#my skin is suffering and taking me with it

[luveline]

hello might i ask for sassy badass reckless reader who is the #1 leading cause of aaron's gray hairs pls 🤞🏻 he is SO exasperated with her like he is TIRED™ but also tweaking bcs he's horrendously down bad for her he's gna throw up

Good morning. I hope you slept well, honey. Can you come to work early, say 6.10AM? I’d like to see you and talk about something in person. 

You squint at the text that’s just come through. Another follows as you’re finishing, lighting the dark of your room.

I love you. Sorry, I know you don’t like when I forget to tell you in the mornings. 

Your own response is sent without propriety. I love you too handsome. 6.10 is not gonna work.

Can you make an effort for me? he asks. 

You do your very best. 

“It’s almost seven,” Hotch says when you finally get there that morning, his frown audible and plain to see. 

You hold up the bag of sugar donuts you’d purchased from the truck on the square just outside of Quantico’s endless parking lots. “Necessary delay.” 

“Unnecessary. I asked you nicely to come early and you’re barely on time,” he grumbles. 

How adorable. You put the bag of donuts on the desk and ignore the paperwork laid out waiting for you in favour of his side of the desk. He smells like cedar, his suit sleeve starched under your hand. You lean back against the lip of his desk and pretend you hadn’t been thinking about climbing into his lap —he’s formidable and lovely and that’s the best combination for lounging about atop someone, especially when that someone is very good at pressing you backwards, and better at kissing your neck. 

He knows what you’re thinking. “You’ve woken up in a mood,” he murmurs. 

“A good one,” you promise. 

You take his coffee and steal a sip. Hotch, resigned, lays a hand on your thigh. “I have important things to talk about, you know? I thought I made that clear this morning.” 

“You made a couple of things clear.” 

“Don’t say it like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I…” He tilts his head to the side. “Like I’ve been sending you dirty texts or photos.” 

“Is that an option? I don’t think I’ve subscribed to those emails.” 

“You make me out to be this salacious lark–”

“Aaron, I don’t do anything of the sort.” You can hardly hold back a laugh. “I’m sorry I implied you were sexting me, okay? I wish you had been.” He sighs a long-suffering sigh as you carry on. “But you were very formal. I’ll be sure to tell HR the same thing.” 

His hand slips between your thighs. Nowhere it shouldn’t be, just trapped between soft flesh. “Don’t tell HR anything.” 

His coffee is lukewarm and unsweetened on your tongue. Would it kill your uptight love to add just a dash of cream and sugar? Wrinkling your nose, you set aside the mug and press your mildly heated hand to his cheek. Just quickly, brushing a thumb up to the skin below his eye before you let it fall. “Tell me what you wanted me to come in early for. And, for the record, I’m sorry for not trying to get here before, just I didn’t sleep well, and my neck hurt too much to rush.” 

He looks like he wants to ignore your apology. He doesn’t ask you for much, and showing up when he’d wanted you to would’ve been the kinder thing to do —he can be annoyed as both boss or boyfriend. 

But he doesn’t have it in him. 

“Why didn’t you sleep?” he asks softly. 

“Thinking too much about my nice boyfriend.” 

“Really?” 

You slouch a little. Cover his hand where it rests between your legs. “I don’t know. It was really hot, and my mattress is getting old, probably.” 

He ushers you down for a sympathetic kiss. He’s always so sorry to hear about your minor ailments, he must like you too much. 

You attempt to crawl into his lap, curling an arm behind his head. He, disgruntled and yet far from reluctant, lets you take a seat. 

[connorsui]

In the Quiet Afterhours

Zayne x reader

Synopsis: In the quiet of afterhours, you and zayne find solace in the intimacy of simple acts of care, your love unspoken yet deeply felt through the tenderness of shared moments.

Genre/warnings: pure fluff, silence of intimacy, zayne wanting to drown himself in your warmth, you are the light in this manz life, no warnings tho …zayne has suffered enough

note: I just wanna take care of him...like plz let me give my man his needed care..

w.: 1,180

There was, perhaps, no greater feeling than the quietude of love that existed in those moments where words fell away, leaving only the hum of companionship to bind two souls together. Zayne had always been a man of few words—practical in his pursuits, level-headed in his judgments, and ever the picture of self-possession. Yet, beneath that stern exterior, there was a tenderness reserved solely for you, a tenderness that revealed itself not in grand gestures or fervent declarations, but in the subtleties of shared moments, and the warmth of a gaze lingering far longer than propriety might allow.

This evening was no different, save for the weariness etched into his fine features, the faint shadows under his hazel-green eyes telling the tale of a long day spent in service to duty. He returned home as he always did—quietly, with little fanfare, his shoulders still squared despite the obvious weight that pressed upon him. And yet, when his eyes found yours, there was a softening in his expression, the firm lines of his brow relaxing as though the sight of you alone was enough to ease the burdens he carried.

"Welcome home," you murmured, the warmth of your voice drawing him nearer.

"Hello, love"

Zayne, ever pragmatic, offered a small nod, but it was the way his hand rose to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek that spoke volumes more than any pleasantry could. There was an intimacy in that touch, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin as though reluctant to part, as though you alone were the balm to his tired soul.

