#not even difficult. just... rarer

[fisheito]

follow the vice captain! grow flowing locks for maximum chivalry and knighthood!

[bogleech]

Responses on my post about this are all over the map, but it looks like most people who create art do so just out of a need to create art, even though they find the actual steps and process to be totally unfun or even annoying to do.

It appeared from notes to be a bit rarer that people draw or write out of loving the work process itself. Lets find out!

[wingsofmud]

The canonically rapid evolution of the dragons in WoF is really interesting to me, so I added some aspects of that to my rewrite.

The rankings system is also interesting, so I made that a nation-wide thing, instead of something just for the nobility. Circle 1 and the palace are located in the upper most part of the territory, with the other circles going in a line south of it.

I shifted the Great Ice Cliff to separate the 1-3 Circle from the 4-7 Circle and the rest of Pyrrhia.

Info Below (For present day Icewings):

Lower Circle Icewings

Lower Circle/Southern Icewings are vaguely based off of polar bears. They're shorter and brawnier than upper circle ones. While they do give off that signature Icewing chill, their scales are not as frigid as their northern counterparts. Their tails are like a spiked club.

They can come in white, but often come in light browns, grays, reds, and oranges. The closer the dragon is to the Great Ice Wall, the more whites, blues, and purples show up in their scales.

Southern Icewings are also more likely to have spots and/or stripes on their scales, all to blend in better in the ranging subarctic to temperate to desert climate they live in. They are more omnivorous, and many herd caribou as an occupation.

They make up the majority of the Icewing population and the backbone of the military. They wear clothing more often, which usually consists of fur, bone, or fish scales. Better off Icewings can also obtain cloth and jewelry from passing Sandwing nomads.

While all Icewings have a reputation for being frigid, pun intended, lower circle Icewings tend to be friendlier.

.

Upper Circle Icewings

Upper Circle/Northern Icewings are inspired off of arctic wolves. They often have small, pale irises and their scales feel like ice to the touch. Their tails are like spiked whips. They mostly come in white with some light blue or purple accents on them. Some dragons like Snowfall have red accents. Spots and stripes are rarer and usually much paler when they are present. They are much less tolerant of the heat.

Northern Icewings don't usually wear much jewelry. It's seen as garish to make such obvious displays of wealth, unless you're the Queen. They usually only dress up during special occasions and celebrations, and even then that's usually reserved for the one being celebrated.

The upper circle consists of all Icewing nobility along with the richest dragons. Most work in or around the palace grounds. Most of their diet consists of fish and seals which they eat raw.

.

History

I changed the Gift of Order to the Gift of Equality. In ancient Icewing society, the caste was absolute. You were born into and died in your circle. The Gift of Equality came with a system to introduce fairness by basing what circle a dragon ended up in on their merit rather than birth.

Of course the Queen at that time did not account for the fact that Upper Circle Icewings have far more resources at their disposal to ensure their dragonets remain in the upper circles than lower circle Icewings. A few dragons manage to climb a circle once in a while, which the upper circle dragons love to use to shut up complaints from the lower circles. It is incredibly difficult to end up in the top three circles if you were not born into them.

Lynx is an outlier. So much so that her family has been investigated several times by Icewing nobles for fraudulent scoring. Considering the punishment for that is death, it is not a light accusation. Nothing was ever found. Of course her problems aren't over, especially since Icewing nobles aren't exactly known for being accepting.

Lower circle Icewings are usually disregarded when it comes to decisions like war and lawmaking by the upper circles. In fact, the upper circles dragons very rarely directly interact with the lower circle ones, often giving news to the fourth circle for them to spread it to the rest themselves. Though each circle and town is different, there is a massive culture shock between the 4th and 3rd circle. Not to mention the literal wall between them.

Lower circle Icewings are vying for independence, a movement that grew rapidly during the War of SandWing Succession. A movement Queen Snowfall is now expected to do something about now that the war is over and Darkstalker has been dealt with.

[osamucide]

gladly

gladly i’ll burn up for you if you burn up for me

NSFW—MINORS DNI

wc: 1.2k

cw: dazai x gn!reader, explicit sexual content, no plot just horny and fluffy, established relationship, somno(?)(sleepy, anyway), handjob, grinding, nipple play, use of “baby,” “darling,” pillow princess dazai my most beloved

reid: this position bruh i’m going to go so feral that i eat my own hand. not the smut i intended to publish next but apparently the smut i needed to publish next. a little something short while i put off a longer dazai smut. i <3 soft lazy dazai enjoy

. . . .ᐟ

You know mornings like this should be rarer than they are.

His charming insistence, however muted by his sleep-addled laziness, hardly ever fails on you. In fact, it all might make him more tempting—that, the warmth of newly recharged bodies, the honey behind his drooping eyelids, the wandering of his hands and rolling of his hips against yours that feels so sweetly and foreignly unmapped and confused, yes, it’s equal parts all those things and you’re sure some others that you can’t conjure up into words through your early-hour fog. Yes, very few things Osamu ever does without meticulous planning, but he does let a certain vulnerability crack through on mornings like this, a vulnerability that’s evident in between his parting lips and the soft, unpracticed whines that live and die there. And yes, you’re one of the primary reasons—if not the primary reason—Osamu’s so often late to show up to work, but it’s difficult for you to feel guilty when your senses find their way back to the waking realm amongst his pretty sounds rumbling from his chest into your ear, his back arching back against your touch, and his soft brown hair splayed around his head like a halo.

The rational side of you should be dragging your dear boyfriend up and out of bed but it appears to still be asleep as you let your fingertips creep beneath his waistband. You shut the morning light out in favor of pressing your eyes beneath his collarbone; your thumb finds his tip, and if you weren't on the threshold of consciousness you would let out a giggle at the way his breath catches. You can feel Osamu's fingers curling tenderly around your wrist—a silent plea for you to keep going, touch him more, and you'll oblige, but you have to kiss the triangle of his shoulder first, so you do; your tongue deftly finds his nipple, and he's so pliant half-beneath you that you can slot his thigh between both of your own—it’s all you'll need, you can tell, as his head dips to the side on the pillow to catch a half-lidded glimpse of you working him into a mess so early and so easily. He'll return the favor without even trying, just by laying there and letting you move the way you do; he's so gorgeous all bleary from slumber, palming your lower back to guide you against him. You move. You move, looking up at him like he’s an angel, and his vision melts to warm darkness again. It's all he'll need, too.

You’d think he was falling back asleep if it wasn’t for the slow and steady bucking of his hips up into your hand. Winding your fingers around his base elicits a whine from his diaphragm—one you can hear against him as your own eyes roll shut and your tongue continues to idle. It’s all so natural, the way you stroke him, lick him, grind on him, that you feel yourself slipping back into unconsciousness. It’s his noises that you hang on for.

He’s far from alert, but words tumble out in whispers.

“Baby, it feels so good, don’t stop…”

You hum, more in response to his mumblings and less from the friction you create against his thigh; nonetheless, you’re sensitive, and as you keep rhythm along his cock he flexes against you and the way that you feel, splitting the line of slumber and wakefulness and writhing hotly against your lover, is divine.

You wish you could live in this kind of moment for the rest of your life. Too often you find yourself overwhelmed; regrettably and even more often you find Osamu overwhelmed. It’s never so obvious to anyone as it is to you, so he doesn’t tend to let on to anyone but you, and maybe that’s why you keep things like this sacred, because for once he doesn’t seem to be thinking, analyzing, inquiring, even how he does when you regularly have sex—forever the pleaser, he’s always looking to you with eyes asking questions like is it enough? Even outside of sex, god, in every aspect—you know he never stops wondering the same thing about himself: is it enough? Does it feel good? Am I enough? And the answer you give him is always a resounding yes, and you want so badly for him to believe you because he’s just as much your angel as you are his. You hope that mornings like this communicate it louder than your reassurances can. Your pleasure—in everything, in life—is so vividly amplified by his wellness, his peace, his own pleasure. You love him so deeply. He loves you like a stray cat finally living in comfort. You’ll never let a morning like this slip.

“Right there, right there,” he encourages as you squeeze just below his tip; his head lolls from side to side almost as if he’s dreaming (sometimes he thinks he is with you) and you track his movements through your own bliss, dragging your hips back and forth desperately as you double down on the spot that forces full-bodied moans from his pretty mouth. He’s close, he begs you; you’re frantic on his thigh, feeling yourself cum in a haze that has him tensing—you grind harder, harder, harder, sighing out his name until you’re spent so you can prop yourself up on your elbow to watch his face in the thickly-curtained sunlight.

“Oh, fuck, fuck— fuhhh— ah, uh-huh, ah—”

His eyes flicker open to catch your tired smile and he’s cumming—his grip on your ass is the only thing grounding him as his jaw falls slack, your lashes flutter in pure satisfaction, and he twitches, sent to the clouds by his beloved who looks at him with such adoration that he catches himself believing for a second that he must be beautiful; you work incredible magic on him. His brain and his body, both so used to neglect and abuse, finally feel like fruitful grounds for love. He finally feels whole as his cum drips down your fingers.

It is then that you do giggle and lean down to place a quick kiss to his nipple; he’s breathless, pink in the face, and you know you couldn’t love him more, and yet you will as each second passes.

Osamu brings his hand up to your hair, and your next kiss lands on his lips as he wills you down. It’s tender and lasts much longer than expected—you almost start your hips against him again, but the snoozed alarm at your bedside rings for the fourth time. You glance over. He was supposed to be out the door five minutes ago.

“Oh, shut it off,” he groans resentfully.

“As if.” You press one more kiss to his cheek before you unpeel yourself from him and punch the ringer into silence. “I’ll put coffee on.”

“Shower with me before I go, please.” He rubs his eyes and sits up. You strip out of your sticky shorts.

“Of course, darling.”

You pad to the kitchen. He watches you go with a warmth he didn’t know himself to be capable of.

And a smirk.

Maybe he can talk you into one more round in the bathroom.

[avis-writeshq]

05 — enchanted

summary: “please don’t be in love with someone else”/“please don’t have somebody waiting on you.”  pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn, no use of (Y/N) warnings: alcohol (reader gets drunk lmfao), jealousy, slight miscommunication, austin (aka: bartender girl from s4), special mention to special people wc: 4.9k a/n: everyone say thank you @astrophileous for beta-reading MWAH ilyvm zara <33 SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Although you haven’t been a part of the BAU for more than one year, it didn’t stop you from maintaining the connections that you had in all your years of working there. Sure, the scheduling times could be better, but that didn’t stop the team from spending their rare day off to spend time with you. After all, the adjustment of seeing you every day to once in a blue moon was a difficult one to make. 

O’Keefe’s has been the main victim of the team’s shenanigans, its doors open for the seven members of law enforcement, all eager to get their hands on some well earned rest and relaxation. Drinks are passed around the booth and you can’t help but laugh as you watch Derek get his ‘groove thang on’ with a few girls in the bar. Today is one of the rare occasions when the team didn’t have a case, an even rarer day when the team didn’t have to take on any new or incoming cases. 

“How’s life treating you?” Emily asks cheerfully, sipping at her strawberry daiquiri. You gather that tonight is one of those nights.

You smile, sipping at your own beverage of choice. “Good! Way less stressful than working at the BAU, that’s for sure. And the hours are good, too.”

JJ snorts from beside you. “Yeah, well, can’t say I’m not jealous. How’re the kids?”

“I can’t say much because of confidentiality and all that, but they’re doing well. A lot better, thank goodness but it just goes to show the aftermath of the things that you guys deal with. I mean, I still think about all the victims we’ve helped and it sucks that we can’t do anything to help them further.” You finish your tangent with a long sip of your drink before leaning back against the booth. “Anyway, how are you guys?”

Penelope comes shuffling past carrying a series of cocktails, her absolutely monstrous platform heels not aiding her in her slightly tipsy task. “Do not even get me started on work. No work! None! We’re having a fun day. Ergo, no work talk.”

You laugh in response, moving to the side to allow her room to sit in the booth. “No, Penny, you’re right. No work talk.”

The drinks are dispersed and your gaze shifts to where Spencer is standing, laughing awkwardly as he tries to follow along to Derek’s dancing and socialising. He looks incredibly out of place in his brown argyle sweater vest, navy tie and freshly pressed slacks, and he pulls at the collar of his shirt. 

“Nah, Spencer could definitely be a ladies’ man if he plays his cards right. And I mean that literally,” Emily says, bringing you out of your daydream.

Your head snaps in her direction, trying to calm your facial features and microexpressions. Regardless of your attempts, after a year of not practising, you don’t do as well as you hope. “What?”

JJ grins at you, her eyes lighting up knowingly. “We’re just talking about who’s the biggest hotshot in the BAU.”

“Wouldn’t that be David?” You ask meekly, your finger swirling along the edge of your glass. You had met David Rossi on occasion, once by accident when you were having a night out with the girls and the other during a proper introduction two weeks later. “Didn’t he have, like, five wives?”

“I had three thank you very much,” Rossi intervenes swiftly, holding his glass of whisky on ice. 

“Sorry, my bad,” you respond jokingly, snickering as he shakes his head and stalks over to where Hotch is sitting and drinking his rum. 

Penelope lets out a loud laugh. “I think we’re forgetting the obvious: our very own Chocolate Thunder.”

“Well, fine,” Emily drawls, waving a hand dismissively, “but Spencer has that innocent vibe to him, y’know? The kind of guy women go crazy over.”

JJ clicks her fingers in remembrance. “Didn’t a bunch of prostitutes try to pick him up in that one case?”

“What?” You ask again, albeit a little shrilly as you try to dismiss the surprise in your tone. 

“He didn’t take them,” Emily says quickly in an attempt to ease your discomfort. “But he did pick up a girl a few months ago. Austin?”

Penelope nods at that, putting down her cup. “Oooh, yes! I remember her. He showed me a picture. She’s pretty.”

“I mean, he did pick up Lila too.” JJ reminds the team, shooting you a sly smile. “You remember her, don’t you?”

You force out a laugh and bite the inside of your cheek in the process. “Yeah. Who’s Austin?”

