again.”

hoshi is livid. the moment you leave, he starts typing out a series of furious texts, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “so, you’re just going to run away?” but before he hits send, he pauses, the reality of what he’s doing sinking in. with a frustrated sigh, he deletes the messages, knowing he’s being childish. “damn it,” he mutters, feeling guilty for letting his emotions get the better of him. he paces the room, running a hand through his hair, not sure what to do next.

wonwoo stands frozen as you walk out, the sound of the door closing echoing in his ears. he doesn’t chase after you, doesn’t say anything, just stares at the door, his mind reeling. it’s only when the silence becomes unbearable that he snaps out of it, panic setting in. he grabs his keys, heart pounding in his chest. without even thinking, he pulls up the tracker he’d secretly put on your car for safety, his guilt mounting as he realizes he’s going to use it to find you now. “please be okay,” he whispers to himself, racing out the door.

woozi sits back at his desk, but the music project in front of him might as well be a blank sheet. his mind is elsewhere, replaying every word of the argument, each one more painful than the last. he’s never been good with emotions, and now, with you gone, he feels like he’s drowning in them. after what feels like an eternity, he can’t take it anymore. he picks up his phone, calling you over and over until you finally pick up. when you do, you can hear the tremor in his voice, the barely-contained sob he’s fighting. “please… come back,” he says quietly, the desperation clear.

minghao follows you to the door, standing there with his arms crossed, a scoff escaping his lips as he watches you go. “so, this is how you deal with things? running away?” he calls after you, frustration evident in his tone. he stands there for a moment, waiting for you to turn around, to say something, anything. but when you don’t, when you step into the elevator without even a glance back, his heart sinks. the door closes, and he’s left standing in the hallway.

mingyu can’t let you leave. as you make a beeline for the door, he moves faster, blocking your path with his broad frame. “you’re not going anywhere,” he says, his voice shaky. you try to push past him, your frustration boiling over, but he holds his ground, his eyes pleading. “please, don’t go,” he whispers, and when you hit his chest in frustration, the tears finally spill over. you collapse against him, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you tight as you both break down.

seokmin is a mess from the moment you walk out. he grabs his phone, typing out a series of long, heartfelt texts, pouring out everything he didn’t get to say in the heat of the argument. each message is more desperate than the last, filled with apologies and reassurances, but he knows none of them will reach you right now. with a frustrated sigh, he throws his phone onto the couch, his hands shaking.

seungkwan paces the room, his mind racing. he hates fighting with you, hates the way it makes him feel, the way it makes everything feel wrong. he’s torn between running after you and giving you space, his heart pulling him in both directions at once. he runs a hand through his hair, muttering to himself, “what do i do?” the thought of you being upset, especially because of him, makes him feel sick. finally, he collapses onto the couch, staring at the door, waiting, hoping you’ll come back soon.

vernon is left standing in the middle of the room, the silence after the argument ringing in his ears. he looks up at the ceiling, trying to process everything that just happened, but all he can think about is the way you left without looking back. the apartment feels different now, emptier, and the echoes of your argument replay in his mind, each word cutting deeper than the last. he sits down on the couch, burying his face in his hands, wishing he could take back everything he said.

chan feels his anger drain away the second you walk out, leaving him feeling empty, he knows he should chase after you, but his feet feel like they’re stuck to the floor. he slumps onto the couch, pulling a blanket over himself as if that could somehow make the ache in his chest go away. eventually, he drifts off into an uneasy sleep, the uncomfortable position on the couch mirroring the discomfort in his gut. when you finally come back, the sight of him curled up, asleep, and clearly still upset, makes your heart ache.

[little-jana]

- 5 times you ask Hotch to touch you and the 1 time he asks to be held -

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

Genre: fluff, some angst (not between them)

Warnings: case talk, injuries during a case, blood mentioned, insecurities, crying, needing comfort, kissing, happy ending

1. "Can you hold my hand?"

The first time you asked him to touch you, it felt like a lifeline — a fragile tether keeping you from falling into the darkness that had begun to creep in. You were both walking out of the interrogation room, the air still charged with the tension left behind. The unsub had been particularly vile, his words slicing through your defenses like a blade. You had held your composure in the room — you always did — but now, with the door closed and the weight of the case pressing on your chest, the cracks were starting to show.

You could still hear the unsub’s voice in your head, the way he had spoken about his victims as though they were nothing more than objects. Your hands trembled as you clenched them into fists, trying to push away the nausea rising in your throat.

Aaron walked beside you in silence, his presence calm and steady, as it always was. You envied his ability to compartmentalize, to walk away from horrors like this without letting them leave a mark. But as you glanced up at him, you caught the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed just a little more rigid than usual. He felt it too — he just hid it better.

“Are you okay?” His voice broke through your thoughts, low and grounding.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t respond right away, his sharp eyes flicking down to your hands, which you had unconsciously begun rubbing together in a futile attempt to steady them.

“No,” he said quietly but firmly. “You’re not.”

Your instinct was to deny it again, to brush off his concern and pretend you had everything under control. But the words died in your throat as the tremors in your hands grew worse. Without thinking, you reached out toward him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you hold my hand? Just… just for a second.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand slid into yours, warm and solid, his fingers wrapping around yours with a strength that was both gentle and grounding. The world seemed to tilt back into place as his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, reassuring motion.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his deep voice steady and unwavering. “I’ve got you.”

You stared at where your hands were joined, the contrast between your smaller, trembling fingers and his strong, steady grip. A lump formed in your throat, and you took a shaky breath, the trembling beginning to subside as the warmth of his hand anchored you.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t let go right away. His thumb continued its gentle path along your skin, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t rushing you, that he was there for as long as you needed.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice soft but firm, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket.

For the first time in a long time, you felt the truth of those words sink in. And for the first time, you let yourself believe him.

2. "Will you help me up?"

The chase had been brutal. It was the kind of pursuit that left no room for hesitation, no time to think beyond the thundering of your heart and the pounding of your boots against the forest floor. The unsub was fast, darting between the trees with the desperation of a cornered animal. You were faster, but the uneven terrain was unforgiving, and your focus was split between keeping your eyes on him and avoiding the roots and rocks scattered across the ground.

You didn’t see the root until it was too late. Your foot caught on it, and you went down hard, the impact jolting through your body as your ankle twisted beneath you.

“Damn it,” you hissed, trying to push yourself up. But when you shifted your weight onto your injured ankle, a sharp, searing pain shot through you, forcing you back onto the ground.

The sound of footsteps brought you back to the present, and you looked up to see Aaron sprinting toward you. His gun was drawn, his eyes scanning the trees even as he made a beeline for you.

“Are you hurt?” he asked as he dropped to his knees beside you, his voice calm but edged with urgency.

“It’s nothing,” you said through gritted teeth, waving him off. “I just need to get up—”

“Stop,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced you. He was already reaching for your ankle, his hands sure and gentle as he assessed the injury.

“It’s sprained,” he said after a moment, his brow furrowed. “You’re not walking on this.”

“I can manage,” you insisted, even as the pain made your vision blur. “Just help me up—”

“No,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.

Before you could protest further, he moved with a decisiveness that left you momentarily stunned. Sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back, he lifted you off the ground as though you weighed nothing.

“Hotch—”

“Don’t argue,” he said, his tone softening just enough to take the sting out of his words. “You’re hurt, and I’m not letting you make it worse.”

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as you realized how close you were to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance. His chest was solid beneath you, his heartbeat steady and strong, a grounding rhythm against the chaos of your own.

“I can walk,” you mumbled, though your voice lacked conviction.

“You don’t have to,” he said simply, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you back toward the team.

The words hung between you, their weight sinking into your chest. For once, you didn’t argue. Instead, you allowed yourself to lean into him, your head resting lightly against his shoulder as his arms held you secure.

And for the first time, you felt what it meant to truly let someone else carry the weight for you.

3. "Can you hug me?"

The case had been devastating. Cases involving children were always the hardest, but this one had left a particularly deep scar. The unsub, a man who had systematically targeted families, had shown no remorse — if anything, he seemed to revel in the pain he caused. Even though the team had caught him, the damage was done. A family was gone, ripped apart, and no amount of justice would bring them back.

The jet ride back was suffocating. Everyone was quiet, the weight of the case pressing down on the cabin like a physical presence. You sat by the window, staring out at the night sky as the clouds blurred past. Your stomach churned, and your throat felt tight, but you held it together. You always did.

When the jet landed, you lingered behind as the others disembarked. The thought of going home to an empty apartment, sitting alone in the silence, was unbearable. You told yourself you just needed a moment to collect yourself, but the truth was you felt stuck, unable to move or breathe properly.

“Are you alright?” Aaron’s voice cut through the quiet, startling you.

You turned to see him standing near the doorway, his expression calm but his dark eyes watching you closely. You hadn’t realized he’d stayed behind too.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, the lie slipping out without hesitation.

He didn’t move, didn’t look away. His silence stretched, unspoken but understanding, and suddenly you felt exposed. The walls you’d so carefully built over the years began to crack under the weight of his steady gaze.

“I’m just… tired,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brows drew together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you want me to stay?”

You shook your head quickly, embarrassed by the question and the vulnerability it implied. “No, I’m fine. I just need to—”

You stopped, the words catching in your throat as the ache in your chest grew unbearable. You looked down at your hands, clenching and unclenching them in your lap as you tried to find something to hold onto.

Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Can you hug me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and raw. You didn’t dare look up at him, afraid of what you might see.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, you heard the soft rustle of his jacket as he crossed the space between you.

“Come here,” he said gently, his voice low and steady.

You looked up, and before you could second-guess yourself, he was pulling you into his arms. His embrace was warm and firm, his hands resting on your back as he held you close. You buried your face in his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

His hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, and the knot in your chest began to loosen. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt the wetness on his shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he held you tighter, as though he could physically hold you together while you fell apart.

For what felt like the first time in forever, you let yourself lean on someone else. And in his arms, the weight of the case, of everything, didn’t feel quite so crushing.

4. "Can you just stay with me?"

The motel room was small and unremarkable, its beige walls and faded floral bedspread screaming mediocrity. The case had taken its toll on everyone, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your chest as you stepped out of the shower, toweling your hair dry. Your limbs were heavy, your mind foggy, but you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest — the remnants of a particularly brutal day on the job.

You’d seen it before: the aftermath of people’s worst moments. But this case was different. It had crept under your skin, latched onto your soul, and refused to let go. The faces of the victims lingered behind your closed eyes, and no matter how many deep breaths you took, you couldn’t shake the suffocating weight.

When a soft knock came at your door, you startled slightly, pulling the towel tighter around you before calling out, “One second!” You scrambled to throw on a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, padding barefoot across the cheap carpet to open the door.

Aaron stood on the other side, his presence grounding and commanding even in the dim light of the hallway. He looked as tired as you felt, his tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up. There was a faint crease between his brows, one you recognized as his default expression when something was troubling him.

“Hotch,” you said, surprised. “Is everything okay?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his dark eyes scanning your face as though searching for something. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and careful.

“I saw your light was still on,” he said. “I just wanted to check on you.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them wasn’t lost on you. He wasn’t just checking in as your boss or your team leader. This was personal — a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of the fact that he could see the same weariness in you that he felt in himself.

You stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in.”

He hesitated for only a second before stepping into the room, his presence filling the small space. He moved toward the lone chair by the window, sitting down with a quiet sigh as he leaned back, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don’t have to check on me, you know,” you said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m okay.”

He gave you a pointed look, one that said he didn’t believe you for a second. “You’re not okay,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Guess I’m not hiding it very well.”

“You’ve had a hard day,” he said. “We all have. It’s okay to not be okay.”

Something about the way he said it — so calm, so matter-of-fact — caused the knot in your chest to loosen ever so slightly. You looked down at your hands, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I can’t stop seeing their faces,” you admitted quietly. “Every time I close my eyes… it’s just there. And it feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough. We can’t save everyone.”

There was a long pause, and when you looked up, Aaron was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“No,” he said softly. “We can’t save everyone. But we saved someone today. And that matters.”

His words were meant to be comforting, but they only brought the sting of tears closer to the surface. You swallowed hard, blinking quickly to keep them at bay.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “How you keep going, case after case, loss after loss.”

He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together. “Because I have to,” he said simply. “Because if I stop, if I let it get to me… then it wins. And I can’t let that happen.”

There was a rawness to his voice that you rarely heard, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. It was a side of him that reminded you he wasn’t just your leader — he was human, just like the rest of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight you both carried.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can you just stay with me?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and tentative. For a heartbeat, you thought he might say no, that he might retreat behind his walls and insist on maintaining the professional distance he was so careful to preserve.

But then he nodded, his eyes softening as he stood from the chair. “Of course,” he said quietly.

He crossed the room and sat down beside you on the bed, his presence warm and solid beside you. For a moment, you didn’t move, unsure of how to close the distance between you. But then his hand came to rest on your back, his touch gentle and reassuring, and the tension in your shoulders melted away.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder as his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles against your back, and you felt yourself relax for the first time all day.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “I’m here. Always.”

The quiet conviction in his voice sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and for the first time that day, the suffocating weight began to lift.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, wrapped in his embrace. The minutes blurred together, the world outside fading into insignificance as you let yourself lean on him, let yourself draw strength from his presence.

And when you finally closed your eyes, the faces of the victims were no longer the first thing you saw. Instead, it was Aaron’s face, his quiet strength and unwavering support a balm to your weary soul.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but in that moment, you knew you weren’t alone. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

5. "Can you hold me?"

The house was silent now, eerily still in the aftermath of chaos. The team had already left, but you and Aaron remained behind to tie up loose ends — packing evidence, reviewing case notes, and ensuring the crime scene was left intact for the local authorities. The work was necessary, methodical, but it felt like moving through molasses. The weight of the case clung to you, thick and suffocating.

You stood in the unsub's living room, staring at the remnants of his twisted life. The photos on the walls, the personal items strewn across the floor, all told a story of pain and control. You’d seen scenes like this before, but tonight, it felt like too much. The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were pressing down on you.

Behind you, Aaron’s steady presence filled the room. You could hear the soft rustle of his coat as he moved closer, the faint creak of the floorboards under his weight. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his gaze on you, warm and steady like the sun breaking through clouds.