He said little as you coaxed him toward the shower, his resistance nonexistent, for he had learned, in these quiet moments, to let you care for him. It was a remarkable thing, this unspoken understanding between you—a partnership built on the most delicate threads of love, trust, and respect. You, in turn, had come to know that behind Zayne’s pragmatic exterior was a man who cherished the simplicity of your presence, a man who allowed himself to be vulnerable only when the world outside had no claim on him.

The warm cascade of water was a gentle relief, steam curling in the air as you worked the soap into your hands, your fingers gliding over his tense shoulders. The muscles beneath your touch, though firm, betrayed a quiet exhaustion, and as you began to wash him, you could feel the faint tremor of relief in his body, the tension slowly unraveling.

He closed his eyes, his lips parting in a near inaudible sigh, and for a moment, he was not the stoic officer, nor the pragmatic strategist. He was simply Zayne, a man who found comfort in your touch, in the way your hands moved with careful precision over his skin, tracing the curves and lines that you had come to know so intimately.

In another’s eyes, this scene might have seemed mundane, but there was an indescribable beauty in the familiarity of it all—a beauty that lay not in grandiose acts of affection but in the quiet devotion with which you attended to one another. It was a love that needed no embellishment, no flowery language to justify its existence, for it was rooted in something far more profound.

When your hands drifted lower, the soap lathering between your fingers, Zayne’s eyes fluttered open, and there it was again—that look of quiet reverence that always seemed to accompany his gaze when it fell upon you. It was not the gaze of a man merely admiring your physical form, but the gaze of a man rediscovering you anew each time, as though the sight of you was enough to set his soul alight in ways words could never adequately express.

He said nothing, but the faintest upward curve of his lips betrayed him. “Spoiling me again?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing in a way that would have seemed foreign to anyone but you.

“And why shouldn’t I?” you replied softly, smiling as your hands worked the soap along the lines of his body. “You work so hard... At least let me take care of you.”

There was a moment, brief yet timeless, where Zayne’s eyes softened even further, the weight of his exhaustion giving way to something deeper, something far more tender. It was in these moments that you truly understood the depth of his affections. He would never speak them outright, for it was not his nature to indulge in the overt declarations that many sought in love. Yet, in the way he stood before you, allowing you to see him in his most vulnerable state, you knew. You knew that his heart, so often guarded, was entirely yours.

When it came time to wash his hair, Zayne bent forward with practiced ease, his dark hair falling over his brow as you lathered the shampoo into his scalp. You laughed, as you always did, at the way his hair fluffed beneath the suds, your amusement drawing a faint smile from him.

“You look cute like this,” you teased, the lightness in your voice a welcome contrast to the quiet of the room.

He glanced up at you, one eyebrow raised in mock indignation. “cute?...another word for you to describe me...” he echoed, his voice dry, though the glint in his hazel eyes betrayed his amusement. “If you could see how I invision you, the roles would be reversed"

Yet he made no protest, content to let you have your moment of playful teasing. For all his stoicism, Zayne had always had a soft spot for the way your laughter lit up the room, and though he would never admit it aloud, he found your teasing far more endearing than he let on.

When the roles reversed, and it was Zayne’s hands that worked the soap into your hair, he was as gentle as ever. His fingers moved with a precision that was unmistakably him, careful to ensure no soap slipped into your eyes. “I know you say I deserved to be spoiled but allow me to give that in return, ten times fold ” he murmured, his voice a quiet caress, his touch so tender it felt as though you might melt beneath it.

You didn't argue.

Once the water had washed away the last traces of soap, he reached for a towel, and in the same unhurried manner, began to dry you off with the utmost care, as though each motion was imbued with the love he so rarely spoke of. It was in these moments, in the quiet spaces between words, that you truly understood the depth of Zayne’s love for you—a love that, like the stars themselves, was constant, enduring, and far more profound than words could ever convey.

Even after the task was complete, he lingered, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close in an embrace that spoke of more than just comfort. It was connection, the unspoken promise that even in silence, his heart was yours.

His breath, soft against your neck, mingled with the warmth of your skin, and there, in the quiet afterhours of the day, there was no need for words.

Just the two of you alone.

Gimmie a tired zayne I would take care of him

[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

Louis + his ways of saying "I love you" to Lestat

"Is this an offer, Louis? Have you come back to me, as lovers say?" His eyes darkened and he looked away from me. "I'm not mocking you, Louis," I said. "You've come back to me, Lestat," he said evenly, looking at me again. "When I heard the first whispers of you at Dracula's Daughter, I felt something that I thought was gone forever --" He paused. - The Vampire Lestat

There was so much I wanted to say to him, to ask him. Yet I couldn’t find the words really, or a way to begin. He had always had so many questions; and now he had his answers, more answers perhaps than he could ever have wanted; and what had this done to his soul? Stupidly I stared at him. How perfect he seemed to me as he stood there waiting with such kindness and such patience. And then, like a fool, I came out with it. “Do you love me now?” I asked. He smiled; oh, it was excruciating to see his face soften and brighten simultaneously when he smiled. “Yes,” he said. - Queen of the Damned

He grew reflective again and very sad. It almost hurt me to look at him. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but that would only have made him furious. "I love you," he said softly. I was amazed. "You're always looking for a way to triumph," he continued. "You never give in. But there is no way to triumph. This is purgatory we're in, you and I. All we can be is thankful that it isn't actually hell." - The Tale of the Body Thief