“I think I still have a picture!” Penelope says, brandishing her phone from her coat pocket. She types something in before sliding it in your direction. “Pretty, right?”

Austin is certainly pretty, even in the uncoordinated selfie Penelope shows you of her and Spencer. He’s slightly out of frame, his lips set into a sweet smile while Austin practically glows. Her brilliant green eyes flash in the camera and her dark hair frames her face perfectly. She and Spencer are close in the photo, with him holding the phone clumsily and she has a hand on his arm. 

“Uh huh,” you murmur distractedly, averting your gaze from the photo as an ugly feeling creeps into your chest. “Really pretty.”

Emily looks at you curiously. “You didn’t know about her?”

You shrug in response, the smile on your face insincere. “There are a lot of things I don’t know about Spencer.”

The group exchange a couple glances at your tell-tale body language, watching as you scoot past Penelope and out of the booth, making your way to the bar. You’re all too grateful for a reprieve from the teasing as you order another drink and take a seat, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. Your mind goes through all the interactions you’ve had with Spencer over the years. Were you really that foolish to think that he would feel that way for you? Maybe you were reading too much into it, you try to reason, running your fingers through your once styled hair. Maybe, in some stupid and twisted way, all of Spencer’s interactions were platonic.

You scoff inwardly to yourself. Right. Because picking someone up at two o’clock in the morning is entirely platonic. Sleeping in the same bed as someone because of nightmares is totally normal between friends. In any case, you could have sworn that he–

“Trouble in paradise?” 

An unfamiliar voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin, and you turn to the man who takes a seat beside you. “Uh… something like that.”

The man hums, a smile on his handsome features. His dark brown hair is fluffy and, in its own charming little way, suits him. He reminds you a lot of Spencer, with the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles along with the timbre of his voice. He’s also very different to Spencer, especially with his sweater that has a bright orange pumpkin on it, paired with a matching orange scarf. A pair of red tinted sunglasses hang on the neckline of his sweater, and you doubt that it would do much good to block the sun.

“I’m Matthias,” he says good naturedly, beaming. “I’m with my sister, Laura,” he explains, gesturing to a lady sporting dyed auburn coloured hair, and she waves with a matching smile.

You introduce yourself, pointing to the booth. “My friends are over there.”

Matthias nods, undeterred by your company on the other side of the bar. “Let me buy you a drink.”

*** 

After what felt like hours of dancing (it was really only fifteen minutes), Spencer and Derek make their way to rejoin the group. The feeling of sweat matting his skin is one of many reasons as to why Spencer hates dancing. That, and the fact that there were far too many people on the dancefloor. What’s worse is the fact that he’s sure that none of them have ever heard of the word ‘deodorant’. He cringes at the thought of all the germs that could be festering on his skin as he sits at the booth, his eyes shifting to wear your bag lays haphazardly on the red cushions. 

“Where is she?” He asks instantly, turning to Emily and placing your bag so that it’s in a safer and less hazardous position.

She hums, pointing in the bar’s direction. “Getting a drink. She’s just cooling off.”

“Cooling off?” Spencer echoes, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean she’s ‘cooling off’?”

Penelope offers an apologetic smile, fiddling with the buttons on her coat. “We… might have told her about Austin?”

“You what?” Spencer can barely believe his ears as he looks at the group incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

“We didn’t mean anything bad by it,” JJ says hastily. “We didn’t think she’d react like that.”

“React like what?” Spencer’s voice is strangely stern, his eyes narrowing as he turns to the rest of the team. “I don’t like Austin. She’s nice but I don’t like her.”

Derek’s brows lift in surprise and confusion. “Did you go out with her after the case?”

Spencer’s ears burn in embarrassment and he turns to his friend in offence. “I asked her for help. I don’t like Austin like that. I needed advice.”

“Advice,” Emily repeats, turning in the direction of the bar. “You mean about…?”

Spencer doesn’t stay long enough to head the rest of Emily’s sentence or to answer it, making his way over to you are. Part of him wishes that he stayed put, especially when he sees what you’re doing. In an instant, his nose is scrunched up in distaste as he spies the random stranger chatting you up. His eyes lock with yours and he relishes in the way they light up as you wave him over.

“Hi,” he breathes, standing beside you. 

“Hi!” You gush, beaming at him. “Saw you on the dancefloor.”

“You’ll never see it again,” he says honestly, stealing a sip of your drink. It tastes like vodka and the strawberry lipgloss you use (he only know what it tastes like because of its very on the nose packaging: a giant strawberry. He wishes he knew for other reasons).

You laugh, bright and loud, before you gasp excitedly. “Oh, Spencer, this is Matthias! He’s been keeping me company.” Then, you lean closer to him, your voice a very exaggerated whisper as if the person you’re talking about isn’t in the seat next to you as you tell Spencer, “he’s a director.”

Matthias waves off the statement, chuckling along. “Nothing famous though.”

“He’s a liar,” you tell Spencer enthusiastically. “Did you know he went to New York University? Crazy, right? Like, the school of arts or something. Oh! And he’s also from Vegas! You two are so alike.”

Spencer nods half-heartedly as he tells you, “you know, I went to MIT and CalTech.”

“Well I know that, silly!” You say with a drunken laugh, poking at his cheek. You turn to Matthias with a proud grin before reaching for a shot. “Spencer’s a genius. He’s a super smart genius.”

“That’s what ‘genius’ means, angel,” Spencer reminds gently, prying the little cup away from you. “No more. You’re drunk and we don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Your face falls and your lips curl into a frown. “But Spencer I’m thirsty!”

“You have water in your bag,” he prompts, squeezing your shoulder and helping you off the barstool, not paying this Matthias person any mind. “Okay? Let’s go back to the others.”

You nod eagerly, stumbling a little as you wave goodbye. “Bye, Matthias!”

“Uh huh,” Spencer dismisses, leading you back to the table by the small of your back. He leans a little closer to murmur in your ear, “why did you leave the others?”

You shrug dismissively, leaning into his side. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No, angel, it does,” he says carefully, “tell me?”

You huff in your own clumsy drunken way. “You should ask Austin. Or go pick someone else up. Emily says you’re turning into a ‘ladies’ man’.”

Spencer resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. “I don’t like Austin,” he tells you in earnest, holding you close to his side as you stumble back to the booth. “I mean it, angel.”

“Bet you call everyone angel,” you grumble under your breath. “Bet you let everyone call you ‘Walter’ too.”

“No,” Spencer says immediately, a hand on your waist. “I only call you that. Besides, why would I let someone call me by my middle name if it isn’t you?”

You huff again, slumping in the booth as Penelope shuffles inward to give you more room. Your arms cross over your chest in annoyance and frustration and  you turn away from Spencer’s direction. He doesn’t need to be a profiler to know that you’re pissed off at him. Somewhere in your hazy drunk mind, you’ve made it out as him being the bad guy.

Spencer shoots the other girls a pointed glare, gesturing at you as if to say ‘This is your fault’ because, in reality, it is. If they didn’t mention Austin, you wouldn’t be mad at him. If they didn’t mention Austin, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself drunk with some random guy who went to New York University. Spencer mocks Matthias in his head. Stupid Matthias and his stupidly good hair. Spencer runs a hand through his own growing locks, grimacing when he realises that it reaches his shoulders now. Maybe he should get a haircut later.

“Angel,” Spencer tries again, kneeling down next to your chair. “Let’s get you home, alright? Please don’t be mad at me?”

You mutter something incoherent, not bothering to look in his direction.

“I’m not in love with Austin,” he tells you, his tone a mix of firmness and gentleness. “Really, I’m not. We’re just friends, angel, I promise.”

“Liar,” you mutter under your breath as you get out of the booth. JJ guiltily passes you your bag and you take it out of her hands as Spencer grips your arm with one hand, the other on the small of your back. 

“Not a lie,” Spencer says, walking you to his car. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Not after Lila.”

“Lie-la,” you say bitterly as you get into the passenger seat. “Stupid actress.”

He laughs at that, getting behind the wheel. “Yeah, angel. Stupid actress.”

“You kissed her in a pool,” you continue as you fumble drunkenly with the buckle of the seatbelt. “You don’t kiss me in the pool.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn at your words as he puts your seatbelt on, his fingers grazing yours. “It never came up. Besides, I hate pools, you know that.”

“Germ-y,” you respond knowingly, a silly giddy smile on your face. “I know you the best.”

“Exactly,” he hums as starts the car, his words flowing smoothly as he considers how drunk you are. There’s no way you’d remember this, right? “Why would I find another girl when I have you who knows me best?”

Your cheeks glow with pride at his words and you laugh. “Exactly.”

*** 

It’s late. Far too late and you toss and turn in bed. Your eyes are heavy but your brain won’t shut up, swirling with the memories of the previous night. You’re not really sure what happened after you got to the bar, only remembering snippets of the night. The entire time was a blur: you remember getting upset at the girls (or rather, at the information they were feeding you), meeting someone– Mason? Matthew? You can’t even remember– and then downing three shots. It’s awfully stupid of you, yes but then somehow you got home safe and sound with a note on your kitchen counter from Spencer.

You felt a little silly upon the finding of the note. Of course Spencer would take you home; it’s not like the girls were particularly sober by the time you wanted to leave. Regardless, reading the note made you feel incredibly stupid, more stupid than usual, and you wanted nothing more than to bury yourself six feet underground. 

‘Hi angel,’ it read in Spencer’s messy scrawl with chaotic lettering and swirly g’s. ‘You’re probably really hungover right now so there’s a Tylenol on the counter and a sandwich in the fridge. Please drink water; I’m sure you’re also severely dehydrated from the alcohol. I know you’re upset at me but please just forget about what the others said about Austin. I don’t like her like that. Be safe and call me when you wake up.’

The note was fine, nothing out of the ordinary, just Spencer being his usual ridiculously lovely self. You didn’t mind that he took care of you, either. It’s more-so the fact that you genuinely could barely remember what you said that him. You’re betting on it being something exceedingly dumb (you’re making a habit of it, much to your own chagrin), especially considering how much you had to drink that night. Maybe you should start abstaining from drinking from now on, especially if Spencer was in the vicinity. 

The note is now pinned securely to your cork board, a pretty lavender thumb tack holding it in place. Your gaze drifts to it for a moment then to your clock and you groan into your pillow. This is dumb. Sleep is dumb. Your clock blinks with the numbers ‘02:01’ in red mocking letters and you resist the urge to scream. After blindly searching for your phone, you step out of bed while rubbing your eyes. 

The lingering question keeps you up as you pace back and forth beside you bed. If Spencer doesn’t like Austin, who does he like? It can’t be Lila. You would have known if they kept in contact. Then again, you had no idea who Austin was so who knows what secrets Spencer is keeping? What if there was another girl? What if your entire friendship with Spencer was exactly that– friendship. You slap the palm of your hand to your forehead. Were you really that stupid?

It’s in that moment when your phone begins to ring. The tune plays through the room and you know it all too well; the Doctor Who theme song that you spent a whopping two dollars and thirty-seven cents on to add it as the custom ringtone for Spencer. 

“Hello…?” You answer quietly, your voice choking. “Walter?”

“Angel,” he murmurs, and you can hear shuffling in the background. “Why are you still awake?”

You hum, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I could ask you the same question.”

He laughs quietly on the other side of the line, scratchy from the lack of sleep. “Can I come over?”

“Always.”

He hangs up after that and you press the pads of your fingers into the corners of your eyes again. You’re exhausted, far too exhausted to be hosting guests, but this is Spencer. How can you ever say no to him? So, instead of sulking around and spending far too long doing nothing, you fashion yourself a cup of tea and flick the lights on. The book you were reading is thrown haphazardly onto the cushions of your couch but you can’t bring yourself to pick it up. 

The jiggling of the door handle brings you out of your little mood, and Spencer lets himself in with the key you gave him, locking it securely and taking his shoes off to reveal his sock choice of the day: one bright green and the other in fuchsia with buttercup yellow spots. He’s wearing a crinkly white t-shirt that hangs over his gangly frame and grey sweatpants. For something so basic, he looks absolutely criminal in it. You pinch yourself as punishment for thinking such a thing. 

“Hey,” he breathes, sitting next to you. He runs his fingers through his hair, frowning a little. “Do you think I should get it cut?”

You laugh, almost spilling your tea. “You came to my apartment at two in the morning to ask what I think about your hair?”

“Yes,” he agrees before laughing, “no! Of course not. I just thought of it.”

A hum leaves your lips as you curl a strand of his hair around your finger. “I like long hair on you. Besides, you’d look good in any hair cut.”

Spencer preens at your words, enjoying the feel of your touch in his hair. “You’re a liar. I know what I looked like four years ago. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not!” You insist, beaming at him as you poke his cheek. “You were really cute back then. Like a baby.”

He flushes again at both the compliment and the contact, his mind committing the way you say ‘baby’ to memory. He thinks it again and again; baby, baby, baby. 

“I was not a baby,” He tells you, half in jest. “I’m older than you!”

“By a year,” you quip, the sleep deprivation making your head go loopy. “Barely. Doesn’t matter, you’re still baby.”

Spencer scoffs lightly, poking your side. “If I’m a baby, what does that make you? A foetus? A zygote?”

You let out a quiet scream in protest, whacking him over the head with a throw pillow. “Ew, Spencer what the hell?”

He snickers in response, shielding his face with his forearm. “If I’m a baby and you’re younger than me, you must be at an earlier stage of development. So? Which is it, are you a foetus or a zygote? C’mon, angel, you passed eighth grade biology.”

“You’re an ass,” you chastise jokingly, rolling your eyes as you look up at him. Sometime amidst the commotion he must have gotten closer to you. Your noses are almost touching and your breath hitches in your throat. 

He smiles sweetly, his own cheeks warm and flushed with embarrassment as he maintains eye contact. “I thought I was ‘baby’.”

What the hell? Is this really Spencer Reid? Silly, awkward, nerdy little Spencer Reid? This must be a very convincing body suit and an even more convincing voice altering machine because this is not Spencer Reid. You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks and ears so quickly that it’s enough to make you go dizzy. Maybe you’re a lot more sleep deprived than you thought. 