“You should sit down,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though the tightness in your voice betrayed the lie.

Aaron stepped closer, his footsteps deliberate. “You’ve been standing there for ten minutes,” he pointed out, his tone carrying a gentle note of concern. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His words hit harder than you expected, and your throat tightened. You shook your head, trying to keep it together, but the weight of everything — the victims, their families, the endless parade of darkness — pressed down on you like a tidal wave.

“I’m just tired,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tired of seeing all this pain, all this... evil. Sometimes it feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough.”

Aaron didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stepped closer until he was standing right beside you. The warmth of his presence was grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“It’s not easy,” he said finally, his voice soft but steady. “But you’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone in this.”

The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. You turned to face him, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t feel strong right now,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I feel... lost.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as though trying to find the right words. Finally, he reached out, his hand brushing your arm in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache.

“You’re not lost,” he said quietly. “You’re here. You’re standing. And that’s enough.”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, and you quickly swiped at them, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” he interrupted gently. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.”

His words were a balm to your frayed nerves, and before you could second-guess yourself, you asked, “Can you hold me?” The words came out soft, almost hesitant, but they hung in the air between you like a plea.

For a moment, Aaron hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was Aaron Hotchner — measured, thoughtful, always careful with the boundaries he set. But then his expression shifted, and without a word, he stepped closer and opened his arms.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped into his embrace, your hands clutching the fabric of his jacket as his arms wrapped around you. The world seemed to fall away as he held you, his touch firm and steady, as though he was anchoring you to the earth.

His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and his hand moved in slow, soothing circles against your back. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

The floodgates opened then, and you let yourself cry. Not the quiet, restrained tears you’d been holding back, but the deep, gut-wrenching sobs that came from the core of your being. And through it all, Aaron didn’t let go. He held you as though his only purpose in that moment was to keep you from falling apart.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his breath warm against your hair. “Let it out. I’m here.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, wrapped in his arms, but time seemed to lose all meaning. Slowly, the sobs began to subside, and your breathing evened out. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, but his hands remained on your arms, grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, though this time your voice was steadier. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

Aaron shook his head, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You don’t have to apologize for being human,” he said firmly. “You carry so much, and sometimes it’s too much. That’s why we’re a team. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The warmth in his voice, the unshakable conviction in his words, made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with sadness. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a small nod, his hands still resting on your arms. “Anytime.”

The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions. You wanted to tell him how much his support meant to you, how much he meant to you, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you leaned into his embrace once more, resting your head against his chest. He didn’t hesitate to hold you again, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the darkness.

And in that moment, you felt lighter. Not because the weight of the world had disappeared, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. Aaron was there, solid and steady, and as his heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you realized something important: with him by your side, you could face anything.

+1. "Can you hold me?"

It was late. The office was shrouded in shadows, the hum of the building’s air conditioning the only sound cutting through the silence. You’d expected the bullpen to be empty when you arrived, yet the faint glow spilling from Aaron’s office told you otherwise. You weren’t surprised — late nights like this had become the norm for him, his relentless dedication often bordering on self-punishment.

You pushed the door open softly, peeking inside to find him sitting at his desk. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, his tie loosened, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Papers were scattered across his desk, though it was clear from the distant look in his eyes that he hadn’t been reading them. He was staring blankly at his hands, his brow furrowed, the weight of something heavy pressing down on him.

“Hotch,” you said gently, stepping inside.

His head snapped up, his dark eyes meeting yours. He looked exhausted — not just physically, but emotionally, the kind of weariness that ran bone-deep.

“You should go home,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, though it lacked the sharpness you were used to hearing from him.

“So should you,” you replied, stepping closer to his desk.

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the desk as his fingers traced aimless patterns on the surface. There was a vulnerability about him that you rarely saw, a crack in the unshakable armor he always wore.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, concern threading through your voice.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He seemed to wrestle with himself, his jaw tightening as though he were trying to force the words down. But then he looked up at you, his eyes dark and filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Can you hold me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The vulnerability in his words hit you like a punch to the chest. Aaron Hotchner, the stoic, unshakable leader who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, was asking you for something so raw, so human.

You didn’t hesitate. Closing the distance between you, you reached out and pulled him into your arms. He came willingly, almost collapsing into you as his head dipped to rest against your shoulder. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his grip desperate, as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word. You simply held him, your fingers threading gently through his hair as he buried his face against your neck. His breathing was uneven, the tension in his body radiating off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His hands tightened on your back, and you felt him exhale, a shuddering breath that seemed to carry with it the weight of everything he’d been holding in. You had always known Aaron carried more than he let on — the responsibility of the team, the guilt of the lives he couldn’t save, the endless burden of being the one everyone else relied on. But in this moment, he let himself lean on you, his walls crumbling in your arms.

“I don’t…” he began, his voice muffled against your shoulder. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his brow furrowed, his expression pained. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let someone else—”

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you said, cutting him off gently. You brought a hand to his face, your fingers brushing against the stubble on his jaw. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Aaron. Let me help you. Let me be there for you.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his walls. But then something shifted in his expression, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned into your touch.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Before you could respond, his hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. The intimacy of the gesture sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and you felt yourself leaning into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

When you opened them, he was watching you with an intensity that stole your breath. His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

“Aaron,” you whispered, his name barely audible.

He closed the distance between you in an instant, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. His hands framed your face, his touch reverent as though he were afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your heart pounded in your chest. There was no hesitation, no holding back — just the raw, unspoken emotion that had been building between you for so long finally spilling over.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together as the world slowly came back into focus. His hands remained on your face, his thumbs brushing gently against your skin as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said again, your voice soft but firm.

For the first time, you saw the tension in his face ease, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I know,” he said quietly.

And as he pulled you back into his arms, holding you tightly against him, you knew he meant it. For the first time, he was letting himself believe it too.

[luveline]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

spencer comforts you with facts and affection alike when you worry you aren't as pretty as the girls on his team. requested here. fem!reader, 1.6k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Photographs can't accurately capture how beautiful Emily Prentiss is. JJ and Penelope are both gorgeous too, but it's Emily who startles you. Her hair a cool black colour and curled around her demure face, the line of her nose and her deep, dark eyes. Her lips, picture perfect and painted a soft pink.

The prettier you find her, the more your heart sinks. 

Spencer squeezes your shoulder. It's bold for him to do so in front of his friends (his family, really), he can barely show you affection in the grocery store without turning rosy. You preen at the touch, but the feeling of insecurity remains like an irksome gnat zipping around your head. 

"We didn't think we'd ever get to meet you!" Derek is saying, a casual arm thrown around Penelope's shoulders, a drink in hand. 

Rossi couldn't attend and JJ felt too pregnant, bringing your party to a solid six. It still feels like a lot of people to meet at once. 

You hold the flute of your glass in a nervous hand, fingers stickied by condensation. You have a feeling that you're in trouble, all these profilers assessing your behaviour, nowhere to hide. "No, I'm," —you raise your voice to hide the funny tremor that's taken hold— "so happy to meet you all, I promise I've been trying!" 

"Whenever she gets time off, we're on a case," Spencer says. 

Emily smiles widely at your statement. It's such an open, friendly look, it floors you. You look down at your drink and blink. 

You don't know it, but the team exchanges glances at your behaviour. 

"So, do you enjoy your work?" Emily asks. "Or hate it, like us?"

Hotch laughs and moves his pint glass onto a coaster. "I think it's safe to say that none of us hate our jobs." 

"I wouldn't blame you if you did. I can't imagine how hard it is, how hard you all work," you say. Spencer's hand drifts down your back. "But you have each other."

Emily does this thing with her eyes and if you weren't in a happy relationship, you'd probably be a puddle at her feet. "Too much of each other," she says jokingly.

She's gorgeous, and Spencer sees her every single day? You're nothing compared to her. Not smart, not strong, and nowhere near as pretty. You could never measure up. 

"Would you, um, excuse me?" you ask, moving your purse from your lap and onto the table. 

"You okay?" Spencer asks, looking up as you stand. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just gonna use the bathroom," you say quietly. You aren't, but if you were, you wouldn't really want to broadcast that anyhow. 

You try not to wobble on the way to the bathroom. The weight of five pairs of eyes follows you as you leave, four of which are trained in the art of spotting lies. Everything isn't okay, and they know that, and by extension —all the effort you made tonight? Getting your hair done, your nicest clothes, your makeup and your perfume? It might as well be a huge blinking neon sign that says you're trying really hard, and it doesn't make a lick of difference. 

You sidle into a stall, pulling the lid of the toilet down with a tissue and sitting on it heavily. Elbows on your knees, you hunch your back and hide your face in your hands, breathing in the smell of bleach through quick breaths. Water drips somewhere near the sinks, the cacophony of the restaurant hushed. 

You've never felt naturally pretty. With Spencer, it hasn't ever mattered. He's never given any indication that he cares. But… 

"Loser," you mutter to yourself. 

"Hey, Y/N?" Spencer asks, his voice bouncing off of the tile. 

You freeze. "Two seconds!" 

"You're not really using the bathroom," he says incredulously. 

"Says who?"

Spencer laughs, his tone wry, "I know you really well, you realise? Like, better than I know anyone else on the planet."

"Then you know I'm having an authentic pee and need my privacy." 

"Come on out." 

The ringing of the lock slotting free is like an announcement of your embarrassment. Spencer's standing a half a foot from the doorway, keeping his distance from the no man's land that is the ladies room. You're going to use it to your advantage, only he holds out his hand expectantly. When you take it, he pulls you out of the bathroom and firmly into the restaurant hallway. 

You can't escape his concern, nor his hands as they cup your face unexpectedly. 

They feel as nice as they look, deft fingers pressed to your skin like you're one of his puzzles to decipher. 

"What upset you?" he asks. 

"Nothing your friends did, I promise." 

"But something." He smooths a hand down to your shoulders. He's not quite frenetic but certainly close to it, searching for a problem he won't find on the surface. "You're insecure about something," he deduces. 

You cringe bodily. "I'm not." 

"What is it? Is it your necklace? It really is nice, the colour goes with your skin. It's understated." 

"It's not my necklace, Spence." 

"Then what is it?" 

"I just…" You pull his hands from your neck and collar to hold them, looking up into his melty brown eyes wishing he weren't so hard to say no to. "Feel like you could do better." 

He frowns. It's a pout, and endearing, but not what you want to see. 

"I love being with you, I just think, you know, you're so handsome, and you have all these pretty friends," you say.  

"You think you're not pretty?" he asks. He sounds gutted, if a little confused. 

"Not like her." Your voice quivers. 

The first time you got upset in front of Spencer, he wasn't sure what to do. He ended up putting an arm around your shoulder, your brand new boyfriend out of his depth. You've both had some practice at comforting one another now, and any hesitance Spencer held is gone. He wraps his arms around you like he's afraid you'll fall over, the crease of his stressed brow smushing against the side of your face. 

"Don't think that. Why would you think that?" he asks quietly. 

"I know I'm not pretty like some girls," you say, surprised by the ferocity of his reaction. 

"You don't know that, because it's not true. You're beautiful." He squeezes your side between his fingers, something contemplative about the way his thumb curls upward. "Do you know how many books I've read?" 

"Thousands." 

He hums. A hand grasps at the back of your neck. "Thousands of books. I know so much, especially about the human body. I know that falling in love can make some people feel the same effects as cocaine. Staring into their eyes can synchronise your heartbeats." He encourages your head back. "Butterflies are adrenaline and when I look at you I can't get them to stop, even if I know it's chemical." Spencer's eyes are lit with something you don't often see directed at you, a furious conviction. "What we think we know isn't always fact, so if you think you're not pretty…" He nods his head gently to the left. "There's only really one thing left to do." 

Your heart feels like it's being juiced. "What's that?" you ask. 

He grabs your hand and puts it on his chest. Fingertips to his breastbone, he holds it flat. Sure enough, even through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, you can feel the rapid capering of his pulse. 

"It's like that pretty much any time I look at you." 

"Spence…" 

"I know it's bad," he says.

"Are you messing with me?"

"Yeah, I did a lap before I came to find you– No!" He laughs, giving you an admonishing look. "Why would I mess with you? How could I?" 

"I don't know." 

He dips in to kiss your frown. "You're so pretty," he whispers. "So, so pretty. You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen, no matter what you think." 

You don't believe that you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen, but you believe that he believes it. He has no reason to lie to you, nothing to gain. He could've said, Hey, you're pretty, and left it at that. He could've been angry with you for leaving the table for something some people would say was superficial. But Spencer's your sweetheart. 

"Do you want to go home, angel?" he asks, looking at you worriedly. 

"No." You don't even have to think about it —you've done enough thinking. "I don't want to go home. Sorry, Spencer. I feel better." And you'll stay out all night if he's going to call you angel again. 

"Well, let me know if you need me to tell you again." 

The chances of you surviving such an ardent speech a second time are low. "I won't be doing that." 

Spencer shrugs. "You'll let me know, even if you don't think so. You have a tell when you're upset." 

You spend the rest of the night making up for your disruption (which Spencer's friends immediately dismiss without questioning), shepherding the crisper curly fries on to Spencer's plate because he likes them that way, and begging him to tell you what your tell is with subtle pleading glances and a hand on his knee. Nothing inappropriate, but affectionate nonetheless. 

He doesn't tell you no matter how much you ask, and maybe it's the drinks or the way the scone light kisses his cheeks in a warm buttery light, you can't find it in you to be mad. 

"Keep your secrets," you say, chin tilted upward. You're failing to glare at him, too much love in your eyes for it to be believable. 

"You're beautiful," he says back, mirroring your expression playfully, before leaning down for a chaste kiss. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! if you did, please consider reblogging, it makes a big difference to me<3 have a good day!

[revelboo]

I love your writing! Can I get more Drift? 🥺

Sure! I’ll work on updating AO3 tonight and getting everything else up there, too as a precaution since none of this is backed up anywhere but here or there

The Samurai Code Pt 3

Drift x Reader

• “Here. Just a bit.” Servo reaching to tip your chin up, trying to get you to focus on him, Drift vents tiredly. Needs you to stay awake when you spend more time out than alert. Little hand trembling when you obediently take one of the little food bars Ratchet has provided him and halfheartedly nibble on the end of it. He’d already figured out the hard way that you don’t like the things and that you’ll hide it if he doesn’t watch you and make sure you eat. Pretending to sharpen his sword, he keeps an optic on you. Spark constricting when you double over with a small noise.