I came towards him, planted my hands on his desk and looked into his face. "I was so sure you would understand this. And by the way, I wasn't born a monster! I was a born a mortal child, the same as you. Stronger than you! More will to live than you! That was cruel of you to say." "I know. It was wrong. Sometimes you frighten me so badly I hurl sticks and stones at you. It's foolish. I'm glad to see you, though I dread admitting it. I shiver at the thought that you might have really brought an end to yourself in the desert! I can't bear the thought of existence now without you! You infuriate me! Why don't you laugh at me? You've done it before." - The Tale of the Body Thief

"Have you suffered in my absence?" I asked, looking back at the altar. Very soberly he answered, "It was pure hell." I didn't reply. "Each risk you take hurts me," he said. "But that is my concern and my fault." "Why do you love me?" I asked. "You know, you've always known. I wish I could be you. I wish I could know the joy you know all the time." "And the pain, you want that as well?" "Your pain?" He smiled. "Certainly. I'll take your brand of pain anytime, as they say." - The Tale of the Body Thief

I stopped. I put my arm around him. I held him close to me. “I’m Lestat,” I said in a low voice. “Your Lestat. I’m the same Lestat you’ve always known, and no matter how I’m changed, I’m still that same being.” “I know,” he said warmly. I kissed him. I pressed my lips to his and I held this kiss for a long silent moment. And then I gave in to a silent wave of feeling, and I took him in my arms. I held him tight against me. I felt his unmistakable silken skin, his soft shining black hair. I heard the blood throbbing in him, and time dissolved, and it seemed I was in some old and secret place, some warm tropical grotto we’d once shared, ours alone in some way, with the scent of sweet olive blossoms and the whisper of moist breeze. “I love you,” I whispered. In a low intimate voice, he answered: “My heart is yours.” - Prince Lestat

I couldn’t believe I’d heard right. I stared at him as helplessly as I had in the hallway of the townhouse when I’d first seen him, trying to grasp what he had said. He leaned close to me, and he put his hand on my arm. “ ‘Wither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people’; and because I have no other god and never will, you shall be my god.” - Prince Lestat and The Realms of Atlantis

When I was finally led down the stairs, Louis came with me. In the darkened passage before my resting place, he embraced me and held tight to me, his lips pressed to my ear. I was aware of my hands moving over his hair, embracing his neck, drawing him ever closer, in a way I had never done in our long years in New Orleans. We joined in the posture of lovers, brothers, fathers with sons. “I love you with my whole soul, and I will always love you,” he confided to me. “You are my life. I have hated you for that and love you now so much that you’ve been my instructor in loving. And believe me when I say you will survive this, and that you must for all of us. You will survive because you always have and you always will.” - Blood Communion

[megameatymatt]

Step By Step - Matt Sturniolo

summary: Matt finds out about y/n's ED relapse

WARNINGS: e@t!ng d!sorder, swearing, throwing up, gagging, crying, self-hatred/insecure, feelings of hopelessness, overthinking

If you or anyone you know is dealing with an ED or substance abuse, call or text:  1-800-662-4357.

word count: 766

requested?: nope

A/N: I was feeling sad so all of you must suffer with me. Feedback, interaction, and requests are appreciated! ok bye

Pink: Y/n

Blue: Matt

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

Matt knows you've dealt with an eating disorder in the past. He wasn't there during it, but you've talked to him about it and answered some of his questions. It didn't make you any less perfect in his eyes. To him, all that mattered was you being okay. But you weren't.

Four years later, you feel like you're falling back into it all over again—all the progress you've made, discarded within just a couple weeks.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wish someone different stared back at you. You pinch at the skin on your thighs, stomach, and arms and wish the fat would disappear.

You sob silently. How can someone hate themselves so much, How couldn't you hate yourself so much, Y/n? Look at you, just look at you! You're lucky matt even stays. Thoughts circle around your head like a halo. Leaving you in nothing but shatters.

You walk to the toilet, shove a finger down your throat, and gag

The cycle begins.

Two weeks later, you walk into your kitchen to find Matt standing there. "Good morning, angel, I'm making pancakes. How many do you want." The thought of putting food in your mouth makes you sick. "Um, Matt, I'm not hungry." Matt frowns. "You love my pancakes, baby, what's the matter?" you shuffle through your brain, thinking of an excuse. "I'm full from last night, Y'know, the pizza." You, Matt, nick, and Chris had had a movie night. The boys ordered pizza and snuggled up on the couch as you all giggled.

"I watched you the whole night, Y/n, I didn't see you take a single slice," he says, flipping a pancake. "In fact i haven't seen you eat much at all lately, You alright?" Eat? How can he suggest such a thing? doesn't he want me to be pretty? i wanna be good enough to wear a bikini. I wanna be good enough to wear skin tight dresses, i wanna be good enough for him.

You shake away these thoughts trying your best to keep your composure. "I'm good, just give me one okay?" you say letting out a sigh. He smiles "Comin' right up princess" He hands you a plate with a pancake, syrup, whipped cream and some strawberries. Matt has already started digging into his own plate.

just a few bites Y/n, just let Matt think you're okay

You pick up your fork and knife with shaky hands, cut yourself a piece and quickly shove it it your mouth. Your body wants to immediately reject it, but you take a few more bites.

As soon as you swallow your first bite, it flies back up your throat. You get up and run to the bathroom. Matt follows you with concern. "Are my pancakes that bad?" he says, running after you. But as he walks into the bathroom. He notices how frail you've become. Tears are running down your eyes, and he finally realizes. You finish puking and flush the toilet and lean against the wall, almost lifelessly.