“Are you drunk?” You croak out meekly as he cages you in, his forearms on either side of your head as he leans you against the couch. 

He laughs– he has the actual audacity to laugh– and he shakes his head. “No, angel, I’m not drunk. You know I don’t drink enough to actually get drunk. Besides, I drove here.”

“You drove here,” you repeat, a little dazed from how close he is. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Almost three now but yes,” Spencer agrees, smiling. 

“You hate driving,” you remind him, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Especially at night.”

He hums in agreement. “I do. But I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.”

You kick yourself internally. ‘Oh’? Who the hell says ‘Oh’? This is it. Your life is over. Maybe you should move to another state. Change your name, shave your head, and get a different degree because you’re almost certain that it’s the end of the line for you.

Spencer lets out a soft chuckle. “I missed you.”

“You saw me two days ago?” You say it like a question and you suddenly feel yourself sweating. It definitely got hotter in here. 

He murmurs your name, his fingers grazing the skin of your jaw gently. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“I ran into you four years ago and almost gave myself a concussion,” you say, averting your gaze as you tried to calm yourself down. 

“I’m so glad I met you,” he repeats softly, his nose brushing against your cheek. “Look at me, angel.”

You wet your bottom lip nervously as you look at him, his hazel eyes a little greener in the low light of your apartment. His legs are on either side of your hips and he brushes his thumb against your chin. 

“I want to kiss you,” Spencer says lowly, albeit a little breathlessly, and you can hear hoarseness in his words. “Can I?”

You’re dead. You’re either dead or asleep, that is the only explanation you have for this entire situation. You’re either dead and in heaven or asleep and dreaming. It is that plain and simple.

“What?” You croak out, your nails digging into the skin of your thighs. 

“I know you wanted to do it in a pool but I’m pretty sure your apartment gym is closed now, angel,” Spencer says, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “Can I kiss you?”

The only thing you can manage to do is nod, your eyes flickering to his lips for a split second, watching as the corners of his mouth tug upwards. Your brain barely has any time to comprehend the words he said (since when did you say that you wanted to kiss him in the pool?) because in a rush of confidence, Spencer cups your face and presses his lips to yours in a tantalisingly slow kiss. His eyes are closed and his hands are eerily soft, the gentleness in which he holds you reminiscent of one holding porcelain. 

He pulls away after a moment, his cheeks burning and a smile on his face. You can’t even breathe as you just stare at him, lips parted in surprise. What do you even say to that?

“Thank you?” You manage to stutter out, heat creeping up your neck.

He laughs again, breathless and beautiful, as he kisses the side of your face. “You’re welcome.”

Spencer brushes an eyelash from your cheek, beaming at you as he does. “It’s late,” he tells you, getting up from the couch and freeing your limbs. “You should get some rest.”

“Uh huh,” you respond, your head  spinning. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he says back, trying to hold in a laugh. “I’m free next Friday. Do you want to go out?”

“Go out?” You echo, “we always go out.”

“I know.” He smiles at you again as he makes his way to the door. “I meant– you know. We can go out.”

A beat passes and your head is awfully slow, whether from the kiss or from the sleep deprivation, you’re not entirely sure. “We can go out.”

“Great.” He pauses, taking a step towards you before kissing your cheek. “I’ll text you.”

“You’ll–” you gape at him again as he opens your door to leave. “You hate texting.”

He nods, slipping on his shoes. “I also hate driving at night. Your point?”

“Right,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. “Text me when you get home?”

“Of course I will, angel,” he promises, “get some rest.”

Get some rest? How the hell are you supposed to get some rest after all that? With one last wave, Spencer leaves your apartment, leaving you hoping that this wasn’t just some thing. Maybe this was the very first page of your story– a very embarrassing start to your story. There is one thing for certain though: Spencer is not in love with someone else.

*** 

It’s a Tuesday when Penelope calls you. You had just finished up with a client when your phone begins to ring. 

“Penny!” You gush, unable to stop the smile from stretching onto your face. “I am stupid, I said ‘thank you’? Who the hell says thank you after someone kisses you?”

“Who kissed you?” Penelope asks, and if you weren’t so caught up in your own tangent you would have noticed that she sounded tearful. 

“Spencer did!” You exclaim, slapping a hand to your forehead. “He’s sitting there and he looks amazing and he smells really good and I am stupid.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Penelope says quickly, and you can imagine her waving her fluffy pen around. “He kissed you and you said thank you?”

“Yes.”

“Well that was very polite of you,” she says, trying to sound happy before her voice cracks.

You frown immediately, taking a seat in the wheelie chair in your office. “Penny? Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

“It’s about Spencer,” she says woefully, sniffling. “He wanted me to tell you something. It’s not looking good, honey, but– but he wanted me to give you a message.”

“Penny–” You stop short when you hear Spencer’s voice. It’s a recording from his phone, and you can only really tell because of the crackling audio on the other side of the line.

“Is it on?” Spencer asks before clearing his throat. He sounds breathless, his words breaking off at some parts and you know that it’s not from the bad audio quality. “Hey, angel, it’s me, Spenc– Walter. It’s your Walter. If you’re getting this then something happened and I just wanted you to know that– that I love you. I didn’t get the chance to tell you that before but I do. I love you and I wish it didn’t turn out like this but I am– I am so glad that we had that moment.”

Through the recording you can hear a shuffle, like the sound of a sliding door being opened, along with a quiet, “Prep the victim for transfer,�� before the recording cuts out, leaving you with Penelope on the line. 

She calls your name quietly, choking on her words. “Are you okay?”

You hang up. 

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Hold On

1.3K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: You wear Detective Tim Rockford's leather holster.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established relationship, nicknames as usual (Shutterbug, baby), breast worship, wee bit of thigh riding.

A/N: Inspired by @mrsmando's Tiddy Talk™️ yesterday, this is my case submission for Tim being a boob guy🫡 Kindly let me know if you're convinced 😂😂 This is, of course, our The Rockford Portfolio couple, but can be read as standalone.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always / Series Masterlist / If you're interested in more Adventures of Tim Rockford's Holster, may I suggest @ghotifishreads' drabble?

It had actually been somewhat difficult to pull off your little surprise for Tim.  First, you had to wait for him to be off work; it was a rarer occurrence than it should be, with Tim often working late and sometimes going on weekend stakeouts, thereby taking that leather gun holster of his with him.

Then, when Tim was at home, the two of you were hardly ever apart – not wishing to do anything other than enjoy each other’s company, either quietly or voraciously.  Sure, you could have asked him to give you some time alone to set-up, but then he would have known that he had something coming.  And you wanted this to be a surprise, surprise.

The opportunity finally came in the form of an invite to Officer Chu’s bachelor party; Tim had hummed and hawed about going, but you encouraged it enthusiastically.  Not wanting to give away your hidden agenda, you simply reminded Tim of that time when Officer Chu sat in a hot patrol car with him for eight hours so they could get photographic proof of Grandma Ursula’s lab and he had agreed he should go for a few drinks.

When you receive Tim’s text that he’s heading home, you make your way to the bedroom to get ready; giddy at the imagined look of awe that you hope to see on Tim’s face soon.

Taking Tim’s gun holster off the bedpost on his side of the bed, you run the thick, firm straps through your fingers and visualize them framing your boyfriend’s equally thick chest.  As you warm the supple leather under your thumb, you think about how it stretches across Tim’s broad back, and the image blossoms a different type of warmth in your core.

Tim wearing this leather holster is like a siren call to you; just seeing it wrapped taut around his tight frame at the end of a long work day makes your mouth dry.  You never fail to compliment the way he looks in it or tell him how much it turns you on.  Once, when you had slipped your soft hands under the straps to provide some relief where they had started digging into his weary shoulders, cooing the usual sentiments about how hot his holster looked on him, Tim had whispered back that he bet it would look even better on you.

It was there for just a second, but you had filed the dark, hungry look that flashed in Tim’s eyes when he let this confession slip, away in the back of your mind - waiting for just the right moment to test out his theory.

Stripping down to nothing but the black lace panties chosen specifically to match the dark hue of Tim’s gun holster, you slip your arms through the shoulder straps and adjust it so that the small back harness sits comfortably between your shoulder blades.  Pulling the arm straps on both sides over your naked breasts so that they touch in the valley of your chest, you give the various clips and loops a few adjustments, including moving the empty firearm sleeve so that it sits snug under your left breast, before completing the look by using a silk scarf to securely fasten the two sides of the holster together in front. 

Tying the fabric so that it looks like a big bow, you pull the knot so it sits securely on the leather that snugly hugs your plush curves.  Giggling to yourself as you climb onto the bed, you sit back on your heels and wait.

It’s not long before you hear the familiar dropping of keys in the key bowl, accompanied by the soft call of hello from your unsuspecting man.

“In the bedroom, Detective!”

“Tonight was fun, Shutterbug.  Thanks for making me go.  Chu’s fiancé was wondering if y-”  Jaw dropped and words stuck in his throat, Tim marvels at the sight before him: you and your soft curves bare and trussed up for him in his department regulated gun holster, the very one he wears to work everyday and trusts to keep his firearm close and handy, offered up on the bed like a naughty present.  As he stalks towards you, his eyes rake over your tits sitting on display for him, bordered by the bold leather in a way that’s reminiscent of art hung in a museum.  Tim lays down on his stomach and army crawls his way to you at the top of the bed; when you rise on your knees to meet him, he sits and holds you firmly by the waist so he can behold all of you before him.

“Surprise,” you whisper.

Tim looks at you with disbelieving reverence and asks a question he knows will never be answered to his satisfaction, “What did I do to ever deserve you, baby?”

You want to tell Tim that he deserves the world.  That he dedicates himself so selflessly to the protection of this city that he’s earned the right to have all of his dreams fulfilled, and that you’d happily give him anything and everything so long as he never stops looking at you the way he’s doing so right now.  But you don’t tell him anything because your mind goes completely blank when Tim dives forward and takes one of your breasts in his mouth.

He kisses and nips, taking as much of your soft skin into his mouth as he can and sucks so hard he knows he’s leaving marks; Tim comes up only for air and to lave his tongue soothingly over the already reddening spot before opening wide to devour and decorate you again.  The other side of your chest is hardly safe from Tim’s worship.  His meaty hand kneads and gropes your supple breast, pulling and pushing the pillowy flesh every which way that the constricting leather you wear allows.  You welcome every bruising caress and cry out for more, more, more with your wanton moans.  Eyes closed and mouth full, Tim’s own feral noises are muffled and smothered by your chest; you feel rather than hear the evidence of his pleasure vibrate throughout your entire body.

Even without the benefit of sight, Tim ravishes and wrecks you, expertly guided by his intimate familiarity of your most delicious parts.

His hand finds your hard nipple and he teases it with his thumb before pinching and rolling the aching peak between his fingers.

His tongue twirls and flicks your nipple until it’s swollen and shiny, only to nibble it between his ever so gentle teeth.      

Time loses all meaning as Tim repeats and alternates these mind-numbing patterns on both of your heaving breasts over and over until you’re positively howling above him.

Pulling you closer so that he can bury his face even deeper in the most gorgeous pair of tits he’s ever laid eyes on, Tim feels you start to grind yourself down onto his leg; smiling against your skin when your arousal leaks through your panties and onto his pants.  He places his hands on your waist to help guide you to the pleasure you seek and pulls back to watch your tits bounce in his face.  You cry and moan, whining his name as you chase that perfect friction on his thigh, all while Tim is hypnotized by the show your luscious curves and his leather holster put on for him. 

You come with a wail of his name and a hard yank to his soft brown curls, shuddering as you press Tim’s face to your chest so he can lick and mouth you through it. 

“So?” you coo breathily, chest still rising and falling as you come down from your high.

Tim peeks out from between your tits and cocks an eyebrow at your mischievous grin.

“Do I look better in your holster than you, Detective?”

Lust blown eyes twinkling with his own mischief, Tim lifts his head with a smirk, “Gotta see it and you in a couple more positions first, Shutterbug.”  Giggling, you watch as he takes your hands and places them on the holster straps where they lay right below your collar bone; the last thing you hear before Tim tugs your legs out from under you and you’re knocked onto your back is a low baritone command practically growled: “Hold on.”

[iamthemain-character]

To Fall

xaden riorson x fem!reader

CW: Canonical violence, brief suggestive language

A/N: I'm currently reading Iron Flame so this is just based off Fourth Wing knowledge! Don't come for me lol

Song: I, Carrion (Icarian) by Hozier

I feel lighter than I have in so much time

I've crossed the border line of weightless

One deep breath out from the sky

I've reached a rarer height now that I can confirm

All our weight is just a burden offered to us by the world

The first sensation you notice when you stir from your rest is the weight of your lover’s arm around your waist. You can feel the way his hand rests just under your breast, gentle compared to its touch just a few hours ago. You keep your eyes closed, savoring the peaceful intimacy of this moment. Your hand lifts from the mattress, trailing your fingers over the lines of his forearms, not needing sight to trace the familiar scars. You’ve gazed at these arms long enough, felt their strength, that you know each muscle as if it is your own.

“Good morning, beautiful.” The husky morning voice of Xaden curls around your ear, the sound traveling straight down to your heart. You feel his hard chest press against your shoulder blades as he pulls you in closer, his warmth permeating your skin, heating you up from the inside out. You could feel the bridge of his nose as he pressed his face into your hair, lips finding the bits of skin through the curtain of hair that fell over your shoulders. His hand pressed a little firmer against your ribs, as if he could meld you into his body through sheer strength. Not that you would have minded; you never felt as complete as you did when you were right against Xaden.

It was difficult to say what moments with Xaden were your favorite. He was an all consuming sort of lover, always giving his most in every second he spent in your presence. Yet the soft mornings, when the sun had not yet dared to cast her gaze over the earth, you perhaps cherished most. Xaden was entirely yours in those moments; not a Wingleader, not the leader of a rebellion, but just the man who loved you. And the man you loved fiercely in return. The bond between the two of you felt as fierce as dragons’, a desperate need to be near one another, to share in every part of your being.