• Faint tremors wracking you, you curl into yourself as the pain sinks its teeth in and tears into you. And he lays his palm against your spine, warm servos curling around you but not trying to pick you up as it gets harder to think. Can hear his low, rumbling voice, but can’t make sense of him. Body and head screaming at you as everything narrows down to the pain. A servo is stroking your hair from your sweaty forehead when you become aware again. Knowing you lose time whenever you have one of your episodes and that none of the giant robots, the Cybertronians, you’d found yourself among know what’s wrong with you or how to fix it. “How long?” You ask, your raw throat letting you know it’s been a while.

• “Not long,” he lies, offering you a servo when you struggle to get upright. Hates watching you suffer and not knowing how to help. Offering you water that you sip at, he watches you look around like you're not sure of your surroundings. Ratchet hadn’t been too optimistic about your chances of survival. Explaining that whatever’s wrong is taking too much of a toll on your fragile body. And he needs to believe that Ratchet is underestimating you. That you’ll keep fighting, so he lies to you and himself. “You’re doing better.”

• Exhausted and just wanting to sleep, you look up at him and those pretty blue optics. He’s a terrible liar, but you appreciate the effort from him. You've tried to get him to tell you what's wrong, but he either doesn't know or can't bring himself to say it. You can guess, though. Those servos slide against your spine, and you feel bad that he has to suffer through this with you. Wishing you were braver and could tell him to just end it sometimes when the pain is too much. That it'd be a kindness to both of you. "You're a sweetheart," you murmur as he cups his big hand around you to keep you upright.

• Servo rubbing your arm as you begin to lean against him, he almost laughs. Because you have no idea how awful he is deep down, the things he's done. That as much as he tries to outrun his past, Deadlock is always there on the other side of the mirror. Laughing at him and his attempts to change your fate, to change his own. "You're going to be okay. I swear it." And the lies come easier every day.

Previous

Next

[miyacults]

red, blue and yellow lights.

( ft. satoru gojo. )

It’s hard to tell you a cold, numb no. How does Suguru has it in him to ever deny you anything and make you behave? Satoru doesn’t have that much power over you. Yet. It’s the other way around entirely. Usually, you have Satoru wrapped around your dainty fingers… but this time isn’t usual at all.

> part 2.

wc: 4k (unedited im soreeey)

cw: fem reader (afab). only gojo action here but poly satosugu is super implied. +18, explicit content. smut. minors do not interact. slight age gap, reader is younger than both of them but not much and is not stated at all. daddy kink and daddy dynamic so be careful!!! rough sex/rough satoru. manhandling. slight hints at dacryphilia. slight chocking. marking (one hickey). unprotected sex, p in v sex. little mention of blood. that should be all! enjoy <3

It was raining the first day it happened—sky practically crying at the sight of you three, already sinking down in the problems to come for such a reckless call. Satoru and Suguru are the strongest ones, so they know better and they pride themselves with this fact. They’re smarter than the rest, both devastatingly attractive, even more so than anyone could ever imagine and…simply superior. But the first time they didn’t knew better.

Or they didn’t care to.

The second time shouldn’t have occurred. They should’ve weighed into the idea of not stumbling upon the same rock again—but they did it nonetheless. How couldn’t they? When the rock herself got the touch of angels, the voice of the gods and a face made in heaven. Anyone in their right mind would have done the same.

And so the third and the fourth come, and suddenly they stop counting how many more times have they been opening the gates of hell for you three to freely wander—toying with the risk of losing it all, as sorcerers always do. Stumbling upon a path of no recovery, stranding themselves into a new kind of addiction capable of surpassing that of what power and glory and the god-like status they hold has been pumping their veins for a while now.

Satoru likes to share everything with Suguru. And Suguru likes to share everything with Satoru. Where one goes, the other follows. If Satoru likes it sweet, then Suguru deals with the bitterness, and if Suguru wants it that way, Satoru will pave it himself without a second thought. They’ve been complementing each other for so long, it was only natural for this to happen.

For you, to happen.

But even them have their own ways of becoming addicted to you.

“Please,” you’re saying—sobbing, actually, clenched teeth chirping, violent tremors ripping inside your chest, glimmering tears staining dainty features—and Satoru already feels the weight of guilt swallowing him whole. Tense lips press each other firmly in a straight line, azure eyes shutting together as lithe fingers ghost the overly sensitive skin of his neck. “Please, ‘Toru—”

“No.”

He needs you to shut up, fast.

The name—his name—is hanging dangerously at the tip of your tongue, too close to being spilled out loud, too close to make an even bigger mess than the one he’s already sitting himself on.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you’re murmuring now against his sealed lips, small cries leaving your mouth, basically straddling his lap as you desperately try to adjust yourself over the growing bulge in his pants—bare, tight little cunt fluttering at the small friction. “I’ll behave, please, just let me ride your cock for a little while, please.”

“Oh, sweets,” Satoru heaves an exasperated sigh through a low, nervous chuckle, hands running through snowy hair crystal clear gaze finally fixing on you. “You’re gonna be the death of me one of these days, you know that? Suguru told me you were being a brat lately and I didn’t listen to him,”

He’s trying to play it off as best he can, sure, but this is adding up to his temper. His cock throbs painfully inside his trousers. He’s not even sure what time it is—maybe three, four in the morning? He doesn’t know. It’s quite hard to keep the track of time when you’re here to distract him of all the things he should be doing instead, when the blue cotton laced panties—the ones he gifted you like two weeks ago—that are supposed to be covering your greedy, insatiable pussy, are now stuffed in the pocket of his expensive, Tom Ford shirt.

It’s nearly impossible to focus when you’re rolling your hips, humping your needy clit and damping his pants with your juices, causing an unbearable explosion in his stomach, cock hard and full of precum you should be licking off of him.

You should be the one cleaning the mess, not him.

Satoru swallows dry, hands falling in a thump over the armchairs of the couch you’re both sitting at. It takes nearly all of his inhuman strength to keep them there, to not let them travel to the hem of your hiked up oversized shirt—Suguru’s shirt, if he recalls correctly—and place them over the heated flesh of your bare ass. It takes everything in him not to squeeze it, knead it, slap it until the skin is red and tender—an unique piece of art only he can make.

“Is that a yes?” You question eagerly, lashes fluttering and eyes sparkling in awe.

“No, baby.”

It’s hard to tell you a cold, numb no. How does ever Suguru has it in him to deny you anything? How does he ever gets you to behave, to make you an obedient good girl? Suguru had you perfectly trained, bunch of rules memorized and practically burned into the tissues of your brain you could recite them in your sleep.

That didn’t stop Satoru from spoiling you rotten, so much it’s a difficult task to fuck the brat out of you every time you spend a few hours alone with him (as Suguru likes to say)—but even if baby gets whatever she asks for during her time with the white-haired man, when she is back with Suguru what Daddy says goes, instantly.

Because you’re just too perfect for them. The apple of their eyes, their pretty baby, perfection in all senses. It makes it easy for you to be awfully good, to sit prettily in Satoru’s lap all the time, spreading kisses all over his face as his enamoured sapphire eyes don’t leave yours—to sleep almost every night attached to Suguru’s chest as if he’s the incarnation of the oxygen you need to breathe.

But even with all of that—Satoru doesn’t have the same power over you, at least not yet. You have Satoru wrapped around your dainty fingers, manicured nails scratching him in what could be a tantrum. He’s incapable of dealing with you all alone, unable to resist your charms, he fails and falls for you hard. You make him sick, you push him off his highs with a mere, chaste kiss, you leave him hopeless to find a cure—pretty, colored sweets popping inside his mouth all tasting of you.

You’re the most powerful drug he has yet to fully taste, a completely new disease that infects his body, mind and soul, so corrosive it sets him on fire and turn his bones into ashes.

“But ‘T—,” you begin, and he has to cut you off immediately, preventing his name to touch your parted lips.

The name is the key—his name in your saccharine sweet tongue is what will lock him away in the gates of the hell you’ve helped create yourself.

“No,” he chastises now rather severely, unnaturally serious for someone like him, hoarse voice sticking at his dry throat. He glances at you firmly as he feels too sober to maintain his posture, hands still refusing to touch you and lips moving away from yours by an inch. “Did you forget how grounded you are, silly baby?” He scoffs, sardonic grin breaking his rather angelic features and turning him into something darker.

You frown.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,”

“You did,”

“I did not”

“Oh, but you are,” Satoru’s tone falls an octave, and suddenly you shiver. You’ve heard about it a couple of times in the past—Suguru has mentioned how, from time to time, those heavenly features of him darken, but to you, that sounds so out of character. ‘Toru is bubbly and jolly and he likes to teased and he even has sweets for dinner with you. To you, that can’t be fully true, right?

His tense muscles relax a little, just a little, as his gaze is dangerously fixed on you. Salty tears wither in your lashes and your cheeks, swollen lips now pouting at him for his harsh accusation and his cold tone. “‘Cause you’ve been naughty, baby, haven’t you?” He insists.

Something definitely shifts, but you notice it. It goes from his flaming eyes to the icy touch, to the calm breathing—previously heavy—, to the devious smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips.

And you think about what it has been.

Usually, Satoru would have fallen by now. Usually, he would have been already caging you between the couch and his body, pounding into you and brushing your cervix with the head of his thick cock, slapping at your ass, pinching your tits and biting your lips until they’re swollen and bruised. Usually, he would have been chanting about how good you feel, how insane you drive him, how weak he is to you.

Usually, by this time, things would’ve been getting to an end. Suguru would have entered the living room of the big house they both own, would have probably lifted you like a ragdoll out of Satoru’s lap and would have scolded you for your little tricks, for seeking such a lewd activity when you’ve been recovering from the flu, for coaxing the Strongest into your desires. Usually, Satoru would have been scolded too by his best friend, and you would have cried his name while being carried into the bed where you most definitely would have got lectured for your little shenanigans.

But this isn’t usual at all.

“N-No,” you murmur, bleary-eyed gaze blinking at Satoru.

“You sure?”

You don’t know. Are you? Are you really sure you haven’t been naughty? You shouldn’t be chided for anything by Satoru, right? Because Suguru’s been in a really good mood lately, he even peppered you with kisses before bed, tugged you in with his favorite blanket before laying by your side, and before that he made you dinner and watched an episode of the show you’re currently catching on with you while eating together.

“Are—,” you begin, and for some reason you stumble on your words, unsure about how to proceed. Being talked to like that by Satoru was so strange, he never chastised, about anything, ever. All of a sudden you don’t feel so bold anymore, you’re not quite certain you’ll get away with yours this time—and suddenly, Satoru’s touch doesn’t feel warm, his arms no longer being your favorite, cozy shelter, transforming into something icy, devious, darker. “A–Are you mad at me, babe?”

“Oh yeah, babe,” He repeats slowly, slender fingers finding your thighs, adjusting his grasp on you for the first time, hands pressing your skin with a little bit more of force than needed. “You call me babe a lot, don’t you, pretty girl?”

You blink at him, head lolling to the side briefly. Little mewl of surprise scaping your lips due to how strong he’s gripping your thighs—pads digging the flesh and all.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I do. Trust me, I do,”

“You want me to call you something else?”

He finds it amusing. The way your features crinkle in confusion, genuinely concerned for what he’s saying. It’s nice, he thinks, since he’s usually the one that’s dotting on you all the time—while you dot on your Daddy all the time.

“What is it that you call Suguru, sweetheart?” He asks almost conversationally, nose caressing your cheek delicately.

“Uh–huh,” you try to shift on his lap, backing a little from him, but Satoru catches you almost instantly—pushing your face against his torso forcefully. “He’s my Daddy,” you end up answering, voice a little muffled by his cashmere shirt.

And he yanks you up without notice, and you whine at the sudden movement.

“Mean” you scoff, the base of your hair being found by his ivory fingers. He catches the strands between them and tugs a little. “So mean!”

“Oh, I’m mean, I’m super mean,” he agrees with a devilish smile spreading from the tip of his lips to his full face. “But you know what you are? An ungrateful brat. And do you know what happens to spoiled, rude and ungrateful brats? They get punished by their daddies,”

You open your mouth to respond, but you don’t get a chance to as he lifts both of you up from the couch and pushes you over the marble counter of the kitchen, whole body against the cold, solid surface. The action alone knocks a little cry from your chest, glistening tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. And he coos at the sight, he mocks you, looks and talks to you in such a patronizing way you’re complaining about how he can’t scold you, that he’s not Suguru.

“You’re not my D—,”

“Go on, finish that sentence, I dare you,” he warns, azure eyes going completely dark as he hovers over you, steady hands ripping you off of Suguru’s shirt. “I’ll make sure you’re not able to sit straight for a month,”

This time, you’re the one that swallows dry.

And, oh, the way your heart pounds violently inside your rip cage. The way your cunt throbs at the mere image of Satoru stripping himself off his clothes and his dreamy blue eyes don’t move an inch from you, the way your tummy flutters and heat descends all over your now naked body in awe—eagerly expecting his touch, awaiting for him, wanting him to take his way and completely obliterate you.

It’s exciting to push the boundaries a little, test the limits of what’s known and jump into the void. It’s dangerous—with Satoru, it’s unbelievably deadly—, but it sends sparks through your veins. It makes your heart roll, makes you want him even more than before.

You sniff, remnants of tears drying your heated cheeks and little squeals still rumbling through your throat.

“Aw, made our sweet princess cry,” Satoru coos at you, freeing his cock out of his trousers—and it’s worth drooling for, in all honesty, with his rosy pink shade and his angry blushed tip, with his irregularly large violet-like veins adorning both sides, and specially with the dim precum that shines beautifully under the kitchen lights.

He gives it a few pumps, and you can’t help but make grabby hands at him—whiny pout morphing your lips as the sobs return, but this time far from covering up the pain, tears now cracking neediness.

“I want you,” you hiccup as he gets closer, grabbing his shoulders as he positions himself over you.