A few tears escape Matt's eyes. How could he be so stupid? how didn't he put it together? It was so obvious. He could've helped you. Why would you do this?

He runs out of the bathroom to get a glass of cold water, then quickly comes back to hold you. The only thing that could escape from his mouth was "Why"? "Just look at me, Matt, I hate it, I hate my body so fucking much, Matt, you don't even understand," you say, trying your best to yell, tears running down your face.

Matt is completely taken aback "But you're so beautiful, baby, You're hurting yourself. You were doing so good." You sob in Matt's arms, barely able to speak. "I-I'm sorry, Matt. I just wanted to be pretty." Your words felt like a knife in Matt's stomach.

''I tried so hard to fight it, Matt, I didn't want to go down this path again. I promised you I wouldn't. The words spill out like vomit, "But I did it anyway, Matty." You whine, "And it's worse than before. I'm so ashamed Matt. I'm sorry i'm putting you through this" Tears rush you your face, and you're shaking uncontrollably. The knife in Matts stomach only gets pushed deeper and deeper. "I'm sorry i never noticed Y/n, i'm so fucking stupid. The signs were so clear, i could've helped you." He wipes the tears off your cheeks. "But i'm gonna help you now baby." "I can't Matt" "we're gonna do it together okay? Step by step, Y/n. We'll be just fine"

Taglist: @sturnobsessedwh0re

[kibbles-bits]

any voxval fics you’d recommend?

Ah, yes, voxval fics... The one ship that finally made me cave and read explicit stuff. I am now numb to everything.

Everything.

I'll only be posting completed fics. Warnings, almost all of these are explicit. A couple also have Angel, you know, suffering.

And please mind the tags.

First off is a couple of favs that I always go back for a reread:

Corrupted Love by DoveFactory (Words: 149,495)

In a moment of blind desperation to one-up Alastor, Vox puts himself in a compromising situation that leaves him worse for wear. His state triggers something in Valentino who decides to change the nature of their relationship.

The title and summary of this is so misleading I thought it was going to be a dark fic but nope. The Vees are a bunch of goobers and Valentino always wins. I would scream about this every time it updated. I love the characterizations and their banter it almost made me forget there's sex in like every chapter. Honestly I wish there was more tags referencing the character/story stuff.

Virtual Reality by passthevoxcord (Words: 7,634)

Vox gets tired of his cybernetic biology being a barrier to his sex life, so he starts a new project to fuck Valentino in VR. Val will try anything once, but he has something else in mind.

This one ends up being so sweet I want to die. passthevoxcord's other fic, Only a Shadow, drives me nuts but its a WIP and hasn't actually gotten to the voxval yet.

choke behind a smile by gloriousmonsters (Words: 19,881)

"I'm not scared by extreme, although I doubt I'll find it interesting. What is it?" Valentino's eyes narrow slyly over his smile. "If you aren't scared, why do you need a warning?" Vox has everything under control in his new business partnership with benefits. His emotions, his unfortunate desires, the little mind games they play. Even Valentino himself. When Val offers an invitation to a special show he's performing, Vox knows it's a dare, and knows he has to take it, show Val that he can't be scared or destabilized. He has no idea of how deep under his skin the show will get.

Everyone's so normal. I love this Valentino. There's another Valvel fic that has the same Valentino I also recommend called bad girls go backstage.

Great Expectations by MarenRose (Words: 11,280)

“It’s his goal. Those three simple words. If he could get to hear them once, could let the reality of their meaning and spoken existence occupy his mind for only a few indiscernible moments, then maybe, Vox could learn to see the appeal of this god forsaken holiday. He might even learn to ‘love’ it too.” Or: Vox hates Valentine’s Days. His prick of a ‘wife’ is just too damn hard to please.

This miiiight have been the fic that made me Lock In on voxval? I'm not sure. It's sweet. Alastor is hilarious.

biting keeps your words at bay by Subedarling (Words: 1,511)

“You can’t hit me,” Valentino says. He’s practically vibrating with rage. “You’re not allowed to—you can’t hit me!” Vox sneers, cruel and mocking and hopefully masking the way his heart is breaking apart inside his chest. “Baby, I can do whatever the hell I want.” A decade into their partnership, Vox and Valentino have their first and last physical fight.

This might be the only non-explicit fic in this list. I am all for Val being the worst just because he's Like That. But I will not say no to an implied tragic backstory. I read this one a lot and want to die. Can I draw this. I want to draw this. Oh my god I have free time I can totally draw this...

And my other recs:

Just For The Record by PeppermintWalrus (Words: 13,795)

Vox is thrilled about his new film enterprise with his business partner, ready to build a lucrative empire for the denizens of hell to experience true cinema, in the only genre their depraved minds desire. There’s just one problem that he finds out too late; Valentino has never filmed porn before. Vox decides that some... hands-on teaching, is necessary to save their production.

Yeah you read that right.

a putrid feeling that i've addressed by spoondrifts (Words: 5,162)

They weren’t a couple because Valentino was pathologically noncommittal and Vox simply knew better. He tried the whole romance thing with a certain radio demon a few decades back, and he’d learned his damn lesson. Hell just wasn’t the place for that sort of cutesy bullshit. Also, he was pretty sure that Valentino was straight up incapable of love, which was both par for the course for Vox’s friendships and amazingly convenient—things couldn’t get complicated if there was nothing to complicate in the first place. Or: Full Moon, Vox/Val edition.