Unlike dragons, however, the world tore the two of you apart. Your assignment to the front lines brought a chill into your bed, one that not even all of Xaden’s affection could brush away. You longed to give into his touches, the kisses that made you feel as if you were high above the world, but the knowledge that every minute brought you closer to your departure forced you to be sensible.

“You’re thinking.” Xaden murmurs, the plush of his lips ghosting over the curve of your ear.

“Always.” You sigh in return, turning your head to look into his eyes. There’s a shine in his Onyx irises, a light that you proudly note you bring to his life. You reach up your hand, trailing it over the path of stubble that covers his jawline. He makes a sound of contentment, one that you feel rumble in his chest, and he presses his head further into your touch.

“You’re going to need to write down all of those pretty thoughts for me.” He murmurs, brushing his lips against your palm, following the map of its creases.

“Most of them are going to be about you anyways.” You give a soft breath of laughter, knowing you would willingly write down every word for him if he asked.

“Even better.” He insists, moving his kisses to the pulsepoint at your wrist, as if he could kiss your very heart. “That means they’ll match mine.”

Your chest swells, and suddenly it's like your ribs have been cinched in, making your throat close in on itself. Your eyes prick with tears, and you blink rapidly, trying to push them away. You slip your hand to the back of his neck, intertwining your fingers with the messy curls, savoring the silky sensation. “I’m going to miss you.” You whisper, the words only audible for Xaden, as if the walls themselves will hear you and shame your vulnerability. But here, in the bed, with only his ears listening in, you know you can allow yourself the emotions too often denied in the life of a rider.

“As will I.” Xaden replies, his tone low and gentle. “But you will be back soon.” He says the words so easily, voice as calm as the morning itself. But his arms tighten their hold on you, his hands pressing flat against your hip and your stomach, pulling your body as tightly against his as possible without crushing you. There's a desperation in his hold, and you think that he may be clinging to you rather than holding. Every time you leave, there's the unspoken knowledge between the two of you that you may not return. The uncertainty of life comes with the job, and with the warlike state on the front lines, mercy has turned her gaze away from the world.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.” Your words are soft, but your tone is underlined with a plea. You know all too well how Xaden pushes himself when you are not there, pushing himself beyond his limit in his efforts to fulfill all the roles that fall on his–alebit perfect–shoulders.

“You’re the one we should be worrying about.” Xaden murmurs, his hands turning your body over so you’re facing him. His hand leaves your hip, coming up to stroke back your messy hair. “I hate knowing that I won’t be there to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.” You reassure him, your words truthful. You have more than enough skills to fend for yourself, and years of experience have trained you to be a dangerous opponent.

Xaden’s thick brows furrow, drawing together between his dark eyes. “You shouldn’t have to.” He growls, his fingers on your waist digging in a little, most likely adding a few more bruises to his marks littering your body. “I should be there to protect you, to make sure that you’re safe. I don’t want anyone laying a hand on you.”

The fire in his words burns straight to your heart, making your skin tingle with the warmth. Even though it's not possible to let Xaden defend you at all times, the very knowledge that he would so passionately protect you from all harm makes you fall in love a little more. “You’re needed here. The cadets have so much to learn, and they really can’t protect themselves.” You pause, your voice softening. “Especially yours.”

He nods, and you watch his shoulders tense as he is reminded of all the people he is responsible for. You’ve traced those 107 scars more times than you could count, kissed everyone as a silent promise to help him. So much rode on keeping those boys and girls safe.

“Just promise you’ll come back to me.” He says, his dark voice tinted with need.

“Always.”

And though I burn how could I fall?

When I am lifted by every word you say to me

If anything could fall at all, it's the world

That falls away from me

The hands of smoke are curled around your esophagus, choking out every last clean breath from your lungs. Your entire body ached, encrusted in your flight leathers from the amount of blood that you had been bathed in. Furthermore, it was unclear how much was yours versus the enemy’s, but you kept pushing yourself, knowing there would be no peace until every one of the Poromish fighters backed off, or more tragically, were dead. Your heart hurt even more than your wounded body when you thought of the innocent people who were dying, wondering how Nevarre would twist this battle to be blamed on the Gryphon riders and not the true enemy.

You climbed back onto your dragon, the two of you taking to the skies to evaluate the battlefield. The landscape was a nightmare painted by the cruelest of artists, the dirt turned to reddish mud from the sheer amount of blood spilt. It was a small relief to see the battle finally winding down, though it may only be because there was no one left to fight. You and your dragon flew out to the edge of the wards, continuing to look for anywhere that your aide might be needed.

Suddenly, your stomach turned into a sinkhole, swallowing up any seed of relief that might have been planted. The edge of the wards had moved, evidently from further weakening of the stones, and suddenly you and your dragon were exposed. Your dragon quickly banked left to dive back into the safety of Nevarre, but just a second too late. You felt metal hit your neck, right at the junction of your shoulder, pain shooting out like lightning from the point of impact. Your functionality disappeared with the jolt of pain, as suddenly you felt nothing at all. Except, the world was tilting, and rather than seeing the neck of your dragon, you were looking up at it, watching as it grew smaller and smaller. In the haze that surrounded your brain, you wondered if you were falling.

You wondered if Xaden had eaten that morning.

And then you thought nothing at all as darkness consumed you.

You have me floatin' like a feather on the sea

While you're as heavy as the world

That you hold your hands beneath

Once I had wondered what was holdin' up the ground

But I can see that all along, love, it was you all the way down

You were warm. Your entire body seemed to protest against its existence, but you were warm. And surrounded by softness. You opened your eyes–the action taking more effort than it should–and had to blink away the blearyness that blurred your vision. As you looked at the ceiling, noting the beams of dark wood that arched the ceiling, you couldn’t help but think that this looks like Xaden’s bedroom in Aretia.

Your eyes confirmed your suspicions as they slowly moved over the room, spotting the familiar wardrobe, dresser, and desk. All of which were places that you were familiar for far less than innocent reasons, but knew nonetheless. Hope slipped out of its cocoon, fluttering her new wings in your heart as you looked towards the door, looking for the owner of both the room and your heart. And your hope took flight, soaring through your body as you saw Xaden’s head resting atop his arm, his tall body slumped over the edge of the bed. His other hand grasped yours, a desperate need in his grip even as he slept.

You had seen the way his hands could wield daggers, swords, clubs even–not to mention the dark and powerful shadows that he could conjure with barely any movement at all. But to you, those hands held up your entire world. You knew that his calloused palms could hold you in a way that took away any fear, could convince you of his deepest affections, and could bestow a love within yourself so deep that you forgot to be insecure.

Softly, you ran your thumb over the curve of his knuckles, smiling to yourself as you gazed at your beloved. Despite your stiff muscles, you pushed through the ache to shift downward on the bed, curling up beside his head. At the sensation of the mattress dipping, Xaden’s head shot up, his hand constricting around yours. For a moment, his eyes are dark and wild, as if he’s ready to manifest that darkness around whoever threatens him. But then he focuses on you, and immediately they soften into the gentle depths that you’ve lost yourself in countless times.

“My love…” Xaden’s voice is hoarse, the usual strength gone as water wells in his eyes. His fingers flex as he resists gripping you so tightly, afraid he’ll break you.

“Hi.” Your own voice is soft, scratchy as it begs for water. But what’s more important is having the love of your life closer, and so you open your arms, wanting to feel Xaden fill them. He immediately responds, up from his seat in a flash and letting the mattress take his weight. His own arms envelope you, barely restrained from simply crushing your body to his chest. Your arms feel weak from lack of use, but you grip onto the man as tightly as you can, your fingers finding root in his dark curls.

You press your nose into the little gap between his neck and his uniform, inhaling deeply. An ocean of scent fills your mind, washing your body over with comfort and ease. He smells like the tall pines that surround Aretia, of the dark leather that was molded to his form, and the warm skin that laid underneath. It was the scent of home.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” Xaden’s voice is a growl, but you know him well enough to hear the worry and care in the rough words.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” You whisper softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his stubbled jaw.

Xaden lets out a shaky breath, hands tightening on your nightdress, seemingly unconvinced that you’re not going to suddenly disappear. “I should have been there.”

“There was no way you could have been.” You counter, trying to soothe him.

“I should have been there to protect you.” Xadens voice comes out dangerously low, frustration dripping off his words.

“You have a duty-”

“My duty is to you, dammit.” He takes a deep breath, trying to control his voice. “There is nothing I would prioritize over you. Let them strip my rank from me, let this whole rebellion fall apart again, I will not lose you.” Xaden murmurs the words like they’re an oath, like he needs you to let him dedicate his life to you. “If I need to live and die at your hand, then so be it. You are the only thing that matters. Nothing else.”

For a long moment, your words fail you, Xaden’s passionate vow stealing any protest or promise from your mind. “I love you” simply wasn’t enough to convey the depth of emotion and connection the two of you shared.

You leaned back a little, fingers brushing the curls at the nape of his neck as you gazed into his gleaming onyx eyes. “Then live at my hand.” You softly request, your own voice as insistent. “I don’t want your sacrifice. I want you, here, with me, until we both draw our final breaths.”

Now, it was Xaden’s turn to lack a response, the words weighing heavily on his heart. His whole adult life, he had been prepared to die for his cause, for what he believed in. But to live for something? To live for you? It was something he never considered; but if it was all you wanted, then by the gods he would do it.

“I’ll live for you, my love.” He murmurs, and he brings your empty hand to his lips, lightly kissing the tips of your fingers, then down to the palm, and finally kissing your pulse point. Your wrist throbbed steadily, reminding him of just how precious living was.

Leave it now, I am sky-bound

If you need to, darling, lean your weight to me

We'll float away, but if we fall

I only pray, don't fall away from me

Xaden meant it literally when he said he would live and die at your hand. He did not leave your side unless absolutely necessary, and even then he’d always drag one of his friends in to watch over you, despite your protests that you were fine. Still, it was a little endearing, seeing how much he cared for you.

The healing process was slow, the poison from the arrow having done a lot of damage to your body. But you made steady recovery, taking the medicine you needed to, getting rest as well, though the latter often had to be enforced by Xaden himself. It worked both ways, however, as you would often convince the man of shadows to rest as well by welcoming him into the warm bed.

Walking proved to be the most difficult task during your healing period. Your body had been so violently ill with the poison, as well as the wounds you took during the actual battle, that you had been greatly weakened. That, in addition to you being bed ridden for some time, only added to the issue. When you started to literally get back on your feet, however, Xaden’s arms held you, preventing you from collapsing, encouraging every step. In the moments when you would grow too fatigued, he’d scoop you into those same arms to return to his room.

At first, you were frustrated with your inability to do such a basic thing, feeling like a dead weight on Xaden’s shoulders. But as each day passed, you came to cherish those walks through the halls of his home, his arm around your waist, warm and sure. Xaden himself relaxed more during those times, allowing himself to speak freely and enjoy the borrowed time you two shared.

It was during one of these outings that the two of you wandered down a hallway you had previously not explored. It was quiet, with a few pieces of art or items that had been salvaged from the original house. And then your eyes landed on a portrait; it was vast, spreading across the majority of the wall, showing off the smallest of details the artist put in. There was a man, strong and proud, and a woman beside him, looking gentle and wise. But what drew your eye the most was the depiction of the young boy between them, head held high, dark onyx eyes staring directly at the viewer.

The same onyx eyes that stared at you.

“Thats Mom and Dad.” Xaden’s voice is soft, sounding more vulnerable and childlike than you have ever heard before. You glance at him, seeing the bittersweet smile that ghosts over his features. His strong hand grips at your waist a little tighter, as if he needs a reminder that you’re still here, that he didn’t lose you too.

“You look just like your father.” You remark, your voice as tender as your beating heart for Xaden and his family that you’ll never get to meet. “But your smile is like your mother’s.”

Xaden’s smile grows more real, his eyes looking over you, full of gratitude and hope from your words. “She would have liked you. Both of them, I think.”

“I would hope so.” You muse, studying the people in the portrait. You wonder what it would have been like to actually know them, to be able to note what traits your beloved shared with his parents. Seeing the portrait of his father seemed so different from the traitorous man depicted in all of the history books. “What was he really like?”

Xaden tensed beside you, as if the thought of what you must “know” about his father made him defensive. Yet he just squeezed your waist, perhaps a reminder to himself that you weren’t there to burn his memories too. “He was a good man. Not perfect, but a good man. The kind I wish I could be.”

For a moment you let the weight of his words sink onto the two of you, the air thick with the hopes and fears that formed your very lives. You both knew that you and Xaden would carry the blood on your hands for the rest of your lives; even if you won the war, there would never be a moment you could truly say that you were good. But perhaps Xaden’s father felt the same.

“We’re going to finish what he started.” You say quietly, placing your hand over Xaden’s heart. The motion draws his gaze to you, his eyes seeming to come back from whatever far off place his mind sailed to. “We’re going to make this world the kind he would have wanted.”

Xaden doesn’t say anything, just placing his calloused hand on top of yours, his thumb stroking your cool skin. “He wanted things to be better for me.” He whispers, his voice raspy with choked emotion. “I want things to be better for our kids. I want them to be able to choose who they are.”

The idea of “our kids” doesn’t go unnoticed, making your heart flutter as you are reminded just how much Xaden truly wants a future with you. “We’re making things better for all of us. For our friends, our future kids…” You pause, smiling a little, “For us. And we’ll be able to share the story of just how wonderful your father truly was.’

You could have been an angel from above, the way Xaden gazed at you as you spoke; his eyes were reverent, full of devotion, holy and unholy. “For us.” He echoes, like it's another vow to strengthen his heart. A vow that he seals with a kiss to your lips.

I do not have wings, love, I never will

Soarin' over a world you are carryin'

If these heights should bring my fall

Let me be your own

Icarian carrion

Once you fully recovered, Xaden still wanted to keep you in Aretia. The very idea of you returning to Baisgaith just to possibly be sent away again didn’t settle well with his protective heart. Still, you were determined, and just as stubborn as he was, so he begrudgingly agreed that you would return with him.