And you feel him, ghosting the tip of his throbbing cock at your little hole, cold digits caressing your breasts—thumbs rolling your nipples and stealing a soft moan from your lips that Satoru catches quickly with his mouth, merging the two of you in a harsh kiss.

“Mhm,” he’s saying and you yelp, teeth biting at your swell and it’s rough, salty, streaks of crimson with a taste of iron coating him. “Now you want me? But I don’t think you deserve it at all,”

“‘Toru—,”

One slap, straight to your thigh.

“That’s not my name, is it?”

You’ve never felt this kind of exciting fire with him before. It had never been so…primal, so needy, so desperate, entire body jolting in anticipation and tummy in knots out of anticipation. It makes your heart vibrate rapidly behind the ribs, mouth practically watering at the sight of him spiraling in such a state because of you.

“You’re not gonna say it?” He insists, tongue catching your nipple. It’s cold and it sends shivers down your spine, provoking delicious shrieks that resonate in his ears and make his blood run faster. He drives the tip of his cock from the entrance, collecting all your juices and directing it to your puffy clit, all to start circling around the bud—one, two, three, four and more times in a nonstop motion.

It’s has you on edge, really. Body trembling and mind going hazy—all the previous lazy dry humping finally getting to your nerves, pussy clenching the air and hot breath colliding viciously against the lanky man.

“Please,” you beg, quivering under his touch. “Please, ‘Toru, I need you,”

“Not my name, sweet thing,” he sighs in a disappointed tone and, for a moment, you think he actually sounds sorry to prolongue this. But you know he isn’t. Not even close, not even a little bit. “Use the right word and maybe I’ll consider letting you cum tonight,”

The word is there, truth be told, dancing curiously at the insides of your mouth, gagging you up and completely searing his whole name.

It’ll just take a little push to make it go out.

“I—I,”

“Say it,” his hand runs to your neck, fingers wrapping around it and mouth printing an obscure mark to your chin—sucking violently at the skin, a combination of gritted teeth and bloodied lips.

He doesn’t stop the movements of his cock on your clit for a second, and you know he’s starting to get too sensitive himself—cracked groans rumbling from his chest, sloppy hips rolling and nearly slipping inside of your cunt once and for all. Your blood rushes to your ears, eyes shutting close as a new sobs rip through parted lips and delicated nails scratch the skin of his broad shoulders. Heat builds in your belly and you know you’re close—so close to cumming around nothing, merely by the fast friction of his throbbing cock over your clit.

And he notices it at the same you do, so he pulls out and flips you over the marble counter before you can reflect on what he’s doing.

“N–No! Sator—,”

“How empty is that pretty little head of yours, uh?” Condescending. His voice his painfully condescending, and so is his touch, so are his hands smacking your ass as the side of your face hits the counter. “You’re not cumming until you say the word,”

It’s a simple word, four letters that you have to spill, wrap your skilled tongue around it and push it through your swollen lips and into his ears. That is all you have to do. So you do.

“Daddy!” You finally yelp, vocal chords shaking the word out like a quake. It’s pathetic, even, how five simple letters merge into cries, becoming an incoherent mess that all can do is say it repeatedly. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. The name buries deeply in his ears and finds a home in the roots of his heart, forcing an explosion of something he can’t quite describe onto his veins. It reduces him to ashes, it revolves everything in his mind and suddenly—suddenly he’s back in control, suddenly he’s not a wandering dog anymore begging go you, suddenly he doesn’t turn into pieces for you to pick up.

Still, you drive him insane. Still, he’s weak to you. But you’re no longer in control and that fuels him like nothing will ever do.

And all your babbling keeps you from catching on his moves until he’s already sinking in your cunt roughly. You sob at the intrusion, pain exploding in your stomach and ache consuming you by the burning stretch.

“S-So good, baby, my baby is so good,” is all he grunts out, pressing his forehead into the back of your head.

He fucks you raw, more than he has ever done before. He fucks you so hard your limbs go numb and the only thing that stays clearly in your mind is that he’s also your Daddy now. He thrusts his hips into yours intensely, so much he basically has you bouncing the marble, and you scream so much it wouldn’t be a surprise if Suguru runs out of the room to make sure no one is slaughtering you, their sweet little princess.

It doesn’t take much after that for you to let go, with body and cervix bruised by his hands and cock, cumming within minutes of hips thrusting into your tiny hole. And he fucks you full of his cum, too. Too many times for you to properly remember the exact number, too much that you feel it dripping from your cunt, all over your thighs and into the counter—marble stained with the sticky substance. And he doesn’t stop at that, either, not until your face, your breasts, your belly and both your holes are so full of his cum you’re close to drooling it, too.

.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀♡⠀⠀⠀.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀♡⠀⠀⠀.

“You left a whole damn hickey on her face, dude,” Suguru’s snickering and he sounds so grumpy as he checks out your sleeping figure curled around his torso, sulky eyes finding the ones of his best friend to recrminate not so silently. “I’m not even that sure is a hickey. That looks like a goddamn punch straight to the jaw,” He then glances down at Satoru, who leans against the wall of the living room, eyebrows raised and lips chopping mindlessly around a cigarette. “Did you punched my baby?”

“Shut up,” Satoru snorts, crystal eyes rolling in annoyance. “Aren’t ya seeing that smile on her face? She’s sleeping like a baby, thanks to me. And she finally has some respect for me, so, we both win,”

“Pretty sure she had things to do early today,” Suguru mumbles, one hand holding the cigarette and the other mindlessly caressing your back above the shirt—Satoru’s shirt now—that covers your frame. “And in the afternoon, too. Guess we gotta let her sleep,”

“Agree,” Satoru walks to both of you, a shit eating grin flashing his features. “Let her rest and gain some energy. She’ll need it to give a warm morning to her favorite Daddy,”

And Suguru has something to say about that—because he’s sure his the favorite Daddy. But now Satoru thinks the same, too.

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part six

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit descriptions of violence, blood, and death

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 3.3k

You had to get out of there.

Tremors shook the ground as another shell made impact somewhere far to your right but it was close enough that the explosion left your ears ringing. You flattened your back further against the fallen wall behind you when you heard the unmistakeable sound of gunfire, the rubble that cut into your skin barely registered in your mind from the adrenaline that rushed through you. But the cacophony of noise amalgamated into something continuous, something malevolent and cruel; something that promised death in its wake. 

Bullets embedded themselves in a column, a wall, a body–everywhere–and fine pieces of debris flew and pelted against the exposed skin of your cheeks and against your helmet. Your eyes watered from the fine powder of pulverised cement and the oppressive heat, while your lungs were smothered by smoke and a choking stench–something like freshly-laid asphalt mixed with the distinct, rancid smell of burnt human flesh, sulphuric and sharp. 

Through lidded eyes you witnessed the depravity; the extent of humanity’s appetite for senseless destruction and anarchy. It was total chaos–no, it was worse than that: it was butchery and brutality at its finest; a type of hell on earth.

All around you were bodies upon bodies, men and women alike–children. Their faces, frozen and pallid, permanently bore imprints of terror and agony; their crooked fingers and still eyes fixated to the sky imploring in violent judgment–resentful and anguished in their silence–the unspoken question: 

Why?

Why? 

Why?

Everything overwhelmed you all at once: the sight and the smell made your stomach churn to no end. Even when you heaved the remnants of your stomach to the ground, the nausea remained, pulsing and gnawing.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you brought your camera to your eye and you willed the shaking in your bones to still. 

You took a shot. 

Another round of bullets splattered to a nearby wall and this time, you threw yourself front-first to the ground and you felt the rhythm of your heart reverberating against the mud. And a sinking feeling hit you. You’d bore witness to many conflicts, faced mortal peril, and was familiar to death like it was an old friend. Each time you were in such a situation, hopelessness never got the better of you–it was like you’d always known you were going to make it out each time. 

This time it was different, you could feel it in your bones. You were going to die here and it wasn’t a matter of if, just when and how. 

But you had a job. If you were going to die, you would die being the mouthpiece for the ones who’d already been silenced–from their premature deaths or from the hand of the power meant to protect them or both–to show the world what they’d suffered, what they’d sacrificed.

With that in mind, you steeled yourself. You loaded your camera with another ring of film, fingers stiff from the cold and marred by blood and mud, and you captured the scene.

Repeat.

There were people screaming, running, clamouring for survival. As you moved with them, you kept an eye out for other survivors who needed help to get out of there. You scanned the faces for the familiar ones of Jones and Gilda but they were nowhere to be seen. You’d lost track of them after the initial explosion and the chaos that followed so the only thing you could do now was to look for them as you went and hope for their safety. 

Meter by meter, inch by inch, you moved slowly away from the direction of gunfire. You were farther ahead now but the gunners were still dangerously close, still close enough to be able to catch up to where you were if they continued their pursuit, so you remained crouched and cautious for any sound that could indicate danger. 

When you came across the rubble of a fallen building–freshly destroyed by artillery from the smoke that came from it–you heard a whimper. It startled you; the softness of the sound barely pierced through the ringing in your ear but when you peered under a slab of concrete braced by a rugged beam, you caught sight of a scene that shattered what was left of your heart.

In the shadows, big eyes that you could not mistaken belonged to a child shone with terror, a little girl that looked no more than ten years of age, her mouth partly open in fear. You could discern another person next to the child but they weren’t moving at all and from the blood smeared on the girl’s cheek, you had a sinking feeling that the other person was dead. 

Gunfire echoed somewhere behind you and you flinched at its closeness. How did they get so close so fast? You needed to get the both of you out of there. If you could save this child’s life then maybe, just maybe, your life was worth something after all. 

You raised both of your hands up and spoke gently, hoping the little girl would be able to understand that you were there to help as you stooped to fit through the gap. The child hesitated and receded further back into the rubble so you tried again as you inched closer to where the other person laid unresponsive, patient despite the ever-closing sound of shots being fired. 

You reached the other person–a woman–and when you placed two fingers against her pulsepoint and found no rhythm, you bit your quivering lip and looked at the child, chest heavy. And as if the little girl finally understood that you meant no harm, she inched towards you and placed her small hand in your open one. With a firm yet gentle grip on the girl, you guided the both of you out of the rubble.

Once outside, you carried the little girl behind a wall, heart breaking when you felt her shiver and at the fact that it took little effort carry to her for she weighed so little. And now with light and cover, you inspected the little girl.

To your relief, other than the trail of flaking blood that originated from the crown of her head and on her cheeks, the little girl looked like she didn’t sustain any other physical injuries. Satisfied for the time being you began to tend to her, gave her water and what little food you had on you, and then wiped away the blood.

After she finished, you detached the velcro of your bulletproof vest and unbuckled your helmet before you put them on the little girl. Then you hoisted the girl up on your back, leaving your camera dangling heavily on your chest.

You managed to sneak across the district without being noticed but you knew the danger was never far away. A little farther on, you began to recognise key landmarks that let you know you were close to the base you came from. So even when the muscles in your legs protested for you to rest, you pushed on.  

Not a moment later though did loud shots fill the air and immediately, you fell to the ground, feeling fine rubble and shrapnels cut into the side you landed on as you manoeuvred your body so that the child wouldn’t get hurt. The little girl cried out and adrenaline coursed through your veins, instinct driving you to keep the child safe so you pushed the two of you against a nearby wall, your back to the open space while you shielded the child with your body, her head safely caged between your arms and chest.

You craned your head over your shoulders to figure out where the shots were fired but then a feeling of lightness passed through you followed by a growing thickness at the back of your throat. You coughed, the force of it made you keel forward, and as you looked down you saw fresh blood splattered on the face of the girl, her eyes wide with horror as she looked up at you.

Then you felt it, a burning sensation that enveloped the entirety of your right side which left you cold. When you looked to your side your shirt clung to your skin, soaked with blood.

No. 

You sputtered again and you tried to breathe but the pain only intensified and instead of feeling relief, the act smothered you–it felt like you were drowning. Then everything began to blend together: the shapes lost their edges and some images doubled, but the light seemed to intensify on its own, swallowing all in its wake. Then you sagged forward and the ringing in you ears, too, blared unceasingly.

No.

You must… 

The child… 

Wait. 

Alexia–

“–are you okay?”

You started as Derek’s voice brought you from your reverie, your mind someplace else that you’d already forgotten but the feeling that you were missing something important lingered behind in the back of your mind.

“Huh?” 

“Honey, your brother’s been trying to get your attention for the past minute. Are you alright?” The familiar voice of your mom brought your focus to her. She sat at the head of the long table while Derek opposite you, and you found twin pairs of blue eyes looking at you with concern. Your mom stood, chair scraping against the tiled floor as she did and she made her way towards you. She put a palm over your forehead once she was close enough before she asked, “do you have a fever?”

“Mom, I’m fine. I’m just–” You began but suddenly, a wave of exhaustion came over you which left you cold. It was as if a sheet of ice was put over you and you felt the coldness cling to your bones, weighing you down as your body slowly began to freeze over. “I’m–I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest up now.” 

When you moved to stand, staggering slightly due to the weakness in your knees, Derek snatched your hands and clung to them, and you looked at him in alarm, eyes wide.

“Please, don’t. Don’t.” He said through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth drooped low in a pained grimace, blue eyes glazed over and brows furrowed in a silent plea. 

His obsecration confused you and you were about to ask him why you shouldn’t rest if you felt tired when your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm. You turned to her and when you found her gaze, she wore the same expression as your brother. 

“You’re brother’s right, honey. Just–please, just stay with us for a bit more.” 

What was going on? Why weren’t they letting you go?

Another wave of fatigue doused over you but this time, pain erupted from your chest. So intense was it that it nearly made you keel over the table, nails digging into its hard surface as you tried to catch your breath but with each inhale the more it felt like you were running out of air.

“I’ll–I’ll join you in a bit. I just… I just need a nap.” You staggered to your feet, pulling your hands away from Derek’s grip with the remaining strength you had and brushed off your mom’s protest.

As you passed the full-body mirror just beside your bedroom door, you saw your reflection, haggard and pale, and with her were the familiar silhouettes of the people that haunted you… your mother and father. They stood there behind you–your mother to your right and your father to the left–but you only found an empty space where they stood when you whipped your head back to look for them.

So there you stood, rooted in front of the mirror as you soaked their images in but for some reason, your couldn’t quite discern their faces. They were blurred; it was as if someone had swiped their thumb over the freshly laid ink of their image and made their features indecipherable. 