Haha I love pain. I lied, this is the second non-explicit fic.

Little Miss Hellion by DoveFactory (Words: 10,657)

Hell’s worst married couple spends a day of family bonding at a beauty pageant doing whatever it takes to make sure their daughter takes home the crown, because failure is never an option for the Vees. Pilot AU where Vox and Valentino are married and Velvette is their adopted daughter.

It's more Vees than voxval but they're married so.

The Art of Pimping by MarenRose (Words: 9,161)

Desperate to close a deal with one of the most lucrative investors in Pride, Vox does the unthinkable and pimps out Valentino for a one-time date. What could go wrong?

Val's attitude in this one is funny and Vox. Yeah. Vox made a mistake.

You Found Me by passthevoxcord (Words: 4,338)

Long before Velvette came along, it was just them. Vox and Valentino. Valentino and Vox.

Sobbing.

Something Less Than Dishonest by daphnerunning, Galiko (Words: 33,931)

He isn’t expecting the way Valentino walks, for some reason. Maybe it’s the extra limbs. Maybe it’s the wings. Maybe it’s the heels. Vox had skipped briefly through a few of the slut’s movies, for research, and isn’t expecting the way Valentino moves in person to feel so… Different. “…You must be my four o’clock,” he says, standing and offering a hand. Oh, shit, he’s huge. Valentino towers over him, easily would without the stripper heels. Vox is not afraid of heights.

Vox is so offensive in this it loops back around to hilarious.

Red Skies and Valentino by alternatedoom (Words: 86,050)

"Vox and I are special friends, doll. Go give him a kiss," Val says to the boy.

Angel does not have a good time. But the Voxval is nice.

before you go by xoTsundoku (Words: 4,426)

Before Alastor came into their lives, Vox and Valentino were happy. Maybe they still can be.

A Farewell to Ghosts by Accidental_Ducky (Words: 37,149)

"What do you think that is," Vox demands, pointing at the new guy. Valentino turns, eyes raking greedily over the man's body. He's gorgeous, skinny in a heroin chic way with big blue eyes and blond hair that falls just so across his eyes. "Hot." "Don't fucking call the ghost hot!"

The only human AU I've liked so far. Love the character interactions. Vox and Val are hilarious.

God I hope I didn't miss any. There's definitely some good WIP ones out there.

[milksnake-tea]

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: he'd wanted to at least see her one last time before his ascension, but it seems that even that is too much to ask of the harmony. ❀ ˎˊ- sunday character study ❀ ˎˊ- wc: 641 ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: set in 2.0-2.1, MAJOR ANGST WARNING, gorey language used like once but it's metaphorical ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: this is all vee and bells fault btw also this tweet that changed my brain chemistry now everyone has to suffer with me. if this had a title it would be "she used to be mine" but its too short so it won't :) ❀ ˎˊ- taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo ❀ ˎˊ- img credits

She’s gone.

And with her, goes every thought in his mind.

Ringing fills his ears. He can barely hear the voices of his attendant.

His lips move. What he says, he’s already forgotten.

His vision blurs. His eyes sting.

He sits. He stays. He stares.

She’s gone.

Robin’s gone.

The sweetheart of the cosmos, the idol beloved by all, the beacon of light in a night-filled sky-

His little sister is dead, and he wasn’t even there to stop it.

Muttered voices fade into a disorientated buzz that he can’t be bothered to decipher. Clicking of shoes, rustling of papers, all of it- it’s too much, it’s loud and it’s grating and-

Inhale.

Exhale.

Smile.

His cheeks hurt.

His nails bite into his palms. He wants to dig them into his face and tear off the skin and every horrid pretense he’s had to put up for the sake of this damned Family and that damningly weak Aeon who couldn’t even protect their most loyal acolyte.

And now, his sister is dead. Killed in her own home, in the domain of her god.

He’ll never see her again.

He’ll never see her smile, with the brightest lights and flames in her eyes as she sings on the grandest of stages.

He’ll never hear her laugh, with the voice blessed by the Harmony and the voice that had allowed him to continue fighting, even when he wanted to give up.

He’ll never hold her again, the sister who he had vowed to protect and had failed, not once, but twice now, and this time, his mistake, his carelessness was permanent.

Now, she is gone.

He asks his attendant to leave, as gently and as kindly as he can allow. He wants to scream. He wants to shout, he wants to cry, he wants to strangle and rip into whatever bastard dared to kill the only person he had ever loved, the only thing he had ever thought to be precious.

Was this some sort of punishment? For daring to question Xipe, or better yet, to question Ena? Was their devotion not strong enough? Was their actions not kind enough? Were they not enough?

Or were they simply just… insignificant, despite it all?

Then what was the point?

Despondently, his gaze raises from the cold wood of his desk.

Does Xipe even know?

Do they even care?

Something catches light in the corner of his eyes. There, in one of the many bookshelves in his office, a paperback spine stands apart from the rest. He knows it, bitterness and bile rising in his throat, he knows it better than anything.

He stands, and takes it from the shelf. He doesn’t open it.

The cover smiles up at him, the golden text taunting and mocking.

He grits his teeth.