Despite your lover’s disgruntled attitude towards your decision, the flight back was gratifying for both of you. Side by side, your dragons never strayed from one another, and neither did the two of you. During the few stops that were made, Xaden was quick to encase you in his arms, often allowing himself to indulge in some kisses that increased the time of your journey. If Xaden had been doting before, the near loss of you had only made him even more devoted to claiming every moment he could.

This only became more apparent once the two of you returned to Baisgaith, reciting your perfected story of your terrible injury and how Xaden had managed to nurse you back to health. Leadership, of course, wanted to take you away so they could get the full report;you could have sworn Xaden was a dragon himself from his barely contained irritation at being forced to leave your side.

It wasn’t until the sun had set that you were finally allowed to return to your quarters, having had the details of your experience laid out and rehashed time and time again. Leadership could not find a flaw in your story, however, and eventually let you go with a welcome back to the citadel. You were a little tired, pent up with frustration at your lying authorities, and ready to be back in Xaden’s arms.

Your feet barely had time to step through the door, however, before shadows consumed you, slamming the door shut, nearly splintering it off the hinges. Immediately, heat rose in your body, Xaden’s desire palpable through the little control he had over his powers.

“Finally.” His voice whispers, low and husky with lust against your neck, his nose pressing into the soft skin. “I was beginning to think I’d have to come get you myself.”

You inhale deeply, the distinctive smell that you know and adore filling your senses as you lean back against his strong body. He’s already shirtless, his heated skin making you wonder how long he was waiting for you, like a predator ready to pounce and claim. “You know how long these things go. Trying to make sure I’m not a traitor.”

“Of course.” He darkly chuckles, pressing warm, open mouth kisses up the curve of your neck, biting softly behind your ear. “Don’t you know I’m filling your head with all kinds of nasty plans?”

“You certainly fill my head with filthy thoughts, my love, but I don’t think it's the kind the government cares about.” You hum in reply, smiling to yourself as you feel his hands wander down your body.

His long fingers find the buckles of your flight leathers, popping them open with practiced ease. “Well well, perhaps it should be my turn to interrogate that pretty little mind of yours.” His voice curls into a coil in your stomach, stirring up your desire. “I would love to know just what I can make you imagine.” His hands continue their work on your pants, continuing the progressive removal of your layers.

Once you’re undressed, he spins you around, his hands ghosting over the shape of your body before settling on your hips. His thumbs press into the hollow below the bone, his fingers splaying over the curve of your ass. It’s not unlike watching your dragons lay claim to their possessions, the way he grips onto you, but his possessive nature only stokes the fire in your belly.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, dipping his head down to kiss over your collarbone, his warm breath fanning over your skin. “Gods, I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You murmur your honest reply, your skin tingling with the sensation of his touch.

“I mean it.” He murmurs, biting at your collarbone before lifting his gaze to meet yours. “My whole heart, it belongs to you. I am completely, madly, and truly in love with you.”

Xaden is always such a man of action that you’ve never really had to doubt if he loved you. But as the words melt over your body, casting warmth like the early morning sun, you are taken by just how truly loved you are. “I feel the same.” Your words hardly seem equal, but Xaden’s smile reassures you that he is pleased.

“I want you to always be mine.” His voice has dropped, as if he wants only you to hear his words. His dark eyes glimmer in the little light of the room, making your stomach turn with anticipation. “I want to be able to love you for the rest of our lives. I want to have a life with you by my side.”

You watch as Xaden takes your left hand into his, his calloused palms comforting against your own smaller hands. His thumb brushes over your ring finger, sending a thrill through your heart.

“I can’t make you any promises right now.” Xaden murmurs, love radiating off of every single syllable that leaves his lips. “And I want to do this properly when the time comes, with a ring, and a beautiful setting. I want to get down on one knee so you know that I’m serious when I say I want to worship you for the rest of my life.” He looks up, finding your eyes, giving a small, tender smile. “But for now, all I can ask is that you’ll be mine. In whatever comes our way, whether we have one minute together or one hundred years, I want to know that I get to give my time to you. If you’ll have me.”

You blink, your eyes filling with water as you listen to his words. “Xaden…”You whisper, your voice choked with emotion. You swallow your heart, unable to contain the smile on your lips as you cup his jaw, thumbs stroking the stubble there. “No matter how far we go, no matter what we do…I am yours. Truly and irrevocably. Even if we fall, I won’t fall away from you.”

Xaden feels his own eyes smart with unshed tears, and so he gathers you into his arms, burying his face into your neck. You can hear him murmur soft “thank you”s and “I love you”s against your skin, his hands running down your back. You smile at his reaction, and you slip your hand into his hair, lifting his face enough so you can press your lips against his, pouring out your heart to him through your touch. Xaden immediately reciprocates, his heart always hungry for you, and his lips move demandingly, pulling you in deeper.

He lets out a needy huff, and his hands find your thighs, lifting you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. “Let me show you how much I love you.” He requests against your lips, sounding like a man desperate for water.

“I’m all yours.”

Xaden holds nothing back as he kisses you again, his tongue demanding its way between your lips, savoring your taste on his lips. He swiftly moves across the room, his bed becoming his altar as he lays you down onto it. He takes a moment, eyes moving over your body, as if he could commit every mark and line to memory. He takes your hands, his own strong and capable, but gentle as they hold you, and he presses kisses over the ridges of your knuckles. “And I, my love..I am all yours.”

If the wind turns, if I hit a squall

Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me

If I should fall, on that day

I only pray, don't fall away from me

“Fen Xander Riorson, be nice to your sister!”

Xaden smiled to himself, hearing your voice carry over the springtime air. The sun was setting over the mountains of Aretia, the new grass soft under his body. As far as his eye could see, he saw the prosperous new settlements, the homes and businesses of his friends and family thriving within the new age. It was a sight he thought would only ever be fantasy at one point.

As he feels your familiar hands smooth over his shoulders, your soft lips pressing against his temple, he is reminded just how real his life is.

“That is your son.” You murmur in his ear, coming to sit beside him on the flowering hill.

Xaden chuckles softly, reaching out to snake an arm around your waist. “Our son.” He reminds you, nuzzling into your hair, inhaling your scent. Even after all these years and two kids, he still feels the intense need to just have you. “He gets his stubbornness from you.”

You huff, feigning indignation, but your wide smile gives away your true feelings. You lean against Xaden’s side, watching as your son ignores any reprimands and continues to chase his squealing little sister through the field. “He gets his rebellious side from you.”

Xaden lets out a small snort of laughter, his arm tightening around your waist. He doesn’t deny it, knowing that the two children both take after their parents. It was his greatest joy, being able to watch the very humans the two of you had created grow up and discover themselves. You had fulfilled your promise, after all; the world they knew was much kinder to them than it had been to him. His marks and his scars would always remind him of that.

Xaden’s gaze looks over you, the form of his beloved wife, and it only makes his smile grow. Gray hairs are beginning to intermix with your natural color, denoting the time that has passed within your body. You moan and complain about them, but he sees them as a mark that you two not only survived, but lived. Truly lived. And now, the fruits of your labor only grew in abundance every day.

“I love you.” He softly murmurs in your ear,, his hand brushing away the hair so he can press a kiss to your neck.

You smile up at him, a little surprised at the sudden words, but delighted by them nonetheless. “And I love you.” You reply, your words full of truth and affection.

The two of you return to watching the children play, and the sun continues to disappear with the last few moments of day. But now, you and Xaden simply note it as a passing thought, your love no longer on borrowed time. The night will only bring another day, with the promise of letting you cherish every moment, never to be parted again

[yesimwriting]

Do you think best friend!felix would kiss the reader “for fun” but really…

hm. good question bc i really had to think about this bc if anyone can get away with platonically kissing someone it's 110% felix, and it does feel in character

i was on the fence until i remembered that the first (and only) guy i dated started off as a really good friend and before dating we'd kiss at parties and laugh it off the next day bc of the alcohol/atmosphere so it's very much realistic bc i did not notice for an entire semester😭

so let's discuss!!

felix would definitely hide behind the "for fun" defense by being as casual as possible with it. while out partying/drinking, he'd kiss reader so briefly the reader can barely register what's happening until it's happened. also this is mainly done after a particularly good/happy moment,, maybe after you two take a shot together, with that touch of adrenaline and the sting of alcohol still lingering there. would definitely do this if he felt jealous/saw someone checking out reader.

now, if we're talking actual, more intentional kisses that are harder to explain away....i think these are a definitely a lot rarer, but for sure have happened.

still uses the "for fun" argument if it's a party thing, like if everyone's kissing someone (like a NYE kiss) or it's bc of some party game, then he's lingering/being touchier than usual bc he can get away with it.

also not to take this a step further and make it even more difficult to justify, but i think there's a level of intimacy to it bc felix is so touchy/open with everyone, that eventually the only way to be particularly close to someone is to do more.

so,, and this is definitely the rarest type of kiss ( like it's happened at most 2-3 times) after drinking/smoking together, felix will kiss reader when they're completely alone, with no one to blame or goad you on or interrupt. these are slow and heavy. concentrated.

there's always an emotional component,, maybe reader had been poorly trying to hide their mood because felix had been a little too into being admired recently. or maybe felix feels left out about something and needs to find a way to feel even closer to reader.

after felix is definitely being more open than he usual is, telling you things like "i trust you more than i've ever trusted anyone, you know that right?" and "it's just you and me."

the first time this happened is the first time reader has a oh my god?? do i actually have a thing for felix? moment,, and after felix finally falls asleep, reader freaks out bc what if what happened ruined your friendship?

but then the next morning comes and it's like nothing happened, he doesn't even do that guy thing where they ignore you the next day, it's literally like nothing out of the ordinary happened and out of instinct, reader follows felix's lead

then reader convinces themselves that it's not that weird by telling themselves that felix has probably at least kissed most of the people that are around him for long enough which is kind of true and you know several people that he still hangs out with that he hooks up with on and off,,

so, with the amount of time you spend together,, it isn't strange. not when you know felix the way reader does.

when taylor wrote “and you kiss me in a way that’s going to screw me up forever” it was for felix

----

this might be a little much,, but i can see it for felix tbh 😭

anyways, if anyone's interested in a drabble based on any part of this, lmk!!

[woooshworldtwo]

AT A LOSS

TAGS: WIFE!READER [Originally just mentioned once in dialogue but otherwise just spouse is used when describing said relationship between characters], Husband!Caracalla x Reader x Unrequited!Geta, Mentions of sex, Brief mentions of slavery [gladiators in the Colosseum], Brief mentions of animal cruelty [animals participating in the Colosseum], Historical inaccuracies, I'm not sure what else.

FIRST NOTE: I think I wanted to try accentuating the care he wants to give reader and therefore ends up treating those around him as what he sees them as- disposable and like shit. Geta is a TERRIBLE man so I guess I just wanted him to be pining for someone he knows is out of reach. I was gonna make it a series to like Caracalla x partner reader x unrequited Geta. if this is the first chapter, ngl idk where to trail off from there. i kind of write while im smoking just to fuck around so maybe i could write at least five-ish chapters if i think of a good enough plot. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE THINK?? who knows i could even do the same with Caracalla, it could make sense cause he literally kills his brother in the movie

SECOND NOTE: pov ur me, high off like five tokes and u watch Gladiator 2 the day it comes out on Paramount+. BOOM, obsessed, love it, don't even care about the historical inaccuracies. For some reason, as someone as not all there like Caracalla is, having that deep relationship with his brother, once he notices that lil interest Geta has, or even just the doubts of others finally becoming to a point where my guy has to LOCK IN to keep his partner w him. not cause they don't love them, I think it would be cause he loves THEM too much. I'm talking bristling at the notion whenever he thinks of them together. JUST UNSPOKEN TENSION. do u guys enjoy that?

THIRD NOTE: unfortunately, i have more to talk about but no one to say it to so ur my audience. yelling into the mic i ask, do you guys think I should write porn of Caracalla and reader FUCKING?? idk if it would even include Geta- IT COULD, WHATEVER YOU GUYS WANT. I sort of just wanted to explore writing intimacy as an actual action instead described as thoughts. leave ur thoughts on what u guys think on that too bc im literally so curious.

PLEASE DON'T COPY MY WORK, I BET YOU

Summer in your lungs, and alcohol swimming in your stomach; Caracalla wonders if he's seen beauty such as yours. Never alone in the hours of the night, the lovers he takes soon notice how harder he is to satisfy, to sedate into a warm puddle wrapped in expensive sheets- instead becoming unflinching to the pleasures that usually melt his tortured mind.

Intense with his emotions, he swears this affection was there from first glance. Taken sight of you at in your hazy glory; the clothes accentuating the shade of your skin, the warmth of your eyes, it only takes months before you two wed.

From there, days are blissful. Misery always follows, but he finds with your company at his side, falling into the episodes of madness are rarer and rarer.

Perhaps it's the sweetness of your soul mending what his lacks, or having the closeness of your body distances the pestering thoughts appearing out of thin air. No matter what is it, with his claws dug into your being- he refuses to let go.

Dimmed by what other's consider insanity, it's difficult not to see Caracalla's growing lucidness. Coming face to face with it, Geta realizes any foes and enemies of Rome has never been as close as his brother has to the inner workings of his mind.

Divided by grace, the affection for you has been its limit. As the eldest, Caracalla bears the pitying glances from other's in the palace; to have the responsibilities laid on Geta is blasphemy, but who else can handle its weight when his mind is in two?

Who else to lessen its everlasting ache if not you? For that reason, such as many others, is why he cannot risk this becoming what he has grown familiar with- sharing with his brother.

Holding the same curiosity he did in the faint moments of childhood, his Adam's Apple bobs faintly- and when you look to follow its movements before returning your gaze to him: a faint shiver is felt and repressed in that same breath. "Caracalla?"

Asking in a murmur, he knows what you're referring to. Living with you these past handful of months, he can recall the number of times you've cut each conversation he's thought out into nothing more than small talk. In one worded questions, he cannot help but admire the relaxed sight of you.

So much so, he allows you to each time. Tossing the unspoken plans of connection for small talk, he nods. A hint of a smile is seen, and alone from that, you beam back at him.