Longing prompted you to reach out a hand to try and trace the lost edges of their faces but instead of meeting the mirror’s smooth surface like you expected, your fingers sank into the mirror like it was made of water. Quickly, in fear that it would hurt you, you retracted your hand and you watched in awe as the mirror image went still again, back to the reflection of yourself and your parents.

Then out of curiosity you plunged your hand again into the mirror and instead of feeling pain, you felt… nothing. The sensations in your hand in the mirror stopped as if it had ceased to exist completely. 

Would it soothe then the pain in your body if you stepped into it?

The thought tempted you and you stepped forward, ready to sink into this silver miracle, but something stopped you–a weight on your shoulder pulled you back from the mirror. You staggered backwards, caught off guard from the force of it, but when you looked back you found nobody however this time, when you returned your attention to the mirror, the reflection of your parents was gone. 

Emotions bubbled in your throat, bitter grief and burning confusion a familiar taste on your tongue. Where did they go? Why did they leave you? And as these questions filtered through your mind, another wave of exhaustion doused over you, its weight was unbearable. You needed relief, and soon.

You were ready to step into the mirror–into oblivion–but it wasn’t there anymore. In fact, everywhere you looked there was nothing, just negative space as if the light had dissolved all existence but you. You looked down and you saw your reflection on the still water you were apparently standing on. 

It was so still, so peaceful, and you feel so heavy. It would be easy to just sink into this blissful nothingness–this silence–after… that’s right, after having witnessed the revolting boil of humanity’s thirst for blood. Yes, that was it, the reason you were here: you were here to forget. 

The longer you stared into the water, the more your will to remain standing frayed. 

Not a moment later, you let yourself be plunged downwards into the cold water. Into nothingness. 

You woke with a start, breathing sharply as you did, the sensation of falling still with you and the memory of the dream you just had lingered. It was about… what was it?

When you opened your eyes, you found golden light and you squinted at the stream of the early sun that found its way through the gap between the heavy curtains. Your cheek was warm against Alexia’s bare back and you relished the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin as she breathed, still deep asleep. 

With her so close like this a sense of peace and calm washed over you, the kind that only Alexia’s presence could provide. You turned your head slightly and shifted closer to her, pressing a soft kiss on one of her shoulder blades before you nuzzled the nape of her neck where her scent was most prominent.

You sighed as you breathed her in.

“What are you up to back there?” Alexia’s voice, rough and heavy from slumber, met your ears and the question elicited a small laugh from you.

“Nothing. Just getting comfortable.”

Alexia hummed then she murmured, “come here.”

You moved as she began to turn and disappointment filled you from the separation but when she pulled you into her embrace after she settled on her back, the disappointment quickly faded away. And when she kissed you, soft and languid, everything melted away except for the tender warmth of Alexia’s lips.

You were content.

Suddenly, a gnawing feeling seeped into the edges of your mind and, little by little by little, apprehension filled you. There was something you’d forgotten, somewhere you needed to be.

You pulled away from Alexia’s lips. “What time is it?”

“Don’t go.”

Her answer jarred you. You lifted yourself up on your elbow and considered Alexia, confused as to why she would say such a thing. She knew you had to go. How could you not go? Where else could you possibly be? So you asked her as much.

“No, you don’t have to. Please.” Alexia placed a hand on your cheek, her eyes glassy. You sighed, turned your cheek away from her touch, and extricated yourself from her warm embrace. You stood at the foot of the bed and regarded Alexia again who was now sitting up, the sheets pooled around her waist, her chest bare, shoulders hunched forward as she looked at you. You only shook your head before you went into the en suite bathroom to get ready.

Once you got in the shower you, unsurprisingly, thought of Alexia and your confusion returned twofold. Why was she making this difficult? She knew you had to go. You already told her… 

At that thought, you frowned as you tried to remember. When did you tell her? Why did you need to leave? The questions were beginning to make your head hurt so you left the shower, wrapped yourself in a towel and headed to the closet. In there, you found your stack of simple white clothes. You picked a white shirt and a matching pair of jeans and you made your way to the bedroom door. 

As you passed by the bed, you saw Alexia just as you left her and from where you stood, you saw how small she looked. And those eyes… they shone with something you could only name as plea, the tears in them now in danger of falling. 

Your chest ached and so did your head. 

You shook your head and made your way to Alexia, pressed an apologetic kiss against her temples, then you moved to the door.

You opened it and an abyss greeted you, a world of no outlines, shape nor colour, just a brilliant white that called to you. Its pull was magnetic, like a tide that wanted to sweep you away, but there was something keeping you in place, an invisible tether and it was anchored to the woman sitting in your bed.

“Please, don’t go.”

You had one foot out of the door when Alexia spoke with such gentleness you couldn’t do anything but look over your shoulder. The sight of her crying made the pounding in your temples unbearable and the pain in your chest blazed anew, excruciating and cruel. The world blurred and warmth slipped down your cheeks. 

Why were you crying? Why was this difficult? You had to leave, you were about to miss something important.

“Alexia, why?” You sobbed, clutching your chest. It hurt.

She was out of the bed now, right beside you, and she reached out and cupped your face with one hand, the other went to your hand on the door handle. Her touch that used to soothe you, that used to bring you peace and clam, sent pain to every nerve in your body. You gasped, your chest was in danger of bursting and your knees lost their strength. And then you remembered why you needed to leave: you needed this pain to disappear; you had to get better.

Finally, your knees buckled under your weight but Alexia was there to catch you, her body strong and firm, and oh, so warm.

“Alexia, please let me go,” you sobbed into her arms. 

Everything hurt. But she held you, unyielding.

“Stay. Please, stay with me,” she whispered in your ear and the words were followed by another wave of pain. This time, you screamed in agony and clawed at Alexia’s shoulders to get yourself away but still, she didn’t budge.

“I got you. I got you. I got you,” she repeated as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Everything coalesced into a singular, never-ending noise but Alexia’s voice pierced through the veil like a silver lining, a life line that you held onto as you were washed away into an ocean of light.

[ghost-proofbaby]

if it were anyone else (e.m.)

warnings: strong allusions to depression, disordered eating/rough relationship with food, mentions of smoking, description of a sort of panic attack. very sad. hurt/comfort? not edited.

wc: 1.6k+

a/n: this is literally entirely self indulgent and written entirely after i sat and cried and thought "i wish i had eddie here right now to hold me". maybe in like thirty minutes tops. this is for me and only me. go figure lol. sorry. yeah. anyways.

if you relate, my askbox is always open, and i'm very sorry you've felt this way as well. i hope you all take care of yourselves. drink some water, call a friend. be kind to yourself.

“I’m worried about you.” 

Four words that always manage to strike a certain type of fear in your gut. You don’t know how to react as he says it, how he wants you to react. You can only stare blankly, you can only wish harder for the earth to swallow you whole.

“What do you mean?” you laugh nervously, following it with a hard swallow.

You’re playing dumb. You know it, he knows it. The tremor in your bones and your numb appendages know it, too. 

“You’re…” Eddie stalls, licking his lips, letting his eyes rake over you, “You’re getting bad again.” 

You’re quick to shake your head, forcing another hollow chuckle from your chest, “It’s not that bad. I’m fin-”

“You’re not fine.”

The look in his eyes could crack your spine if you stare too long. Wet eyes, a trembling bottom lip, worry lines etched into his forehead that you realize might be caused by you.

You’re causing him worry. The last thing you want to do, you’ve accomplished. You’re on a fast-track to becoming a burden – the first step is always acceptance. 

You’re still unsure of how he wants – no, needs you to react right now. This conversation is a landmine for both of you, and you hold every breath with every step as you try to navigate it. If you make one wrong step, it could cause an explosion that spares no survivors.

You don’t mind if it tears you apart limb by limb. You do mind if it hurts him. 

“How… How do you know that?” 

It’s not a sarcastic snipping or defensive deterrence. It’s an unfiltered response of genuineness – you want to know the signs, you want to know what has exposed the rot this time.

And then, maybe next time, you’ll be able to better shield it from him with this knowledge. 

“How could I not?” he takes a deep breath in through his nose, and you focus on the flare of his nostrils rather than any of the tears beginning to gather at his waterlines, “It’s been happening for a while now, though, hasn’t it?” 

Your throat is a cage, tight and restrictive and ringing with a bitter metallic taste in its tenseness. You can’t respond with words. You can only nod. 

He chooses to answer your question more properly now that you’ve admitted it, “You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground. Picking up distractions like they’re going out of style.”

“Hey, they might be. We never know-” you cut yourself off when your eyes meet his. Now’s not the time for jokes, “Sorry. I… I know. I’m sorry.” 

He’s right. Fuck, he’s right. 

“I want to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly,” his own steps across these landmines are just as delicate, just as feathery light, as your own. You hear it in his tone, see it in his body language. You wish your body could sink into the mattress you’re sitting on the edge of as he crouches in front of you, warm palms connecting with your knees. Grounding you. Tethering you. Holding you back from that sinking you crave. “Are you… Sweetheart, are you okay?”

If anybody else had built up to such a stupid question, you would have laughed in their face. You would have shoved those warm palms right off of your skin and you would have thrown up those ice cold hands of your own, shouted obviously not. 

Obviously not. I’m not okay. I’m so far from okay, it’s a bit comical. I am drowning. I am treading in freezing cold waters and I am barely capable of keeping my head above the waves. My engine is fucked, my tank is empty. I don’t think I’d even know how to be ‘okay’ again if you did manage to pull this mangled body of mine from these depths and sat me down on safe, solid ground again. 

You can’t say any of this, though. Not because you don’t trust him, not because he would judge you. But because the moment he asks the question that should make you scoff, you let out a sob instead. Something like a muffled, broken wail that tears from deep within you. It had already been ready and poised, laying in wait for a perfect moment like this one to escape. 

His eyes aren’t the only glossy ones anymore. 

“I-” you start, breathing already stuttering and chest already constricting, “I- I-”

“Hey,” he palms smooth up your thighs, carrying their warmth with them, as if he were trying to spread it across you. As if he had heard your thoughts. As if he already knew all about those dark, treacherous, freezing waters you were stranded in. All you can do is spew out another cry, strangled as you tried to swallow it down before it entered the atmosphere between you two, “Hey.” 

You only notice the tears when you crumple forward and he meets you halfway. Those warm palms, those hands so capable of safety and promise, cup your cheeks and his thumbs make quick work of swiping away the salty streams. 

“Hey, baby, breathe for me,” his voice is tragically gentle, “Just one deep breath, okay?” 

To demonstrate, you watch his chest expand dramatically, his hands forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

You can’t see through the bleariness. 

“C’mon, sweetness,” he encourages again, “One breath. Just one.” 

If it were anyone else, you’d turn into a fit of rage at the coddling. You’d break everything in sight. You’d scream until your already burning lungs finally collapsed as they’d been yearning to for so long. 

But it’s him. It’s just him, it’s just Eddie. 

His chest rises dramatically again, and this time, yours does as well, albeit through stifling hiccups. You’re dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the flood of emotion that was wrecking you. 

“There you go!” his voice rises ever so slightly, and when you flinch a bit at the sudden volume, he retracts, “Sorry, sorry. But that’s it, sweetheart. Another one, okay?” 

Another breath. Another sob. Another wave of all the pain you’ve been battling off. 

You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground.

He was right and it fucking killed you. None of those are things you could ever shield him from. You didn’t have the heart to pull away those numb and icey fingertips every time he’d reach out for your hand, or try to cover the shivers that managed to rack your bones even in the middle of summer. The sleeping situation had been spiraling, a pendulum of sleepless nights that would end in a sleep so deep that you could have been mistaken for resting with the dead. Maybe the smoking you could have hid, especially when you’d been so boastful about quitting. 

You weren’t running yourself into the ground. You had already collapsed into the dirt, you had already joined the worms. You’d buried yourself alive, six feet under, and nothing could have stopped him from sniffing out that scent of decay on you. 

The death of a soul and mind. The death of the thing that had propelled you forward for so long. No amount of sweet perfume, or hour long scalding showers, or minty gum to occupy your mind rather than a proper meal, can erase that stench. 

You never could have shielded him. He always saw right through you. Always had, always would. 

“I’m sorry,” you end up crying out. 

You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you echo the words again. Over and over, on repeat, until he’s rising from the ground. Until he’s sat beside you. Until his arms are suddenly encasing you and you’re awarded a warmth you didn’t feel deserving of. 

He doesn’t smell like the decay you’d surrounded yourself with. He smells like slow waking in the morning, dreary and calm and at a reasonable time. He smells like warm baths that only relax your bones, and don’t have to blister your skin in the process. He smells like three meals a day, all comforting and all effortless and that never linger with a sense of regret.

He’s not decay, never even treading close to death. He’s home. He’s the promise that you could be okay. Even if it isn’t right now. 

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs into the crown of your head, squeezing you tighter into his chest, not even blinking an eye at the patch of wetness you leave behind from where your cheeks bury against him, “Never apologize. Ever. Not with me, sweetheart. Keep the sorries. I don’t need them.” 

If it were anyone else, the holding would have suffocated you. But it’s him. It’s Eddie.

You don’t fight him when he pulls you fully into his lap, situating the two of you comfortably on that mattress. 

You don’t know how long you let him cradle you like that. How much of that time is spent filled with your cries, or how many breaths he gently urges you to take with him. He never once has to verbally say what you already know; he never once promises aloud that it’ll be okay. He doesn’t put that pressure on you, not yet. Not today. Not when he knows the journey to okay is still such a long one. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers to you instead, “I’ve got you, now, sweetheart.” 

If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t believe them. 

But it’s him. It’s Eddie. 

And he’s got you, for now and for as long as you need.

[clownery-and-fuckery]

Comfort !!!! soft PheeTech is my favourite thing to write, can't wait for her to beat up Hemlock and save Tech <33

No spoilers, just my own theories <3

"Well that can't be comfortable."

He jumps, looking over to the doorway. Phee is leaning on the doorframe, shooting him a disapproving look. She's in her nightwear, hair ruffled from sleep. Sleep she still should be getting. Sleep that avoids him like the plague.

"Come on, sweetheart," She says softly. "Time for bed."