A weak Path. A weak Aeon.

A weak brother.

He tears into the Odes of Harmony, ripping pages upon pages upon pages of lies, false vows, and cruel, cruel delusions. Inked words that had been ingrained into him since childhood are crushed under the sole of his shoe. The smiling face of a deceitful, lying Aeon is ripped into two.

His teeth tug at his lip. His chest constricts with the effort to keep his sobs down, to keep his eyes dry and to keep his grief and sorrow secret from the halls of Dewlight Pavilion. Every intake of air is a struggle in of itself, and it takes every bit of his strength not to break down and wail to the heavens to give his sister back.

It isn’t long before the Odes are reduced to nothing, and Sunday is left there, alone in his office with scattered pieces of paper littering his floor.

Xipe smiles up at him in two ripped halves of a page.

He hates how he sees Robin in Them.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 10 || PRESTONPANS ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The air in the cottage was warm and noisy with breathing; not the healthy racket of snoring men, but the shallow gasps of men for whom breathing hurts, and the moans of those who have found a temporary oblivion that frees them from the manly obligation of suffering in silence. The men in this cottage were those badly wounded, but in no immediate danger. I knew, though, that death walks at night in the aisles of a sick ward, searching for those whose defenses are lowered, who may stray unwittingly into its path through loneliness and fear. Some of the wounded had wives who slept next to them, to comfort them in the dark, but none in this cottage. They had me. If I could do little to heal them or stop their pain, I could at least let them know that they didn’t lie alone; that someone stood here, between them and the shadow. Beyond anything I could do, it was my job only to be there. I rose and made my way slowly once again through the pallets on the floor, stooping at each one, murmuring and touching, straightening a blanket, smoothing tangled hair, rubbing the knots that form in cramped limbs. A sip of water here, a change of dressing there, the reading of an attitude of tense embarrassment that meant a urinal was needed, and the matter-of-fact presentation that allowed the man to ease himself, the stone bottle growing warm and heavy in my hand. I stepped outdoors to empty one of these, and paused for a moment, gathering the cool, rainy night to myself, letting the soft moisture wipe away the touch of coarse, hairy skin and the smell of sweating men. “Ye dinna sleep much, Sassenach.” The soft Scottish voice came from the direction of the road. The other hospital cottages lay in that direction; the officers’ quarters, the other way, in the village manse. “You dinna sleep much, either,” I responded dryly. How long had he gone without sleep? I wondered. “I slept in the field last night, with the men.” “Oh, yes? Very restful,” I said, with an edge that made him laugh. Six hours’ sleep in a wet field, followed by a battle in which he’d been stepped on by a horse, wounded by a sword, and done God knows what else. Then he had gathered his men, collected the wounded, tended the hurt, mourned his dead, and served his Prince. And through none of it had I seen him pause for food, drink, or rest.

I didn’t bother scolding. It wasn’t even worth mentioning that he ought to have been among the patients on the floor. It was his job to be here, as well.

“There are other women, Sassenach,” he said gently. “Shall I have Archie Cameron send someone down?” It was a temptation, but one I pushed away before I could think about it too long, for fear that if I acknowledged my fatigue, I would never move again. I stretched, hands against the small of my back.

“No,” I said. “I’ll manage ’til the dawn. Then someone else can take over for a time.” Somehow I felt that I must get them through the night; at dawn they would be safe.

He didn’t scold, either; just laid a hand on my shoulder and drew me to lean against him for a moment. We shared what strength we had, unspeaking. “I’ll stay with ye, then,” he said, drawing away at last. “I canna sleep before light, myself.” “The other men from Lallybroch?” He moved his head toward the fields near the town where the army was camped. “Murtagh’s in charge.” “Oh, well, then. Nothing to worry about,” I said, and saw him smile in the light from the window. There was a bench outside the cottage, where the goodwife would sit on sunny days to clean fish or mend clothes. I drew him down to sit beside me, and he sagged back against the wall of the house with a sigh. His patent exhaustion reminded me of Fergus, and the boy’s expression of confused bewilderment after the battle. I reached to caress the back of Jamie’s neck, and he turned his head blindly toward me, resting his brow against my own. “How was it, Jamie?” I asked softly, fingers rubbing hard and slow over the tight-ridged muscles of his neck and shoulders. “What was it like? Tell me.” There was a short silence, then he sighed, and began to talk, haltingly at first, and then faster, as if wanting to get it out. “We had no fire, for Lord George thought we must move off the ridge before daylight, and wanted no hint of movement to be seen below. We sat in the dark for a time. Couldna even talk, for the sound would carry to the plain. So we sat. “Then I felt something grab my thigh in the dark, and near jumped out of my skin.” He inserted a finger in his mouth and rubbed gingerly. “Nearly bit my tongue off.” I felt the shift of his muscles as he smiled, though his face was hidden. “Fergus?” The ghost of a laugh floated through the dark.