Genuine like the sun, to continue seeing it, it makes it easy for him to keep spew out half thought words in hopes something he says would land. "He will arrive shortly, do not worry.", it ends with your name, echoing from his mouth, and although the God's have given him the same glory they themselves hold at their fingertips; nothing has sounded as holy.

Bounded by faith, the prayers he spills are ingrained in the folds of his brain, but once consumed in these times of power, he wonders if he should dare step closer to the soul he swears should beat for him.

"... Geta?", Unknowing for how much time has past, the beaming smile you once held is melted into a small frown. Quietly urging him to the present like he's seen you do with his brother, there's a warmth blooming in the hallow part of his chest.

Cherishing the brief concern, it only seems to remind him what Caracalla has naturally and what he takes the scraps of.

Still leaned back into the expensive marble, the wall itself is a pale enough color to forget about, instead focusing on the features he, too, fantasizes of in passing moments alone.

"Where did you go?", Too familiar with speaking to the other emperor, the question is thoughtless when spoken, yet its weight is felt nonetheless. "Nowhere. Just here.. Are you enjoying yourself?", Taking a pause, he eventually speaks again. It's done when walking to the the throne nearing Caracalla's; the one you sit in.

"Quite the spectacle.", Your eyes peer down at the sight below; bloodshed in the Colosseum's sand doesn't make your stomach twist like it once did, however when watching captured men swing weapons- and seeing another one fall, you look to him again.

Sitting at his own throne, you find his eyes already on you; a quirk upturning on his lips to show the pleased buzz your words give him. Gladiators from conquered lands, their purpose in Rome is to win their survival and amuse any passing visitors. Yet in the past year or so, since your arrival, he's found a deeper sense of pride at their display.

Growing passed the Senator's praise, passed continuing his parents past teachings, he has found serenity in the amazement you hold so clearly.

Seeing your wonder at the captured animals; their stature towering over the sand's flat ground, using its strength to trample over any competitors- he finds himself chasing the occasional bursts of attention he manages to keep with in your magenta sunlight.

Never promising loyalty to anyone; he chases it when you're unable to give it, the mess of concubines and courtesans who he cannot remember the names nor the faces of, only remembering their similarities to you- their purpose has been asked for more as of late, and neglected all the same soon after.

No matter if it was seeing a person with hair similar to yours, a familiar sounding voice, even just dressed in clothing resembling your own; they were sought out after in hopes of finding you in them.

He finds it only lasts briefly.

Of course sex is endless, at the call of his voice and at the stop of a groan; services are there to satisfy whatever craving he has. But after each round of breathlessness, he finds that hunger for what is missing growing into something insatiable.

Hours spent, feeling their bodies, picturing what your own must look like underneath the white moonlight casting into his bedchambers. Each thrust is heavy with yearning he cannot mend, moaning for warmth he cannot have; he damns Caracalla in those times for finding you first before he did.

Perhaps then would you be his spouse. To bed you the same way his brother does would be true nirvana, to hear those same whimpers he knows you're able to make, to feel you shiver and tighten around him the same way those people do; it's what he longs for.

He's certain then he'd be more than just rough, chasing whatever high is made in a blurry of orgasms- it becomes difficult to differentiate who is with him and who is imagined; not when his eyes are shut and your image is all he sees in its darkness. Tenderness is taught, and if his brother was able to learn to extend that same to you; there is no doubt he'd do the same.

"Are you enjoying it?", Turning your focus back onto Geta, his answer is a hum. The sound is husky from passing thoughts, and strain for what should be hidden; he takes a moment to gather his words.

"I always favor your company, the spectacle is merely entertainment.", Repeating what you said only minutes ago, the unexpressed emotions behind it is registered in your mind- and although brushed off originally, that denial you have becomes harder to not believe Geta's feelings becoming more noticeable in the time spent at his brother's side.

"The ambience of cheering Roman's, animals in pain, and dying men; no wonder we have such lively conversations in these times.", Another quality of yours he finds endearing is your dryness. The harshness soaked into your veins from being raised by your family has not changed you the way it has him he notices; viewing the cruelties of Rome in whatever light you could shed, he once again almost smiles, a quirk of his lips turning upwards showing.

"Complaining to the emperor for the privileges he's given you? What an ungrateful wife you are.", Breaking out into a smile, what is said is anything but malicious. Leaving Caracalla unmentioned; unsaid, his mind is soothed from its ache, mending itself when remembering it's just you and him- hidden away.

Alone in a place where he can pretend you two are more than in-laws, there's a warm stirring at the sound of your laughter. Filled with humor you express so freely, it reminds him of conversations with your father throughout the years; his stories of your youth.

Defiant in ways he wishes he'd seen, and mischievous in ways he knows you still are; the only changes is now you're not tangible. Yet, lost in affections like he never got to be as a boy, he doesn't mind who he's face to face with now. Not in the slightest.

"Forgive my insolence, emperor; I plead for it.", Clearly you speak to Caracalla too much because the shiver trailing up his spine goes directly into that heated feeling in his abdomen. Aware you're unknowing to the effect you have, it only worsens at the hint of playfulness heard.

"Oh, you're forgiven. The God's have extended their mercy onto you today, but be wry, they could change their mind.", Unwilling to give into the arousal brewing, the tension he's created in his body, he replies with a smile- one that lingers too long.

Mischief isn't needed to be noticed in the palace, not with the two emperor's having their souls intertwining themselves with your own- no longer being unheard by those around you, that streak remains. It brings an amusement greater than bloodshed to Geta, and even more so to Caracalla. Smoothness of your words he swears is coated with the sweetest of wines; it disarms what would be seen as scrutiny as nothing more than a jest.

With humor being forgotten in such trying times; outside of what the Colosseum offers, and outside of the different celebrations of another conquered land- Geta finds your spirit is lightening to what is constantly dampening in his.

Shouts of Roman's are heard, like you predicted, and another man falls. However, with neither of you truly paying attention to the sight; their deaths were not offered the same graciousness you're given so carelessly, so frivolously: and when one of the last remaining takes their bow to surrender- only then do you look away.

To see your eyes of amusement grow into something unreadable, his own smile dims into a frown.

Standing from the throne, his hands rest on the Bisellium's railing, he grips onto it tightly when seeing below. Blood stains the sand as always; the deceased laid out over it in the afternoon heat, and the two lone man kneel. Meters away from one another, your eyes flicker between them, and soon Geta speaks up again.

Mercy is yelled in the air, and when he asks you, his voice is quieter than intended, "Shall we show mercy?"

Sparking what was lost, you nod, and another smile is seen, "Mercy."

Prayers do not solve what is inevitable, he finds, not when the God's blood soars through his body. The threat of rebellion, and the stings of betrayal, that mask that hides it all becomes wavering whenever he's with you; wishing to you like he did as a child to the God's for power, to worship you in ways he only should deities- it almost feels blasphemous.

Even more so now, when you don't understand the importance behind what he says; the grace he offers, the laughs he lets slip out- it is only the beginning of what he could promise you.

FOURTH NOTE: Now that you've made it this far, I wanna like drift away from what I was writing on my old account. it was just small paragraphs, but writing on a laptop just HITS DIFFERNT- literal hours spent doing this shit. I don't rlly wanna take requests bc i feel like my time is just too hectic for that, BUT I WOULD LOVE to hear your guys thoughts!! Okay, small series on these characters- Quinn Mossbacher, Simon Kalivoda, Ethan Russell, DIMITRI KRAVIOFF, DANIEL MARKOWITZ, JASON HOCHBERG, and finally our beloved; Caracalla. bad part is I haven't most of the movies they're in, so i don't want it to be inaccurate.

FIFTH NOTE: currently i'm writing a Johnny Storm fic series inspired by the new Fantastic Four trailer (writing the third chapter of what could be a five or even eight part series if I get to understand that franchise better), an Eddie Muson fic mainly just to fuck around and post that old one I never got a chance to. also an Adrian Chase fic i found on my laptop, another one for Koby from the one piece live action (I was inspired when the show first came out), and joe goldberg

FINAL NOTE: I've wanted to get into watching Yellowjackets. LOVE THE SHOW. Another thing I wanted to ask bc when I write for women characters, i like to write them as WLW. SO would you guys like it if i also wrote for Iris (Companion), SISTER BARNES (Heretic), Jinx (Arcane), Lucy Maclean (Fallout), Rhiannon Lewis (Sweetpea)?? one day if i sell out and get a membership to Prime or those silly addons; I WILL.

[such-expensive-mistakes]

Superpham AU (part 4)

Original prompt + parts 1-3

Masterpost

-----

It's not the most awkward dinner Lois has ever had, but only because she's dined with literal supervillains before.  

Danny is poking at his Mongolian beef with his fork more than he's actually eating it.  Lois can hardly blame him; it’s been a difficult few days for her and she’s not the one who just landed in a different dimension from the one she grew up in.  But Danny certainly isn’t up to keeping conversation going.

Jon is making a valiant effort, but he seems distracted.  He keeps shooting looks at Lois and Clark when he thinks they’re not looking, and while he recounts everything he and Damian got up to (not too much trouble, thankfully, although that wasn’t saying much), he’s less enthusiastic than he would normally be.  

Clark keeps shooting Jon worried looks when he thinks Jon isn’t looking.  Lois will have to ask him how that conversation went; it seems like it was rough on both of them. 

Eventually, even Jon runs out of things to say, and the four of them sit around the table, eating their Chinese takeout in silence.  

“So, Danny,” Lois finally says.  “I don’t know how the dimension you grew up in differs from this one, but if you have any questions about anything, please ask one of us.”

“It’s not that different,” Danny says.  “I mean, it is in some ways, but it’s still Earth, you know?”

Lois isn’t entirely certain she does, but this doesn’t seem to be the time to ask.  Maybe when things are less fresh.

Jon has no such compunctions.  “What’s the biggest difference?” 

Danny looks thoughtful.  “You guys have a lot of superheroes here,” he finally says.

“What kind of superheroes did your other world have?” Jon asks eagerly.  

“We mostly didn’t,” Danny says.  “I mean, I guess Phantom kind of counts.  But that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Jon is clearly flabbergasted by this.  Lois fights a smile, and she can see Clark doing the same thing.  Jon has never known a world without the Justice League, but she and Clark can both remember when superheroes were much, much rarer.

“Most people probably wouldn’t even count Phantom,” Danny says.  “The kids mostly did, but a lot of adults didn’t trust him because he was… because he wasn’t exactly human.”

Combined with what Danny said before about that interdimensional portal, this is painting a picture Lois really doesn’t like.

“There are folks like that everywhere, unfortunately,” Clark says.  “And you can’t always change their minds. But I believe most people are better than that."

Judging by Danny's expression, he wasn't entirely convinced of that. Lois couldn't blame him; she has enough trouble seeing the good in people the way Clark did, and the other dimension sounds worse than hers in this regard.  

Danny doesn’t seem inclined to talk about it any further.  Silence lingers for just a beat too long before he speaks.  “Oh, the sun’s yellow here.  That’s different, too.”

-----

The front door slams, shaking the house, and Jon scrambles into the kitchen.  

“Where’s Ma and Pa?” he demands.

Kon mentally says goodbye to his tentative plans for the day.  Not that he minds hanging out with Jon, but he’s clearly upset about something.  Kon’s good at a lot of things, but emotional conversations is not one of them.

“They’re in town for the day,” Kon says.  “You’re lucky they didn’t hear you slam the door like that.”

“Did you know about Danny?” Jon demands.

“Who?”

“Dan-El.”

Clark texted a couple of days ago, telling Kon to call when he had time.  Kon has been putting it off, knowing that Clark has better ways of getting in touch with him if there’s a real emergency.  That’s starting to seem like a mistake.

He doesn’t answer Jon right away, which Jon seems to take as its own answer.  

“Did everyone know but me?” Jon demands.

The thing is, Kon is pretty sure he's not supposed to know about Dan-El. Lois and Clark have never breathed a word about him in Kon's hearing.

He only knows because he spent an afternoon helping Ma go through some old boxes up in the attic and found a box of photos-- mostly of Clark as a kid, but some of Ma and Pa when they were younger.

"Oh goodness," Ma had said, when she'd notices what Kon was looking at. "I keep telling myself I'm going to organize those and put them in an album, but I never get around to it."

She'd sat down next to Kon and looked through the pictures with him, pointing out her favorites and telling stories to accompany them. ("And that one was from just after Clark's tenth birthday-- we had to get a new door because his strength was just coming in and he broke the old one.")

Then Kon had pulled out a photo of a toddler, sitting on the front porch with Pa. He'd thought it was a picture of Clark at first, but Pa's hair was considerably more gray than it was in the pictures from Clark's childhood, and Ma had just told him that the porch had been rebuilt and expanded after Clark broke the old one in tenth grade.

"Oh, that's Daniel," Ma said. She'd gently taken the photo from Kon's hand and ran a finger over not-Clark's face. "He was our first grandson-- Lois and Clark's oldest." She'd gone on to tell him the whole sad story.

There's a small headstone for Daniel Kent in the Smallville cemetery, right next to Pa's parents. Kon thinks it must have been Ma or Pa's idea; there was no body to bury and as far as he knows, Lois and Clark never visit it.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Kon says.  “I think it’s just not something they talk about.”  Jon doesn’t look convinced, so he adds, “They told you now, right?”

“Only after he showed up!” 

“Wait, what?”  Kon is starting to think he really should have replied to that message from Clark.

-----

Not for the first time, Clark wishes there was a handbook for this sort of thing.  But oddly enough, parenting manuals generally don’t cover how to talk to your long-lost son about his alien heritage.  He’s put this off long enough already; Danny had spent most of the previous day out with Lois, picking up all the necessities he didn’t have.

“So…” Danny says, kicking his feet a little.  He’s sitting next to Clark on this skyscraper, his feet dangling over the edge.  It makes Clark a little nervous, seeing how Danny can’t fly yet, but he also knows he’s fast enough to catch Danny if he were to fall.