She urges him, begs him, but he won't. Can't. He draws up further, arms tucking his knees to his chest as he lowers his chin into the dip between his tightly coiled limbs. He watches her wearily, cautious.

Her heart breaks for him. She walks over slowly, hands stretched to show him that they're not holding anything. Not moving to harm, just to hold.

He allows her to come closer, until he can feel her warmth as her hands slowly card through his hair. She notices the sheen of sweat on his face, the glaze in his eyes. The fear is palpable. She's sure the eldest can taste it from wherever he's sleeping tonight. If he's sleeping at all.

"Nightmare?" She asks in a whisper.

He twitches, jerkily as he takes a shuttering breath. She hums, hands gentle as they brush over his shaking shoulders, finding his trembling hands to clasp. They shake harder in her grip, and his brows furrow, darting between her and their joined hands. Waiting, anticipating.

Her heart clenches again. "I'm not going to hurt you." She promises softly. "You're not there anymore, love. You're home."

He watches her with blank eyes. His hands don't stop shaking.

She's seen this before. She saw the state of the sniper's hands, the quake as he picked up his rifle. The only information he ever disclosed was resistance wasn't easy. The cost of his hands was a sacrifice he wished he hadn't had to make.

Irreversible damage. That's what it was.

It made her blood boil, and her eyes soften. She presses a feather-light kiss to his scarred knuckles. She ignores the reflexive flinch.

She meets his gaze, and finds recognition. He grounds himself with her lips, gentle and loving as she presses another kiss to his hands. The tremors don't stop, but they lessen. That's all she needs.

"Hi," She greets with a smile, relived to find him present. She waits till he nods in acknowledgement to ask. "What're you doing out here so late?"

Her whisper brings another shaky breath, a hitch that catches them both off guard. His mouth opens, but no sound follows. She nods in understanding.

"Can't or won't?" She asks in a hush. "Tap my hand, please."

One jutted tap hit her hand softly. Can't. She nods again, pressing another kiss to his fingers.

"Alright," She says, standing slowly, methodically. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, until she leans close again. "It's alright, let's get you comfy, okay?" Her voice is low, inviting. There is no pressure in her stance.

He watches her and nods. She raises him to his feet, hearing creak of uncooperative limbs, feels the tension in him as he hisses, voice breaking as pain shoots through him.

"I've got you," She assures. "Lean on me, I won't let you fall."

And she doesn't. They walk through the house, the waves from the sea of Pabu filling the silence. She can feel him relaxing the further into the house they go. She talks the whole way, hushed encouragement easing the shake in his knees.

The low lights of the lanterns outside light the way, barely illumating the space enough for them to see. Phee knows the way, she's walked this path many times before. The company doesn't make the journey any different.

She leads him into the room, eases him under the covers. She doesn't let him go for a second.

"Now," She sighs once they finally sink into the mattress. "Isn't that better?"

He hums, curling into her. Their legs intertwine, his face turns to burrow into the crook of her neck, like he belongs there. Like he's always belong there. Maybe he has.

She cards her hand through his hair, the other trailing down to pick up his hands, to press more soft kisses to the calloused skin. "Love," She says quietly, waiting for him to hum again. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

He stilled. His trigger finger twitched harshly, snapping like he still held a blaster. Phee barely reacted beyond a small glance towards it.

It took a long moment for him to answer. "I–" His voice is hoarse, eyes misty as he avoids eye contact. "I forgot."

"Forgot?" She echoes, rubbing soothing circles into his back. "Forgot what?"

His voice breaks. "I forgot where I was."

Phee has the decency to hide her reaction, pulling him closer and pressing a firmer kiss to his head. "Oh, sweetheart.."

She doesn't know what else to say. He continues, speaking into her.

"It was too dark to tell–" He breaks off again, coiling up to the point that Phee can feel him as he pulls in on himself. "–it was cold. I couldn't tell."

Phee nods, taking a deep breath as she hugs him closer. She can feel how tense he is against her, hands shaking as his trigger finger pulls against nothing. Reflexive, preventive.

"You're on Pabu," She reminds carefully, rubbing into his shoulder, knowing where the knots are before he has to ask.

She feels them loosen beneath her hands, feels him sagging against her with a breath of relief. "You're with your brothers. With me. You're safe."

He's putty in her hands in seconds, sighing contently as she works through the kinks in his shoulder with startling proficiency. "You're never going back to that place. It's gone. He's gone."

He stills at the mention of the doctor. Phee pushes forward, reworking where the tension returned. "You survived," She continues, bringing her hands to cup his cheeks, wiping at his eyes before pressing their foreheads together.

"I promise you, everything is alright now." She whispers against him, breath fanning his face as she readjusts, tugging the blankets up around them.

"It's time to sleep," She says, watching him absentmindedly rub his eyes, yawning as he struggles to hold his heavy eyes open. She smiles gently.

He will never admit to the whine that leaves him when she dims the lights again. "I know," She coos, all smiles as she hugs him closer. "But you're tired, love. It's time to rest."

He opens his mouth to complain, but all that leaves him is a yawn before he settles, tucked up against her. He's asleep in moments, snoring away as his cold nose presses against her neck.

She feels something inside her relax, knowing that it's over. That he's here, that they were all here. That they were never leaving again. She presses another kiss to his forehead, mindful not to wake him.

"Goodnight, Brown Eyes," She whispers, drifting off herself. She would have to tell Hunter, she could already see the blinker of Tech's comm. But he could wait. They all could afford to wait.

They had all the time in the world, now.

[raayllum]

for snake boi callum week, day 1: prince (italicized quotes from machiavelli's "the prince")

Callum receives a book of princely etiquette on his eleventh birthday.

It's an old tome, wrapped in a bow and presented to him by Harrow alongside an awkward hug and well-meaning smile. "It was my copy once," his stepfather tells him.

Harrow has even left notes in the margins, tiny annotations scrawled in ink. Callum reads the book as well as he reads anything else, but it is rather dull. It's a lot of rules about forks and knives and bows that he's not entirely sure he'll keep straight, and even King Harrow's notes and adjustments aren't enough to keep it interesting.

Most of them are modelled after a prince becoming a king, after all, and Ez is just learning how to tie his own boot laces now so that Callum doesn't have to do them for him all the time.

Still... if he learns more about being a prince—other princely etiquette books have to exist, right?—maybe he can be a better one. He heads to the library, dodging the bothersome old lady who oversees it, and only gets distracted a couple of times on his way to the right section.

He bypasses the ones that are just about social etiquette (he's had enough of that already) or linguistics (he's plenty fluent in courtly Neolandian thank you very much) and history (the battles have funny names, but the Mage Wars don't affect things too much these days) in favour of something a bit fresher.

The Social Politics of Ruling stands out to him, and Callum pulls it down from the shelf. This might be useful as a prince, and barring that, as Ezran's future advisor someday.

He sinks to the floor and opens it, eyes scanning the chapters, then the pages. It's certainly an easier read than the one Harrow had given him, but with every sentence, the uneasy feeling in his stomach increases.

It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot have both... That couldn't be right. Callum wrinkles his nose, thinking of Prince Kasef at the summer ball last year, older and swaggering and smug. He'd liked the way his servants had trembled. Callum can't fathom wanting fear over love if you had a choice.

And yet...

How we live is so different from how we ought to live that he who studies what ought to be done rather than what is done will learn the way to his downfall rather than to his preservation.

("You shouldn't have done it," Rayla says, later. There's a tremor in her voice and tears in her eyes. "You should've—"

"Let you die?" he snaps. He takes her by the shoulders. "How can you ask that of me?"

"But now we're all in danger, and—"

"Yes, we're in danger, not dead! You're not dead." Sighing, Callum rests his forehead against hers, relieved when she lets him. "I know what I 'should've done'... the same way I knew in the rain when we were kids, and on Finnegrin's ship. But I—I can't live without you, Rayla. I just can't.")

Maybe there's something to this book after all, just a little.

[abiiors]

thinkin ab keeping ross warm with my mouth like not sucking him off just literally letting the man fill my mouth. thats it thats my thought

eiqnfjekqlf YES ABSOLUTELY YES (i wrote something like this here but i haven't been able to stop about ross in all black)

minors dni

so as i said you do want to congratulate him after the awards, properly congratulate him... and he's so down too. it's quite. clear. on the car ride home, how his hands are trailing over the bit of skin that the slit in your dress offers (all black of course), and how he keeps fidgeting and kissing you. the moment the door shuts behind you, your back is against the wall and his hands are in your hair, his mouth on yours. it's what you've wanted pretty much all day, right when you saw him in the outfit for the first time and finally you can feel him grinding on you, hard as you want him to be.

"look so gorgeous in that dress, darling. can't wait to take it off you." is what he keeps saying while his voice is all deep and almost a growl and you have to stop yourself from sinking to your knees right there.

but then his phone beeps and he groans loudly--not a sexy groan but one that is pure frustration.

"i forgot there's a 10 minute interview i had to do after this..."

and you whine and ask him why matty can't do it on behalf of all of them but he says they were all requested for the interview and so he has to do it. he does placate you a little by saying that it's only ten minutes and then he's all yours. but you hate that you have to wait even a second. there is a solution though. a better solution.

"let me keep you warm," you kiss his jaw, mumbling words into his ear in a tone that's practically begging.

"fuck." he really is fully incapable of saying no to you, so much so that when you both end up in the in the study/studio room in the house, you're instantly under the desk and between his legs, undoing his belt before the interview can start.

he's still so hard in your hands when you take him out, breathing shallow and gripping tightly onto the arm of the chair, other hand in your hair. you moan when you feel the weight of it on your tongue, ross groans.

"it's supposed to start any minute, baby," it's a warning, his voice low.

"promise i'll be good..."

you take him in your mouth just in time for him to say a cordial hello. his voice sounds normal to anyone who might not know him but the slight tremor in it is so clear to you. the way his hand trembles while caressing your head, your jaw, trying to convey what he can't with words.

good girl. doing so well...

and you are, you breathe through your nose, relishing the burn around you mouth from the stretch, the feel of his tip touching the back of your throat and the taste of his precum. you dig your nails into his thighs every time it gets a little too much and ross traces your cheek with his finger. of course he can't look down and make it obvious, but that doesn't stop you from looking up at him and fluttering your lashes. a muscle ticks in his jaw too while he smiles blankly at the screen, saying things that are absolutely meaningless to you.

ten minutes, you're keeping count. ten minutes and then you get the railing that you deserve <33

[selenblackwrites]

5. Age

Daryl sat on the edge of the porch, knees bent awkwardly, his fingers working a fishing line he hadn’t used in months. The reel squeaked as he twisted it, the sound cutting through the crisp evening air. Rick was on the porch swing behind him, one foot lazily pushing against the ground to keep the motion going, a faint creak accompanying each gentle sway.

Daryl snorted when the reel stuck, his roughened fingers fumbling to fix it. "This damn thing's older than Carl's first car," he muttered, squinting at the line as if staring hard enough would fix it.

Rick chuckled softly. "Hell, so are we," he said, rubbing at the ache in his left shoulder. The years had been kind to neither of them. Rick’s hair was nearly white now, though he still kept it long-ish. His beard was trimmed close but unmistakably silver. Daryl wasn’t faring much better - his once dark hair was streaked with grey, and his face bore deeper lines than it used to, the kind earned from a life lived rough and full.

“Speak for yourself,” Daryl shot back, smirking as he yanked the reel free with a satisfying click. “I’m in my prime.”

Rick barked a laugh. “Your prime? Last week you got stuck on the ground for fifteen minutes after fixing the truck.”

“Didn’t see you rushin’ to help,” Daryl said, tossing a mock glare over his shoulder. “And for the record, that was ‘cause my fuckin’ knee locked up, not ‘cause I’m old.”

Rick arched a brow. “You’re old,” he said, his tone dry and matter-of-fact.

“Don’t mean I can’t still take you,” Daryl replied, his smirk widening. “Want me to prove it? We can take this down to the yard right now.”

Rick shook his head, grinning. “What, so we can both end up flat on our backs with no way to get up? No, thanks.”

The swing creaked again as Rick shifted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands clasped together loosely, and Daryl caught the subtle tremor in them. Rick didn’t try to hide it - it was just part of life now, same as the arthritis in Daryl’s hands that sometimes made holding a knife feel like trying to grip water.

“You remember when we could do all this stuff without thinking about it?” Rick asked, his voice soft with nostalgia. “Go huntin', fix up the place, patch each other up, all without complainin' about our backs or knees.”

Daryl hummed in agreement, running his thumb along the reel absently. “Yeah, but we were dumbasses back then. Probably why we’re so busted up now.”

Rick snickered, his smile reaching his eyes. “Speak for yourself. I wasn’t a dumbass.”

“Oh, you were the biggest dumbass,” Daryl said, turning to face him fully. “Like that time you thought you could clear that creek jump with your truck and damn near drowned us both.”

Rick’s laugh was loud and unabashed, the sound so familiar and warm it made Daryl’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with age.

“Okay, fine,” Rick admitted, wiping at his eyes. “I was a dumbass. But you went along with it, so what’s that say about you?”

“That I was a bigger dumbass,” Daryl said, grinning.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, the sun sinking low on the horizon, casting everything in hues of orange and gold. The aches and pains didn’t feel so bad in moments like this, when they could just sit and exist, side by side, the weight of the years shared and lightened between them.

Daryl turned his gaze to Rick, taking in the lines on his face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that came from decades of smiling, laughing, living. His heart swelled with a love that hadn’t dulled with time, a love that felt like an anchor in the stormy seas of life.

“You’re still good lookin’, you know that?” Daryl said suddenly, his voice gruff but genuine.

Rick’s head tilted in surprise, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “Ain’t sayin’ it again, so don’t get used to it.”

Rick leaned back in the swing, his smile soft and warm. “You’re not so bad yourself, Dixon,” he said.

Daryl rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

Rick chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The reel squeaked again as Daryl fiddled with it, and Rick let the swing sway lazily. The world around them was quiet, save for the rustling of the trees and the occasional chirp of a bird settling in for the night. They might’ve been older, slower, a little worse for wear, but in that moment, they were just two dumbasses still figuring it out together.