“Aye, Fergus. Crawled through the grass on his belly, the little bastard, and I thought he was a snake, at that. He whispered to me about Anderson, and I crawled off after him and took Anderson to see Lord George.” His voice was slow and dreamy, talking under the spell of my touch. “And then the order came that we’d move, following Anderson’s trail. And the whole of the army got to its feet, and set off in the dark.” The night was clear black and moonless, without the usual cover of cloud that trapped starlight and diffused it toward the earth. As the Highland army made its way in silence down the narrow path behind Richard Anderson, each man could see no farther than the shuffling heels of the man before him, each step widening the trodden path through wet grass. The army moved almost without noise. Orders were relayed in murmurs from man to man, not shouted. Broadswords and axes were muffled in the folds of their plaids, powder flasks tucked inside shirts against fast-beating hearts. Once on sound footing, still in total silence, the Highlanders sat down, made themselves as comfortable as was possible without fire, ate what cold rations there were, and composed themselves to rest, wrapped in their plaids, in sight of the enemy’s campfires. “We could hear them talking,” Jamie said. His eyes were closed, hands clasped behind his head, as he leaned against the cottage wall. “Odd, to hear men laughing over a jest, or asking for a pinch of salt or a turn at the wineskin—and know that in a few hours, ye may kill them—or them you. Ye can’t help wondering, ye ken; what does the face behind that voice look like? Will you know the fellow if ye meet him in the morning?” Still, the tremors of anticipated battle were no match for sheer fatigue, and the “Black Frasers”—so called for the traces of charcoal that still adorned their features—and their chief had been awake for more than thirty-six hours by then. He had picked a sheaf of marrow-grass for a pillow, tucked the plaid around his shoulders, and lain down in the waving grass beside his men. During his time with the French army, years before, one of the sergeants had explained to the younger mercenaries the trick of falling asleep the night before a battle. “Make yourself comfortable, examine your conscience, and make a good Act of Contrition. Father Hugo says that in time of war, even if there is no priest to shrive you, your sins can be forgiven this way. Since you cannot commit sins while asleep—not even you, Simenon!—you will awake in a state of grace, ready to fall on the bastards. And with nothing to look forward to but victory or heaven—how can you be afraid?”

While privately noting a few flaws in this argument, Jamie had found it still good advice; freeing the conscience eased the soul, and the comforting repetition of prayer distracted the mind from fearful imaginings and lulled it toward sleep. He gazed upward into the black vault of the sky, and willed the tightness of neck and shoulders to relax into the ground’s hard embrace. The stars were faint and hazy tonight, no match for the nearby glow of the English fires. His mind reached out to the men around him, resting briefly on each, one by one. The stain of sin was small weight on his conscience, compared with these. Ross, McMurdo, Kincaid, Kent, McClure … he paused to give brief thanks that his wife and the boy Fergus at least were safe. His mind lingered on his wife, wanting to bask in the memory of her reassuring smile, the solid, wonderful warmth of her in his arms, pressed tight against him as he had kissed her goodbye that afternoon. Despite his own weariness and the waiting presence of Lord George outside, he had wanted to tumble her onto the waiting mattress right then and take her quickly, at once, without undressing. Strange how the imminence of fighting made him so ready, always. Even now … But he hadn’t yet finished his mental roster, and he felt his eyelids closing already, as tiredness sought to pull him under. He dismissed the faint tightening of his testicles that came at thought of her, and resumed his roll call, a shepherd treacherously lulled to sleep by counting the sheep he was leading to slaughter. But it wouldn’t be a slaughter, he tried to reassure himself. Light casualties for the Jacobite side. Thirty men killed. Out of two thousand, only a slim chance that some of the Lallybroch men would be among that number, surely? If she was right. He shuddered faintly under the plaid, and fought down the momentary doubt that wrenched his bowels. If. God, if. Still he had trouble believing it, though he had seen her by that cursed rock, face dissolving in terror around the panic-wide gold eyes, the very outlines of her body blurring as he, panicked also, had clutched at her, pulling her back, feeling little more than the frail double bone of her forearm under his hand. Perhaps he should have let her go, back to her own place. No, no perhaps. He knew that he should. But he had pulled her back. Given her the choice, but kept her with him by the sheer force of his wanting her. And so she had stayed. And given him the choice—to believe her, or not. To act, or to run. And the choice was made now, and no power on earth could stop the dawn from coming. His heart beat heavily, pulse echoing in wrists and groin and the pit of his stomach. He sought to calm it, resuming his count, one name to each heartbeat. Willie McNab, Bobby McNab, Geordie McNab … thank God, young Rabbie McNab was safe, left at home … Will Fraser, EwanFraser, Geoffrey McClure … McClure … had he touched on both George and Sorley? Shifted slightly, smiling faintly, feeling for the soreness left along his ribs. Murtagh. Aye, Murtagh, tough old boot … my mind is no troubled on your account, at least. William Murray, Rufus Murray, Geordie, Wallace, Simon … And at last, had closed his eyes, commended all of them to the care of the black sky above, and lost himself in the murmured words that came to him still most naturally in French—“Mon Dieu, je regrette …”[...]

Outside once more, I thought Jamie had fallen asleep. His face rested on his folded forearms, crossed on his knees. But he looked up at the sound of my step, and took my hand as I sat beside him. “I heard the cannon at dawn,” I said, thinking of the man inside, leg broken by a cannonball. “I was afraid for you.” He laughed softly. “So was I, Sassenach. So were we all.” Quiet as wisps of mist, the Highlanders advanced through the sea grass, one foot at a time. There was no sense of darkness lessening, but the feel of the night had changed. The wind had changed, that was it; it blew from the sea over the cold dawning land, and the faint thunder of waves on distant sand could be heard.

Despite his impression of continued dark, the light was coming.