"Lois said you're an alien?" The words are softened by the blatant curiosity in Danny's tone, and Clark remembers Lois recounting how excited Danny was to meet J'onn and to see space from the Watchtower. 

It's a sentiment Clark can understand. He's traveled through space and met aliens both hostile and friendly. He regularly meets with his colleagues on an orbiting space station. And yet, seeing his adopted planet from space still fills him with awe.

"When I was born, my parents— my birth parents— already knew our planet, Krypton, was dying," Clark begins. It's not an easy story to tell, but the grief is old. Not gone, but distant. It's a place and a people he will never know except through stories and the archives in the Fortress— but those, at least, he can share. He tells Danny this, too, and promises to take him to the Fortress soon. It would be easier if Danny could fly, but he'll make it work. 

"You should talk to Kara, too," Clark adds. 

"Who's Kara?"

"My cousin. Right now she's in space, on a Justice League mission, but you'll meet her when she gets back. She was a teenager when Krypton was destroyed; she has firsthand memories."  He’ll save explaining the part where she got caught in suspended animation for later; he’s dumped a lot of information on Danny already.

“You said something the other night about yellow sun radiation?” Danny asks.

“It’s what gives Kryptonians our power, here on Earth,” Clark says.  

“And what powers are those, exactly?” Danny seems more hesitant than Clark would usually expect of a teenager finding out he’s going to develop superpowers— but then, they already know Danny grew up in a world where that sort of thing was feared and looked down upon.  

“Enhanced sense, enhanced strength and speed, flight, invulnerability— there are others, but those are the main ones to expect.”

Danny nods thoughtfully.

[greyyson-but-no]

yellow is the colour of his eyes

they weren't, though. they were blue, but somehow he radiated yellow. just his brightness, his ability to light up a room. he was the colour yellow. and he was currently halfway across the world from you. it didn't make any sense. you thought he was supposed to be the person you would end up with and yet, he was in a different continent and you were stuck at a desk in england working a job you hated.

why you had taken the job, you didn't know.

currently, you were sat at home, on the phone late at night because of a stupid time difference that meant you were never able to even talk to him. you thought living in a different apartment block was different, you never would have believed you would be trying to continue dating him when living in different countries. but the two of you were trying, and that's what was important. the act of trying.

his voice came through soft. "sweetheart? you still with me?"

bringing you out of your head, you grumbled and nodded even though he couldn't see you. "yeah. just about."

"what's the matter?" and he immediately knew something was wrong, just as he always did when you were just a five minute walk from his apartment. "you can tell me."

"i miss you? I think." you coughed away from the phone, nervous for what this conversation would lead to, what it might not lead to and the incorrect implications he may take from it. "I don't know. this is so difficult and I'm struggling so much. and yeah. it's nice to hear from you but it's getting rarer and rarer and I don't know how much longer I can do this for."

chandler hummed on the other end, noises of him shuffling around on his bed echoing through. "i understand."

slowly, that lump was starting to form in the back of your throat, voice going all wobbly like it had been doing a bit too much recently. "it's just... im stuck in this dead end job that I feel like I'm never going to get out of, and at the same time my boyfriend that I love with my whole heart is in another country and I barely see him anymore that it doesn't even feel like we're together anymore."

"honey... I don't know what to say."

you sighed, fiddling with the chord of the telephone. "yeah i know. me neither. it's too difficult."

"it's christmas soon, maybe I could come and visit over the holidays?" he offered. "I'd have to take some time off work but that's something I'm willing to do for you."

"your work hate you taking days off though. didn't they say it's a risk of demotion?"

chandler laughed lowly, shaking his head. "anything for you."

"chan, I couldn't ask you to do that." you told him, biting your top lip as you weigh up the price of seeing him again with the price of him risking his recent promotion. as much as you would kill to see him again, to hold him, his job was just too important to him. joey and him needed the money in new york with joe losing his place on days of our lives. you couldn't ask him to risk that. "im saying no, chandler, I'm sorry."

he hummed again, clearly put down by your words. "yeah I know, it's too risky."

"maybe..." but you faded your words, not wanting to even think of what your brain was telling you. the thought was making you distraught. and you'd just had a whole thing about its the act of trying that matters most. the two of you couldn't just give up.

but chandler caught it, eyebrows furrowing in manhatten, monica and joey looking over at him from where they were sat in the living room. "what? maybe what?"

you shook your head, even though again he couldn't see. "nothing. just..."

"go on."

"maybe this is too difficult. maybe we shouldn't..."

"darling, what are you saying?"

you sighed, falling backwards onto your bed, letting the duvet surround you. "maybe we should stop trying."

chandler didn't speak for a bit. on the other end, he had fallen against the wall, not being able to believe what you had just said to him. his shoulders dropped and his voice did too, not understanding what was happening. "are you..." he coughed. "is that it then? are you breaking up with me?"

"I'm sorry. I wish this was easier."

"yeah. mhm." was all he mumbled, before pulling his ear away from the phone and ending the call, disrupted, slamming it against the stand on the side of the wall.

a week later, you were groggy, tired, and every bone in your body felt like someone had smacked each of them with a hammer individually until they shattered. but this would be worth it. the plane journey was terrible, with several babies crying throughout and some guy next to you that hogged the arm rest. but once you had your notebook out, planning what to say to him, all of that zoned out.

the cab was okay. you spoke with the driver bit and used his conversational skills to text what your plan was. he thought it was a good idea, even when you had explained what happened.

when the cab stopped outside the apartment block, you thanked him, paid him and continued to run straight upstairs, your bag knocking against any wall and any stair possible with the speed you were running at.

quitting your job wasn't difficult for you. the night after the break up you didn't sleep, contemplating what you could possibly do to change the decision you had made. the only one that made sense was quitting the job you had only just taken and move back to new york to be with him again. the company had been sad to see you go, and your boss specifically kicked up a fuss but you had made your decision.

chandler was who you needed.

this was definitely the right decision. it didn't matter that your parents didn't like him, or that they wanted you in a steady job in a country you knew. but new york was your home. the guys and the girls were your home. the apartment with ross was. chandler was your home.

that was the final thought that occurred to you as you opened the purple door to the apartment you had missed so much. chandler would either be here, his own apartment or central perk. this was the first and best bet.

"chandler?" he turned on the sofa, the rest of the group turning too but you didn't even notice them, even though they were all there, you were too occupied. "chandler."

he stood up abruptly. clearly, he didn't know what to do.

because after very possibly the worst break up of his life, you were standing right there. eight hours of plane on you, hair tied in two plaits and eyes drooping like you hadn't slept all week, but standing there in front of him, actually there.

"what?" he stepped around the settee, following you as you moved closer, nearer the table in the kitchen. "there's no way you're actually here."

you tilted your head. "I'm moving back."

"what?" his eyebrows furrowed.

"I quit my job." you explained, stepping closer to him yet again, not being able to figure out what he was thinking. "I never should have broken up with you. I never should have taken that job from my mum. I love you, and if you'll have me back, I'd like to move back to new york and be with you."

"are you sure?" his voice went low like it had over the phone last week. "you're not going to leave again?"

you shook your head. "never, I promise. I swear, pinkie swear."

chandler's expression softened, the blue in his eyes warming to that look that you knew so well. "honey, you are the only person I've ever wanted to commit to."

for the first time in two weeks, you grinned up at him, happier than ever to be in his arms again. his hands snaked around your waist, pulling you closer as your arms naturally fell around his neck, letting his nose nudge against your neck in a hug for the ages.

"thank god!" joey cried from where he sat on the ottoman. "cause even I was getting sick of him moping about."

the whole group laughed as you let your head fall onto his chest, gripping his sweater as your shoulders shook. chandler swiftly moved his head downwards so his lips were at your ear. his voice breathing against your skin as he spoke. god, you'd missed him.

"i missed you, wanna go celebrate?"

"if celebrating is implying what I think it is... then yes." you murmured back with a grin, hands against his chest and making sure you weren't loud enough for the rest of the group to hear.

chandler pulled back and grinned, taking your hand in his as he turned to the rest of the group. "we're gonna call it a night guys, jet lag is crazy and you know... we've got catching up to do."

"they're gonna go have sex, right?" joey asked, just as the two left, earning a laugh from the rest of the group.

you knew the answer to his question, very easily.

[borathae]

"Using your safeword isn't easy for you."

Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x f.Reader

Genre: married life!AU, Angst, Hurt and Comfort

Warnings: this is angstier than I wanted it to be, implied sexual situation, use of handcuffs, she uses her safeword, she gets hurt because she panics, panic attacks, mention of past sexual abuse during her sexwork, besties this is really angsty like omfg, it has a happy ending!

Wordcount: 3.3k

a/n: i wanna give her the biggest hug ever. this was requested by anonie, have fun(?)dude it's angst idk if you can have fun) reading 💗

You are roleplaying tonight. Jungkook has the lead while you are the sub. You feel good. He is gentle, sexy, attentive and constantly asks for consent. You feel so good until suddenly you don’t. 

You can’t explain what triggered it. Maybe it was the way he touched your knee. Maybe it was the sudden loud noise of a motorbike driving by. Maybe it was nothing and it just happened. 

But all of a sudden the good turns bad and you feel incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Red!” you blurt out and then everything becomes just a little blurry, “red! Red! No, I don’t want this! Red!” you are begging even if there is no need to beg because Jungkook is already scrambling to get you untied. 

“I’m getting it! Everything’s okay! You’re safe!” he is almost falling over his own words, feeling dizzy in worry. He wants to work fast, but it is difficult because you are fighting the restraints. Like a scared, captured animal trying to escape, “p-please don’t m-move so much. I-I’ll hurt you, please.”

You consented to wearing handcuffs and up until two seconds ago, you liked it. It was hot and sensual and made you feel relaxed because it meant that you could give up control without being tempted to intervene. 

Right now it means that you have zero control over what will happen to you and you would rather cut off your own hands than be restrained even a second longer.

“Red! I don’t like this”, you are fighting the handcuffs and that’s when it happens. You hurt yourself. 

Because of the excessive wiggling, the handcuffs dug into your wrists and forced a nerve to squish between your muscles. 

“Ah, oh my god it hurts”, you get and cry. You rarely cry, but right now you are scared and anxious and in pain.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Please stay still, I’m getting you out”, Jungkook says with a trembling voice and undoes the handcuffs with shaking hands. He is panting for air, feeling sick in anxiety. Seeing you cry is rare. Seeing you cry from pain is even rarer. 

Once free, you clutch your own wrist, pressing it against your chest.

“It hurts”, you get out, sobbing loudly.

“Oh god”, Jungkook gags out, reaching for you only to stop in case he scared you, “my love, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such an asshole, oh god I’m sorry.”

You can’t assure him right now. You aren’t scared of him, neither are you angry at him. And yet you still can’t reassure him. Not when you’re that scared. 

“I don’t want this”, you sob, reaching for him like a drowning person would a lifeline.

Jungkook catches your hands and holds them tightly, staring at your hurt wrist with tears streaming down his face.

“My love, I’m sorry.”

You can’t reassure him yet. You need to be held. To be comforted. To be reminded that you aren’t going to get hurt. It happened so many times. You didn’t want to continue and yet your clients didn’t care. You were tied up and literally helpless and they took advantage of it. 

You need to be reminded that this isn’t your reality anymore. That you are safe.

You seek out Jungkook, getting between his legs and pressing yourself against his chest. You are so much smaller than on other days, as if your own anxiety was shrinking you. 

“It’s okay, my love. It’s okay, I’m here”, Jungkook assures you, hugging you tightly as his fingers smooth over your hair. He is swaying your bodies slowly, pressing kisses to whatever parts of your head he can reach, “I know, baby, I know. I’m here, baby, I’m here.” 

This isn’t your normal panic. Jungkook knows every pattern, inhale, exhale and shake. This is one of your panic attacks. It has been years since he last witnessed something like this, but he still knows what to do. He won’t ever forget the remedies to your attacks. They’re in there next to how you like your coffee in the morning and what weather makes you happy. They’re proof that he loves you and that he always will.

“Breathe with me, baby. It’s hard, but I need you to breathe with me”, Jungkook speaks gently, showing you how it’s done patiently. It’s difficult for you to follow at first, but Jungkook gives you all the time you need, which takes so much pressure off of you. It gets easy to try and match your breathing with his’ when he is so incredibly patient with you. 

“That’s it. Breathe with me, babygirl, breathe. That’s it”, he whispers, breathing with you. 

It calms him as well. He is sick in anxiety. To hear you scream your safeword and start crying in panic is awful enough, but to have you hurt yourself on top of everything and cry because of it, ruined Jungkook. He is so upset and anxious, that showing you how to breathe is calming him down as well. It’s sweet in a twisted way that in providing you your remedy, he is healing himself as well. 

You don’t want to lift your head at first. The attack stopped, but you don’t want to lift your head. You feel humiliated. 

You haven’t felt that embarrassed in front of Jungkook ever since you met him. 

You get a panic attack because of a stupid fucking noise. You feel fucking pathetic. 

You push yourself off of him and out of the hug, getting off of bed without looking at him. 

“___ my love?” he calls for you, staring at you with teary eyes. 

“I need to be alone”, you say and leave the playroom. You’re too embarrassed to face him. 

If one would ask you how to define this moment in your relationship, it wouldn’t be a good one. Dark. That’s how you would describe it. Dark and fucking heartbreaking.

Jungkook follows you, calling your name which you try to ignore. You are so embarrassed.

Jungkook runs after you as you descend the stairs in stumbles and sobs. You are so humiliated, feeling even worse because you have no clothes to cover yourself with.

“My love, please talk to me, please”, Jungkook begs, “I’m so sorry for triggering you. I didn’t wanna trigger you, please don’t run away. Please, I’m so sorry.”

You flee into the bedroom. Jungkook catches the door you try to slam close and slips inside after you.

“Please talk to me, please”, he squeaks out, “I’m so sorry.”

You try to hide in the bathroom. Jungkook isn’t fast enough. The door closes before his nose and locks.

“Please”, he begs, resting his head against the door, “I’m so sorry please believe me, I’m so sorry.”