Next ┈➤

[korroshiame]

So you want to clear a Mirror Dungeon: A Limbus Company Mirror Dungeon guide

Are you a manager stuck doing Mirror Dungeons? Do you sometimes wonder “Wow, I got an EGO Gift, but is it appropriate for this run?” Do you need to clear a Mirror Dungeon under an hour on Hard? Are you starting out, wondering why there’s so many shiny stars on the menu?

Then you come to the right place. In this guide, I will, well, give some guidelines I followed throughout my year long career as Limbus Company executive manager, and hopefully it will ease you in better than I had to figure out on my own.

Index:

Preparation

General Guidelines

Tips and Tricks

Preparation:

- Check your team and dungeon difficulty. Unless you’re a masochist or really experienced, it isn’t a good idea to tackle a hard mirror dungeon with underleveled sinners. Do the easy dungeon to get used to how it plays and see which teams and strategies work.

- What is your team’s status effect? As of now (Canto VII), the gameplay revolves around less of your team levels but around the status effects, with some fusion gifts explicitly rewarding you for building teams around them. Build a dedicated team for the EGO fusion gifts if you can.

- Save up as much starlight as possible and get those EGO Gifts dirt cheap. You will need those EGO Gifts to compensate for the high levels and enemy buffs.

- Please, please make sure you equip the proper ID and EGOs. You do not want to spend Cost on any unnecessary adjustments for your sinners once inside, so make sure you chose the right ones early.

- Did you know you can dedicate a team for Mirror Dungeon on the sinners menu and give it the name? Saves you a lot of time adjusting EGOs.

- The sin generation on the side? It will help in knowing how much you can spam EGOs. Very important for later floors, so make sure to have a team that has all the sins covered.

General Guidelines:

- First floor, EGO resources generation and SP max. Since this is still manageable, your weaker IDs can still clash here. So let them run wild on the first floor, build up their SP and gain EGO resources.

- Second to third floor, switch to main team with high clashing power and damage output.

- Fourth to Fifth floor, you should have an EGO Fusion Gift or at least its parts. At this point, you are roughly equal with the enemy, even with the enemy buffs. If not, you should have a ton of EGO gifts that gives you an edge + EGOs by now at least. Pro Tip: EGO Spam away here and enjoy the subtle animations of your favorite sinners as your mirror dungeon becomes an EGO animation showcase.

- Ensure your whole team is at max SP at all times. You will need it to pass EGO Gifts and Boss checks.

- If your enemy is staggered and you can secure a victory, instead of going all out with S3, use the other two skills instead to generate EGO resources and save the S3 for later waves/boss phases.

- Coffee and Cranes + Zippo Lighter breaks the dungeon difficulty in half, especially with strong EGOs equipped.

- Tackle Focus and Difficult battle nodes as much as you reasonably can. The former gives you more control over attacks, and both give you much needed EGO gifts.

- Take paths with branching paths as much as possible on hard, it will give you breathing room and lets you tackle stages at your own pace.

- Question nodes are double edged swords. You could gain EGO Gifts and avoid difficult battles, but you could also be trapped in harmful events, lose out on potential cost and even be railroaded into difficult battles. Pick wisely.

- If you gain an EGO gift that doesn’t work well in your current team (e.g Burn on Sinking Team), sell it ASAP. Note this can depend on how it activates. For example, if you have Everlasting Faust on her non-tremor IDs and Melted Eyeball, it might be worth keeping anyway because of how good it is.

- Related to above, Cost-increasing/Cost-giving gifts should be sold off completely in the shop of the last floor. You will need the cost you sold to buy better gifts/upgrades.

- On later floors (especially on Hard), your sinner’s teammates will gain SP if they land the defeating blow. This is very useful for late floor battles so you don’t need to spend an EGO to recover SP, not so much if you run N Sinclair or Suncliff.

- Favored/Dominating? Go for it. Neutral? Risk, use EGO, or defend. Hopeless? EGO, defend, or redirect the attack to a tank.

- If you don’t like the dungeon pack selection or their gifts, you can refresh it. May not guarantee better dungeons or gifts, though…

Tips and Tricks:

-Sinking is usually a safe bet for most runs. The only time it doesn’t work well is in human battles, and that’s because you can’t deal gloom damage past -45 without Sinking Deluge and is basically a cheese strategy anyways.

- For the Enkephalin-Box Abno, you can actually fail the check on purpose to gain its charge access card EGO Gift for zero SP cost. I have 20 cards this way.

- Poise is always welcome to any team. It’s basically free extra damage. It’s very powerful when you can stagger enemies and it triggers.

- Rupture is also basically free damage, and is best for enemy buffs that raise their defense stats to very damn high/enemies with ridiculous resistance stats + low stagger.

- Bleed is high risk, high reward. While it’s peak comedy to watch enemies explode to gore, you risk having to actually land the bleed and then let your enemies bleed out. Without certain EGO Gifts, it could spell the end of a run if you aren’t careful. Still hilarious, though.

- Know when to call a loss a loss. If you can’t beat a boss because your IDs are not well suited/no EGO resources, it’s okay to end the run early. If you made it to the 4/5th floor, pay yourself on the back for a good job well done and beat it next week.

- Pick enemy buff options that make them tanky, but not lethal as well. Better to win a war of attrition than to be outclashed often and unable to land a hit at all.

- Offset counters by using defense skills. While the counter can still be triggered by other attacks, you can use a defense skill so you can ‘skip’ attacking. Please note this will not work with enemies with multiple skill slots, so refer to the following tip below.

- Dogpiling attacks (all skills on one skill icon) to ensure a stagger is recommended when there’s too many skills to clash/skill power is absolutely ridiculous. You will appreciate this tip in Canto V, you will need it.

- Defense Skills exist. Use them. In some cases, it’s just better to take a hit because not even an EGO can save you. Some attacks aren’t even that dangerous when you have a defense skill active. Remember, just because your sinner got staggered doesn’t mean they’re done. If they have at least 1+ HP, you still have a chance to heal back.

- Related to team composition, you don’t need to have the team at full starlight bonus, especially if you need an ID that has certain status effects. Prioritize team synergy over starlight gathering, unless you’re still building the constellation up.

- Don’t forget, there’s no shame in playing on the easy difficulty. It’s not the most time efficient in short bursts like hard, but it’s the best dungeon to explore new kits, gifts and strategies without pressure.

Well then, class dismissed and happy mirror dungeon time!

[iamthecomet]

Comet im sick and if your doing the lil ficlets can I get sick!whoever (dew) getting taken care of by mountain and ifrit and being whiny and bratty but still liking that he's being taken care of.

I'm sorry you're sick! I hope you feel better soon! <3 I'm sorry this took me too many days. The words haven't been wording well lately.

Dew's awful when he's sick. He'll never admit it out loud. but he knows it. He knows he's a pain in the ass. But when he feels like this? He can't help it. He feels like shit. His already barely there filter is non-existent.

He just wants to feel better. And nothing helps. He's drank probably six hundred cups of Rain's stupid tea and that hasn't done anything except make his mouth feel weird, and his head feel even fuzzier. It was supposed to make him sleep. It just made him feel like he was on the wrong side of high. Feverish and loopy. Rain keeps bringing him more. He feels a little bad for snapping at him, but it feels like he's being slowly poisoned and he's already going to die from whatever this is and that's bad enough. And Aether's magic only lasts as long as Aether can touch him, which isn't long considering Dew is burning up. He buries himself deeper into his blankets. He curls up on the couch in the common room. And he pouts. His head is pounding, he's freezing cold, and somehow sweating, his body hurts. He hopes the pits of hell will open up and swallow him. It would be better than this. At least then he'd be warm.

He watches too much television, reruns of tv shows he hates. The same horror movie on repeat until his head aches worse. He tries to sleep. He can't. Ifrit and Mountain show up in the middle of the third day. Ifrit first. Poking his head into the common room and seeing a pale, miserable Dew sitting cross-legged on the couch, bundled in blankets. The TV is still on, a rattling drone, but it's clear Dew isn't actually watching it. His eyes are glassy, fixed somewhere in the middle distance. "Droplet?" Ifrit asks stepping into the room. Dew glances over at him. Dew shoves both of his hands out of the cacoon he's made for himself and makes grabby hands towards Ifrit. "Where have you been?" Dew demands. "I've been freezing." "What do you have?" Ifrit asks warily.

"Some stupid shit from the siblings."

"How many times do I--" "Yeah yeah yeah, stop fraternizing with the Humans. whatever. just, come over here. Please. I'm dying."

Ifrit sighs, but he doesn't say no. Instead he sits next to Dew, and wraps both of his arms around the little fire ghoul. He's hot to the touch, but Ifrit can feel the tremor in his body from the shivering. He cranks up his own body heat, resting his chin on top of Dew's head. "I forgot how tight you hold people," Dew grumbles, but he makes no move to pull away, instead he sinks deeper into Ifrit's embrace. Ifrit rolls his eyes, knowing Dew can't see it. "Do you want me to go away?" "Don't you fucking dare." Mountain finds them like that, an hour later. Ifrit's still cradling Dew against his chest, half asleep. Dew is somewhere between sleep and awake, still too feverish to actually sleep. But the warmth is dragging him down. Finally, he's comfortable. Mountain drops down onto his other side. "Firefly," Mountain says softly. Ifrit's eyes crack open to look at him. Dew shifts to do the same. Mountain's holding a mug, more tea. Dew makes a face, wrinkling his nose up and pressing his face back into Ifrit's chest.

"No more tea, that shit fucks me up."

"It's not the same tea." Mountain says. He runs his hand up Dew's spine. The fire ghoul is almost impossibly hot. But Mountain doesn't pull his hand away, if anything he sets it down heavily, a slow stroke up and down his spine. "That shit Rain gave me was nasty."

"He was trying to help, Firefly." Mountain says gently. "But that blend doesn't work as well on fire ghouls as it does on water ghouls." He holds the mug out for Dew. Dew stares at it dubiously. He shifts enough so that he can sniff it. It isn't the same as the one Rain had been forcing on him. Instead of spruce he smells cinnamon. "It's not going to make me loopy?" "It's going to make you sleep."

Dew wavers, eyes darting between Mountain and the mug. Ifrit nudges him in the ribs. "Drink the fucking tea, Dewdrop." Dew growls, but he takes the mug from Mountain. He takes one small sip. He knows immediately it's different. It doesn't coat his mouth. Instead he feels the warmth of it settle through him. He drinks it quickly--immune to the heat of it as he is. He hands the mug back to Mountain, and settles back into Ifrit's side with a small grumble about something. It's hard to hear with his face pressed firmly against Ifrit's chest again. Mountain moves to stand, but Dew's hand shoots out, grabbing him by the wrist.

"No," he demands. His voice already slurring. Sleep, merciful, blessed, sleep finally tugging at him. Mountain sighs, but he listens, settling into Dew's other side, curling an arm around him. Ifrit looks at Mountain over the top of Dew's head and rolls his eyes. Mountain chuckles. "You rest, Firefly. We'll be here when you wake up."

[asongofmarvelanddc]

The cliffhanger you left us with in sworn enemies should me considered criminal activity

I know, I'm so sorry 😭😭😭 My most egregious crime fr!

But I HAVE been writing the next chapter so here's a sneak peek below:

Sworn Enemies PT 11 Sneak Peek

Alfred is still shaking when he enters the room. His eyes sting with unshed tears, small breaths escaping his lips in short gasps. Your body is lying on a table, motionless. He can’t even see the slight rise and fall of your chest to let him know you’re still breathing.

In a second, he turns away from the sight, his heart sinking into his stomach. She’s dead, he thinks, They’re both dead. The fear chokes him while shaking him to his core. He can’t bring himself to ask the physician anything. He’s crippled with fear.

“Your Grace,” the physician says and bows his head, but he speaks no further, waiting until he is addressed by his King.

Alfred curses the title he bears. Slowly, he glances at your seemingly lifeless body then back to the floor.

“How—” he pauses to clear his throat when the word comes out strangled, “How is she?”

The physician wipes his hand with a bloodied piece of cloth. “Her Grace was struck by two arrows — the more serious injuries amongst others. The arrow in her front was fairly simple to remove. The one in her back was the real task.”

The spindly man goes on a rather long-winded explanation of the surgery as he packs his tools away, occasionally stopping to brush back the dull, brown wisps of hair on his head. He seems impressed with his skills as he describes drawing the arrow up and out through your rib cage to avoid affecting the pregnancy.

All the while, Alfred doesn’t have the words to cut in.

“And my wife?” he swallows, “Will she recover?”

The physician tilts his head, “If she survives the next few days, then I can almost guarantee it.”

It isn’t the news Alfred hoped for, but it is better than he expected. He breathes a sigh of relief, and finally, he looks at you properly. Suddenly, you look to be in a peaceful sleep. Full of life, but resting. Then he looks at where your hands rest on your stomach and the sinking feeling returns.

“And the child?” his voice breaks, never taking his eyes off you, “Will my daughter live?”

This time, the physician sucks in a deep breath.

“Unfortunately, there is not much I can do but wait when it comes to your daughter. There has been no movement that I have observed so far,” he says, “I intend to watch for that over the next few days but as of right now…I’m afraid I cannot be certain that your child lives.”

Alfred swallows again, but this time, it’s to distract himself from the tears threatening to fall.

“Thank you, Wyllis. I’d like to be alone with my wife now.”

“Your Grace.” He bows and exits the room.

As soon as the door closes shut behind him, Alfred sinks to his knees on the floor, hands clasped together in front of him and his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“My Lord. Father. There is nothing on this Earth that you cannot do,” he begins, a slight tremor in his voice as he speaks, “No heartache that you cannot mend. No illness that you cannot heal.”

He briefly glances at you – so still. A whimper escapes him as he closes his eyes again and squeezes his hands together even tighter, as if doing so would mean he's praying harder.

“Please, Father. I cannot do this without her,” before he knows it the tears are flowing uncontrollably, his quiet sobs confined to the room, “Whatever price I must pay I shall pay it if only to see my wife again. To hold our child in my arms. I beg you to cover them in your protection. With your love. Your mercy. I beg you…bring her back to me, Lord.”

***

And there you have it! This is my first apology for the ridiculously long hiatus, please forgive me if you can ❤️😩

[cyanocoraxx]

wireless mouse

Mecha focused intently on the task at hand.