36 PRESTONPANS~DRAGONFLY IN AMBER

[explainslowly]

Get your transfem Dean season 10 au here!! Get yourself a girl who has so many problems!!

This started by me kicking around a little idea in a chat with @autisticandroids - what if Demon Dean just started taking estrogen? Like where would that lead...

The other idea behind these fics was to write short episode reactions, see how much stuff I could fit into something only a few hundreds words long... and to make pushing through season 10 less of a slog...

The series can be found here (I definitely want to continue through season 11 and perhaps longer, I've just been busy with other stuff):

Links to each story with excerpts under the cut:

Even animals suffer - demon Dean in her own words

The number one unpleasant discovery I have made in my time here, is how much of a bleeding sentimental heart Crowley has. It’s pathetic.

Now the guys that stare in bars, those are a different story.

They lead and I follow, behind the building or into their trucks and I bend over easy, let them take me rough, smelling the sweet smell of rotting garbage in damp hot weather. They like to lean on me hard and grab a boob harder, an endless parade of older guys whose failing livers you can smell on their breaths. The pain is sweet.

I don’t need no rising moon - Dean puts himself back together

He examines his naked chest - he wonders what happens next? It’s not like he did much research as a demon - he was just eyeballing the amounts. Maybe the fat will just… reabsorb itself or something. He grabs the small mounds of protruding flesh - the sight of his large hands engulfing them completely gives him a sense of vertigo, or like he’s looking down from a great height, so he closes his eyes and just concentrates on the sensation. They lack the heft of a larger cup, the satisfying weight, but it feels so soothing to hold them nevertheless.

About a girl - Dean has a little thought experiment

It’s kind of funny - Dean forgot how he used to look. That he shot up tall before he got broad, was lanky in a funny way, like an unfinished human. And doe-eyed and soft featured… it makes his mind go in all the wrong directions. Makes him think about possibilities, before testosterone takes hold - a body that hasn’t become yet and is sort of shapeless in a way that makes his head spin.

It’s just idle daydreams.

Lana del Rey croons on the radio and Dean indulges, really gives himself permission to think about it.

What do teen girls even look like these days? He’s out of the loop on it all… Probably something like... thick eyeliner? Lot of makeup… awkwardly applied, but that’s ok. It wouldn’t look out of place on a fifteen year old. That kind of clumsiness is all within reason at that age. You get space to find yourself, that's kind of what being a teen is about, he thinks.

Dirge - a little Drowley interlude

Crowley lays his palms on Dean’s ribcage, framing his chest.

“Hello ladies.”

The embarrassment burns Deam up - he feels his face flame red. “Fucking hell, Crowley…”

“Just getting reacquainted,” Crowley sounds amused, but he doesn’t keep his distance long, dives in, licking Dean’s breast, the beard scratching at sensitive skin, sending electricity down his spine. Crowley is thumping at the nipple not in his mouth and his other hand is unbuttoning Dean’s jeans.

[britcision]

Do you ever get the feeling that your pimples are intentionally mapping out the parts of your body where you can’t easily reach to check up on or spot clean them?

Cuz it’s Big Bedtime Congestion Hours and having to sleep every night with the vaporub always causes breakouts all over my chest but they’re being vindictive right now

Like the only place on my body that I can’t easily get both hands to is the back of my shoulders (I’m hyperextensive, it’s bad) and GUESS where I have like six huge and super sore pimples popping up

Right on the fucking shoulder blade

There is NO way I got the vaporub there?? I think???

(Front of shoulders I’ll grant you, there’s some migration but not that much)

[pidgefudge]

anything is possible if you block out the real world and retreat into the expansive catalog of elaborate fantasies you've developed over the years as a coping mechanism

[mollyrolls]

there is a man who is doing a full mukbang in the science building rn, smack in the middle of like 5 people who are all studying, and he is the LOUDEST CHEWER IVE EVERRRR HEARD

[perhaps-mr-collins-has-a-cousin]

Hello praying people, I'm not doing well and would really appreciate your prayers right now <3

[weareuniqueandimportant]

YOU SHOULD JUST COMMIT SSSSCIDE... YOU'RE WORTHLESS... YOU VIEW US THIS WAY YOU'RE AN ABUSER A KILLER A MURDERER... TRULY... YOU WOULDN'T EVEN LISTEN TO US YOUR HANDS THEY'RE ON OUR THROAT... YOU'RE WORTHLESS AS RESULT... GO AHEAD... YOUR VALUE IS COMPLETE 0...

THIS POST IS ABOUT LESBIAN FOOD... NOTHING MATURE ABOUT THAT... I LOVE EATING SSSSIDE... THAT IS A TYPE OF FISH WE WOMAN TEND TO EAT TOGETHER... WHY DO THIS TO US 😢...

DAMN... I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS COMPLETELY SHADOWBANNED POST WAS CHECKED BY THE SITE... THAT'S CRAZY... WHO EVEN FOUND THIS...? OH WHATEVER... HA.

[daincrediblegg]

Gerard Way wrote The Sharpest Lives for feral horror film enjoyer girlies to ideate all their bloodlust fantasies to and that's the simple truth of it

[catos-wound]

did those roman guys have eczema

[trans-xianxian]

got through all the details and now all that's left is metal and blood before I can start relining and doing the hair but I have been struck with a horrible tummy ache :( it's only noon so hopefully I will be cured of this vile ailment with time to keep working. we are so fucking close