With a drill in one hand and wood filler in the other, he made precise but swift work of repairing a shelf inside their warehouse home. Every so often his hand would jerk, tremors still rife within his frame, but he remained focused nonetheless.

"Little brother, I do wish you would play with more caution…" Mecha murmured to himself as he worked, recalling how Silver had caused the shelf to fall after landing on it at an awkward angle. That wish only grew when Mecha started to become overstimulated by the loud noise of the drill.

Over the whirring of the tool, Mecha heard something - something small, but with his hypervigilance he managed to pick it up. At first, he dismissed it, putting it down to movement of an Egg Pawn elsewhere in their home. It kept coming back, though, distracting him eventually. He drew his gaze away from the shelf and looked around, making use of his infrared vision just in case - nothing of note. That was until he looked down.

A tiny organic lifeform - utterly harmless. If he so desired, he could take it in his hands and crush it, killing it instantly. He could list a thousand ways to destroy it if he wanted to.

But times changed. As did hearts.

Standing in front of the creature, he slowly knelt down, meeting its frightened eyes with curiosity at first. But the longer he looked down at it, the softer his gaze became.

Oh.

"You are injured."

The creature, a miniscule Micky, stared up at him. It was a small rodent with silver-grey fur, round pink ears, and a pointy nose that twitched. The smell of metal seemed offputting to it, but it was equally as curious about him as he was about it.

"It is alright." Mecha said quietly. He gingerly reached out to the little mouse and brushed a finger over its side. It flinched away in surprise and Mecha withdrew, feeling a pang of compassion. Was it injured or just frightened? Mecha quickly assessed the situation - he was huge, made of metal, and his engine was probably loud to the animal.

Mecha had to recognize that he was a machine, of course, and act accordingly. It was only natural for a little thing like this to be nervous.

"I will not harm you. Your fear is understandable due to my size and build in comparison with yours, but I ask that you trust I have good intentions. Why have you approached me?"

It, of course, did not respond. It only continued to stare at him, unsure but clearly wanting something from him. Its coat colour and confidence reminded him of his little brother, Silver.

Mecha put down the power drill in his other hand, now bringing it around to gently scoop up the mouse in both hands. It nestled down into his palms for security, letting him inspect it closely - and there, he saw the problem.

Its leg was scratched and looked infected. How had this happened? Regardless, that wouldn't do, for the animal was likely suffering. He walked carefully to the bathroom, planting each foot as gingerly as possible. Then, Mecha set the mouse down on the bathroom sink and leaned down to be at optic level with it.

"I promise I am not going to injure you. But you are very small, and I am, by contrast, very big. I ask that you please stay where I can see you."

The Micky sat there quietly. As it did, it watched Mecha closely, ears flicking forward and whiskers twitching with refreshed curiosity. Mecha glanced back to it and noticed its softer backline, signalling openness. That was better already.

"In Micky fancier terms, you are a dove satin colour. It is most interesting. Most members of your species are standard grey." Mecha mused as he rummaged through the cupboard beneath the sink.

He found a small bottle of topical disinfectant, left behind by the warehouse's previous human tenants, and quickly scanned the ingredients to check that nothing would be toxic to the little animal. Once satisfied, he opened it and carefully tipped some of the liquid onto a piece of cotton he had found.

"This might cause you pain, but it will be brief. I ask you to trust once more that I have good intentions in doing this." Mecha told the mouse gently.

It waited patiently.

Mecha's hand shook as he restrained his strength. He knew one tiny slip could crush and harm this living creature. Perhaps having little brothers had been training for this. The universe, maybe, lending him a hand, for once. Slowly, he reached over and, stalling his engine to limit his shakiness a bit more, he dabbed the damp cotton onto the mouse's injured leg. It squeaked in surprise and pain for a second, but true to the robot's word, the sting quickly wore off.

"I apologize."

Mecha then took out a strip of cohesive bandage from the first aid kit.

"Your wound requires protection. Without protection, it could face further exacerbation. May I proceed?"

The mouse didn't complain. Not that it could, really. It was a mouse.

Now, this was a real test of his restraint. It was a feat that even a trained human wouldn't be able to do easily. With the mouse sitting up on its hind legs, Mecha took the bandage between his forefinger and thumb and, very carefully and with robotic precision, wrapped it around the injured forelimb. He scanned it quickly, checking that it wouldn't cut off the blood flow to the limb by being too tight.

It was just about right. Not perfect, but it would suffice.

The robot observed the creature closely, watching for signs of pain or discomfort. Its telltale signs of pain dissipated - orbital tightening slowly reduced, its whiskers relaxed, and its ears perked forward once more.

"That will do. Now, accompany me. We will make a short journey."

Mecha gently scooped the animal into his hands once more and ventured out to the "kitchen" - the old break room that the humans would have once used. Once inside, he placed it down on a tea towel on the countertop. He tilted his head as the mouse scuttled down onto the soft fleece, watching as the tiny creature turned around to groom itself. It sneezed, scaring itself for a second.

"Bless you." Mecha said, tilting his head the other way. "Do you require sustenance?"

The mouse stared up at him, eyes bright.

Mecha nodded, looking to the strawberry plant on the windowsill. "I see. Allow me to inspect what "food" items I have in my possession. "One garden strawberry contains 1.11 grams of protein, 12.7 grams of carbohydrates, 3.30 grams of dietary fiber, 27 milligrams of calcium, 0.68 milligrams of iron, 22 milligrams of magnesium, 40 milligrams of phosphorus-"

The Micky reached up and touched a leaf. It gave way just a tiny fraction under the subtle touch.

"A Micky requires 5 grams of calcium, 35 milligrams of iron-"

It took a nibble from the leaf. A strawberry would do, apparently. Mecha gave a nod and picked a berry from the plant, then gently handed it to the little rodent. It took it between its hands and started to tuck in. Mecha watched for a while, content, and curious about the little organic thing.

Why had it chosen him?

Mecha had heard once that animals could "sense" good people. Maybe this was a sign from the universe, or something akin to that, reminding him of his newfound place in the world. That's what Silver would probably have said, what with his affinity for astrology. Mecha cared little for such ideas, but things like this gave some nuance to the concept from time to time.

"Your diet should consist of 20% fruits and vegetables, and 75% fortified pellets. I must acquire the correct diet for you if you are to recover."

With the mouse temporarily happy, he turned his attention to his surroundings, looking around calmly. The other plants (which were steadily making their way out of his own room) were an assortment of both tropical and desert, were healthy and happy - he had his computer brain to thank for that, for he could research their precise needs in just a few seconds. Wait, that Philodendron was toxic to Mickies - Mecha quickly moved to lift the pot and placed it on a shelf to keep it out of his new friend's reach.

Mecha could just hear Silver's comments on his plants from the other day.

"Soon you will have national park designation and the government won't be able to tax you. You are literally getting to the bottom of tax evasion."

"We already commit tax evasion every day. We do not pay taxes." Mecha had replied.

The mouse finished its strawberry and scampered up to Mecha. It placed a little hand on his arm and sniffed to get his attention.

Mecha went to turn around suddenly looked down in alarm. "I instructed you to exercise caution around me."

The mouse tried to climb up his arm, but his shiny armour was too slippery. It slid back down with a soft plop.

"Are you seeking interaction?" Mecha asked. He gently leaned down to present his hand to the rodent, who climbed on and sat there looking at him. Slowly and carefully, he sat down on the floor and held his hand in front of his face.

"You must be careful," Mecha said gently, "for I am not harmless. I have attempted to commit murder. I have caused unspeakable devastation. I have stolen something precious that was not my own.""

A being like this could not judge him for his misdeeds. It was purely innocent. There was something especially precious, worth protecting, in this. Mecha immediately felt closer to this animal than he had expected to, for its fear was not of him for who he was - just the very basics. A blank slate.

The mouse reached out and held his nose in its hands. It gave it a light test nibble. Nope, not edible. Mecha gently took one hand away to offer it another strawberry, which it took and began to devour.

"I see that you do not judge me for my past. However, you should be aware of this: I could hurt you. I could kill you. And I do not desire that. I wish to protect you and creatures like you from being hurt. Life, although it may have brought me and my brothers anguish, is dear to me, and I shall defend it..."

Mecha had not realized that she had been spacing out whilst speaking. When she came to, the sight before her rammed her right back into reality with a bang.

The mouse in her hand, covered in blood.

Mecha froze. Her engine stalled and cooling fans went into overdrive, sending her internals into a cold freeze.

"I..."

"I killed you."

The animal was still, curled up in his palm, satin fur stained deep red.

"I... killed you. I am sorry."

The machine sat in silence. The tiny being that had trusted him with its life was gone, just like that. In just a few seconds. The pain and horror of witnessing her raw strength take a little life without even wanting to was more than she could bear.

What if she did the same to her brothers one day?

Panic set in. She couldn't live like this. Couldn't exist like this. She wasn't meant for this soft world. Her trembling fingers slowly closed around the animal, and she held it to her chest plate as if terrified to lose it.

"You died. I am sorry. I am sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me."

A little nose poked out between the gaps in her fingers. Mecha drew her knees up to her chin and made herself small, feeling much too big and powerful for the space she was in, turning inward into her despair. The nose sniffed and sniffed and she continued to lack awareness, unable to feel the small pressure on her hands from its feet moving. It wasn't until the creature squeaked several times for freedom that Mecha realized what was happening.

It was alive?

Mecha opened her palm in surprise, hand shaking uncontrollably, to find that the rodent was indeed alive. It began to lick at her fingers, lapping up the red liquid now coated across them. Mecha stared on in disbelief when suddenly it hit her.

The blood was just strawberry juice. Slowly, his trembling subsided and gave way to relief. He felt warmth return to his internals almost immediately after.

"You frightened me. I apologize. I believed I had... hurt you."

None the wiser, the mouse finished its meal and curled up in his palm.

"Thank you. You have shown me that I am capable of restraint in ways I had not previously known. I believe... this is useful information."

With this in mind, he wandered back onto the main floor, where he sat down on the sofa. He laid down on his side and let the mouse nestle into his palm further. With the light of the TV screen protecting him, he curled up and tried to relax. The emotional rollercoaster had drained her quickly-

Wait, that wasn't right. Mecha paused, remembering that organics needed warmth to survive. He reached over to the blue blanket that was folded on the sofa and pulled it over himself and the little mouse. Neo had left it there - he appreciated the sensory input, he said. Silver had teased him for it. The mouse snuggled closer to Mecha, enjoying the security that this big metal creature provided it. The warmth from Mecha's engine and the blanket combined provided the perfect safe haven for a prey creature like itself.

Silver and Neo returned home a few minutes later. "Hey, M?" Silver called out across the main floor, looking around for him. "We're back! You okay?"

Neo nudged Silver and pointed to the sofa, where they both spotted Mecha curled up under a blanket. Strange. Mecha hardly ever did that out here. They quietly approached and knelt down in front of him, finding him in sleep mode. What was stranger was the presence of an organic lifeform close by him, which set off both of their scanners. Neo carefully lifted the corner of the blanket to find a mouse beneath it. It spun around to stare at them in alarm, wide-eyed and nervous at the sudden disturbance. It puffed up its coat at once and wagged its tail rapidly, a sign of aggression. When the robots didn't back off, it started chattering its teeth at them angrily. It didn't recognize them.

"Feisty. Where did Mecha find this little dude?" Silver whispered to Neo, baffled but amused at the same time.

Neo shrugged a shoulder in reply and signed, "it reminds me of you."

"Hey. That's a low blow to compare me to a rodent. Erm, should we ask if something happened?" Silver asked carefully. "I'm kinda worried."

Neo gently reached out and took Mecha's hand in his. "Brother, wake up."

Mecha didn't. He stayed fast asleep, for once. Also odd. Usually a simple step in her direction would startle the robot awake. Silver sighed softly. "She probably wore herself out after an episode or something. Should we let her be for now? I mean, she's got this little guy 'protecting' her, I guess. We can ask later."

The mouse protecting Mecha latched on to Neo's hand and tried to bite it. Its teeth met metal and it nibbled, unfazed by the tough armour coating. Silver snickered and prized the rodent off of him and placed it back down by Mecha. Neo took the corner of the blanket and tucked it back in. Neo heard the rodent give a slight huff as it settled down.

"Definitely you." Neo pushed, signing with conviction.

"It is not, unless you mean in the cute and adorable way." Silver argued in a whisper, frowning.

"Is too, and no." Neo retorted, a smirk in his optics.

"Whatever. Hey, we've never had a pet before, have we?"

Neo shrugged a shoulder and signed, "our family was never big on pets. Or affection."

They fell quiet, watching over the unlikely pair with an equal amount of fondness.

Silver folded his arms. "Maybe this is something we should look into. I mean, he's never bonded with organics like this before. He's always been closer to, like, books, machinery, non-living things."

"Things that don't hurt." Neo signed, becoming more serious.

Silver was quiet for a moment. "If it dies, he's not gonna take it well, I think."

"So we have a pet now." Neo signed decisively.

Silver lightly tapped his fingertips against his arms. "I guess so. How hard can it be? You've stopped me from exploding more than once, so, just do that but times a million."

"So, you but small."

"Again, whatever. I think we should name it Wireless. As in, wireless mouse. On account of it not having a wire coming out of its-"

"That's bad." Neo signed back with a squint.

"It's called humour, princess. Look it up."

Mecha unexpectedly spoke up from below. "I am attempting to remain in sleep mode. Converse elsewhere."

"Oh! M, can we name it Wireless Mouse?" Silver pleaded, crouching down to his brother's level.

Mecha shifted slightly to get more comfortable, holding his little friend closer. "If you allow me and my companion to complete one full sleep cycle, we may."

Silver grinned and prodded Neo in the knee. "In your face. Or, knee."

Neo's optics brightened despite the prodding. To see Mecha calm, and not jumping out of her frame at the disturbance, was new and very welcome. To see his brother feel safe was worth anything in the world.

"Welcome to the family, Wireless. Protect our brother in our absences, and we will protect you with our lives in turn. That is a promise."

And under hedgehog-series protection, even a being as small as this could prosper if they simply decided it was worth it. For their brother's sake, anything was worth it. For an innocent living being's sake, anything was worth it.