You don’t think that the panic attack really stopped. Maybe the worst stopped, but you still feel anxious. Having Jungkook beg for your forgiveness behind closed doors isn’t helping. You are prancing, gripping your own hair in distress.

“What can I do? I, I want to help.”

Why did your life have to fuck you up so fucking bad? Why did men do this to you? Why did you have to go through this? Questions you haven’t asked yourself in years come back to haunt you. Why? Why? Why? The word repeats itself in your mind over and over again.

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

Why were these men so cruel? Why were your screamed words silent to them? Why did they hurt you so much?

“Please don’t hate me now.”

Your head turns into the direction of the door. Jungkook’s sobs broke through your racing thoughts and reminded you that you weren’t alone right now, that you have your person looking out for you. And that you currently make him feel as if you hated him.

“Please don’t lock me out, please. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t mean to trigger you. Oh god, I’m so fucking sorry, my love.”

The door unlocks and opens. Jungkook stumbles because he didn’t expect it. He blinks his tears away, meeting your teary eyes.

“My love”, he presses out, contorting his face in painful guilt, “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, hoping that he understands that he doesn’t need to feel sorry. You reach for him. Jungkook meets you in the middle and tugs you close, guiding your arms around his waist and cradling you in his arms seconds later. He presses your head against his chest, hiding you away from the world.

“Kookie.”

“Come here, babygirl. I’m here”, he gets out, holding you safely.

The once bared state of your body doesn’t feel humiliating anymore. He is naked as well, reconnecting with you skin against skin. He smells like home. Warm, sweet, safe. As long as you are in his arms, it’s not scary out there.

“I have to tell you something”, you get out.

“Okay. Okay, yes. Tell me baby, tell me”, Jungkook gives you the chance and so you tell him why you reacted the way you did.

Jungkook knows that your life before him wasn’t easy. You told him enough that he isn’t surprised when you flee from anxious situations and why you sometimes revert to pulling away. He knows that such trauma responses can come back even if your life is safe and happy these days. He knows because you told him enough. He also knows that the work you had to do to survive hurt you a lot before you started working at Paradis. He never knew how it hurt you however.

You didn’t feel brave enough to tell him. Tonight it is finally spilling out of you, leaving you in sobs and hiccups and struggles for air, but it is leaving you. Jungkook understands you even when you are crying and fighting for words. He will always understand you, even if he wishes that tonight he didn’t. He can’t believe that the world hurt his treasure in such ways. He feels heartbroken, sick to the stomach and unbearably angry. He keeps asking you what their names were, telling you that he will hunt them down and bring them so justice. You can’t tell him their names because you never learned them. And eventhough you feel humiliated in sharing something so fucking embarrassing with the person you love so much, you can’t stop. It feels so good to finally relief yourself of those memories and in the process, find comfort in his arms.

“I’m sorry”, you whisper. You are in bed by now, lying in his arms with your face nuzzled against his chest.

“For what?” Jungkook whispers, staring at the sheets with dark eyes. He is so fucking angry at the men who hurt you.

“For telling you all of this.”

“Don’t apologise for that. Holy shit baby, don’t ever fucking apologise for that”, he assures you, tilting your head up gently, “I, I just wish that I could do more. That I could make those motherfuckers pay.”

“Yeah, me too”, you whisper, looking into his eyes. You feel numb from all the talking you did, shivering even when under the blanket, “you don’t see me differently now, do you?”

Jungkook shakes his head vigorously and vehemently, furrowing his brows to showcase how serious he was.

“Of course I fucking don’t. I’m glad you told me. Thank you”, he says and brushes his thumb over your cheek. You close your eyes, melting into the gentle touch. It feels so good to be loved by him. Jungkook continues caressing your cheek as he talks, looking at you with soft eyes, “I know it wasn’t easy, so thank you for trusting me and I wanna carry this burden with you from now. Yeah?”

“No. No, please don’t call it like that. I don’t wanna burden you”, you say, looking up at him with anxious eyes.

“You don’t burden me.”

“I, I don’t wanna be looked at differently, please Kook. Don’t, don’t look at me differently now.”

“I won’t, baby. I won’t”, he assures you, kissing your forehead in hopes of calming your thoughts.

“I just s-struggle with submitting. I, I do. It’s so hard to, to do for me be-because of what they did to me and, and the bike was so loud and it triggered me and I’m sorry. I don’t wanna, wanna burden you, I don’t-”

“Shut up”, Jungkook whispers softly, hugging you against his chest, “stop saying that you burden me. You don’t. Let’s take a deep breath together, yeah?”

You breathe with Jungkook.

“There we go”, he praises and caresses the back of your head, “I need you to listen to me now without getting upset, okay?”

You nod your head, listening to him with closed eyes.

“You just told me something which you kept deep inside and now it’s out there and other people know it. I get it, shit like that embarrasses you.”

You shift because he is reading you like an open book and it is just a little uncomfortable. Jungkook lets you wiggle, but still holds you safely, kissing the crown of your head to let you know that you were safe. He keeps talking with his lips against your head.

“And when shit embarrasses you, you wanna run away. I get it, shit like that’s scary, but you don’t gotta be scared alone. I’m right here. With you. And I’ll stay with you. Fucking shit ___, you’re my person. My fucking person”, he says, squeezing you against him gently. He continues talking even if his voice is muffled from the close proximity, “I met you when your life was messy as fuck, I fell for you despite the mess and eventhough we fixed our messy lives these days, I’m aware that darker days can sometimes happen.”

He buries his fingers in your hair as deep as your texture allows it and begins massaging your scalp.

“___ baby, I don’t only love you when life’s good and nice and bright. I also love you when it’s messy and shit and fucking dark. And when you tell me stuff from your past, I’ll get a little upset yeah, but not because of you but because someone hurt my fucking babygirl. Shit, I just wanna protect you from what you had to go through and fight whoever hurt you, but I won’t ever see you differently. Because you’re my person, ___ baby and you’ll always be my person. Okay?”

You nod your head, letting out a small hum of acknowledgment.

“Okay”, he says, kissing your hair, “now, can I take a look at your wrist or do you not feel ready yet?”

You nod your head, “yeah”, you say and scoot back to show him your wrist. You are lying down while Jungkook props himself up on his elbow. He seems so much taller and bigger than you like this and tonight you really need this feeling. You’re strong, confident and rarely need another person to lean on. You are also proud of being so strong and so independent, but all the strength in the world doesn’t mean that you will always feel this way. That you will always be the one wanting to take care of Jungkook or that you won’t ever need to feel small and fragile. You’re just a fucking human and person with feelings which can be hurt so easily. You don’t feel strong tonight or independent. You feel tiny and weak and need Jungkook to take care of you without judgment.

“I can’t see anything. Where does it hurt?” he says, holding your wrist gently as he runs his thumb over your tender skin.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore. I think I just squeezed a nerve”, you speak quietly because you can’t do it any other way, “I’m sorry for wiggling so much and for using my safeword.”

“Hey”, he shakes you by your wrist gently, “sorry’s your forbidden word tonight.”

“Sorry, I mean, yeah I know.”

Jungkook guides your wrist to his lips and kisses it gently.

“I’m glad you used your safeword. Thank you for trusting me. I just hope that you don’t feel unsafe with me now.”

“No, I don’t. I feel safe”, you say, looking up at him from the pillow. Jungkook studies you and how small you make yourself in his presence whilst looking so relaxed doing so. He also knows how much this means with you, feeling reassured that what you are saying is true.

“Thank you for telling me”, he says, relaxing his shoulders, “I felt like throwing up when you cried and then you ran away and I seriously thought that I fucked it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Good yeah, that’s good. You know”, he says and cups your cheek, “I like it when I’m dominant and we can switch the roles, but if you don’t want to switch, I won’t be angry at you. You don’t have to sub just to make me happy. Especially when it means that you have to think of what those assholes did to you.”

“I normally don’t feel this way or think of it. I don’t know why this happened tonight.”

“Something triggered it. It’s sometimes impossible to explain triggers, I get it”, he assures you, “I’m just saying all that because I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything you’re not a hundred percent comfortable with.”

“I know”, you say, gazing up at him, “I feel safe with you and I didn’t feel uncomfortable whenever we switched in the past. I even wanna try it with handcuffs again, I do. I just…I don’t think today was a good mental health day for me. It all got too much.”

“And that’s okay. It got too much and you stopped it, that’s all that matters. I know it was hard for you because of your past experiences, but you did it despite that and you did it so well.”

You look at him because you have to make sure that he is real. He makes you feel so safe without even trying, healing wounds you thought never able to heal. So this is what it feels like to have someone to rely on. It’s been years with him and yet you still sometimes have to pinch yourself to make sure it’s real.

“I feel like I ruined it, seriously”, you confess.

“No you didn’t ruin anything, my love. You really didn’t”, he assures you.

“I’m so embarrassed”, you tear up, “I feel so much shame around my past.”

“Don’t, please don’t. Especially not with me”, he speaks softly, shaking his head vigorously, “this isn’t something you need to be ashamed of. Those assholes who hurt you should be the ones to feel shame, but not you.”

You sniffle, speaking squeakily, “can you tell me one more time that you don’t see me different now?”

“I’ll tell you a million times more if you need it. Of course, I don’t see you differently. You’re my person and I fucking adore you”, Jungkook promises, giving you a reassuring smile.

One you retort honestly and gladly. It feels good to be able to smile after everything which happened. Life really doesn’t seem that difficult when you’re with Jungkook.

“Thank you. I love you so much”, you whisper.

“I love you too, baby”, Jungkook says without hesitation, tracing the small smile lines next to your eyes, “now, why don’t you let me take care of you for tonight, mhm? I’ll run you a hot bath, give you a little face massage because I know your jaw’s tight from crying”, he smoothes his thumb over your jaw, “then we’ll order snackies from your favourite place and watch your favourite show, where I’ll give you so many snuggles and kisses until you fall asleep and I can carry you to bed for even more snuggles. How’s that sound?”

You nod your head.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Amazing”, he says and giggles, “then we’ll do that, baby. Now come on, wrap your arms around me. I’ll carry you. You don’t gotta be strong tonight.”

He’s right. You don’t have to be strong tonight. He’s got you and he always will.

[werecreature-addicted]

I always wonder how many werewolf pups a woman could realistically carry since werewolves are always like, “You’ll give me a litter of pups.” Think about it. Are the pups the same size as human babies? Making werewolf x human pregnancies a big strain on the body carrying 3-4 in the womb at a time. Or are the pups drastically smaller than humans, and would be like 6-8 in the womb?

I know this is a stupid thought because it’d also imply that 3-8 eggs were released from the ovaries to get fertilized (excluding identical twins), and twins in humans are already pretty rare. Rarer with triplets and higher, as those don’t usually occur naturally without medical aid (fertility drugs/treatments).

Then you gotta think if werewolves are born in werewolf form, human form, puppy form, or even a new combination, looking human with wolf ears and a tail. I am thinking way too much about this. I blame your lovely blog for corrupting me with werewolf content <3

Thoughts? Or just what you’d wanna personally headcanon? I’m struggling obviously and needed to share my thoughts and opinions to the world. Sorry it’s a lot what I wrote.

I think realistically it would depend entirely on who in the partnership is the werewolf. If the person with a womb and carrying the babies was a werewolf then something like 3-5 pups at a time would be reasonable to expect, even if their lover was human. If the person carrying the baby was human 1-2 is much more likely.

I do think werewolf babies would be around the same size as human ones, but werewolves are huge so in comparison they're much smaller and easier for a werewolf to carry multiple at a time, but humans are shit out of luck with that one.

In my personal head cannon born, werewolves start to transform around 12-13 with puberty hitting, so they're born and spend most of their childhood in a human form. Transformations can be painful and difficult at first, you need to have a slightly more grown body to handle them.

Also- if Twilight has taught us nothing else it's taught us that humans could not survive giving birth to a monster baby. When their teeth grow in they are sharp fangs instead of normal baby teeth, and their razor-sharp fingernails are tough enough to dent most nail clippers. But other than that you have a cute baby who can pass for a human!

[memories-of-ancients]

Just curious, why do you think Rome fell?

OMG do you really have to ask such a big question right before I was going to bed anon? Well, here are the primary reasons IMO as a Roman history buff.

Lots of Civil Wars --- The Romans going way back to the days of the Republic were constantly fighting over who was going to be boss. Sulla fought a civil war and took over Rome and declared himself dictator, ditto Julius Caesar, and of course Octavian did the same and became the first emperor. During the empire there were many civil wars over who would be emperor as the Imperial system often lacked rules for succession resulting in dynastic struggles and civil wars. Not that it would have mattered if they did, as they probably would have just ignored the rules. In the 3rd century the empire underwent a 50 year period of near constant civil war known as the Crises of the Third Century. Constantine became emperor after killing all his opponents in a civil war. The later half of the 4th century had more civil wars. Even in the 5th century factions were fighting each for control of an empire that was collapsing all around them. No side wins a civil war because they are bloody, destructive, there are no spoils of war. There is only self destruction, they are about as helpful to a country as would a person shooting himself in the foot. All the money and resources that went into fighting civil wars and rebuilding after the war was money and resources not being used to maintain infrastructure, maintain public works, regulate the economy, defend from outside threats, and maintain the government.

2. Political Instability --- Most emperors did not die of natural causes, most emperors were murdered, or committed suicide, or died in battle, or died in a prison cell. Roman government was chalk full of power hungry psychopaths who were willing to murder their way to the top. Sometimes emperors could come and go quickly, with reigns lasting 2-3 years or less in the 3rd century.

Roman political history was rife with intrigue, assassinations, and coups occurring all the time. It was like Game of Thrones except instead of lasting 8 seasons it lasted 500 years.

3. The Army Became a Powerful Interest Group --- If you were a Roman emperor the army was a double edged sword. They were good in that they maintained peace and order in the empire and protected it from invaders. They were bad for you in that they could revolt and murder you, replacing you with someone they liked more. Even your own guard, the Praetorian Guards, couldn't be trusted as they could easily slit your throat in your sleep and declare someone else as emperor. To make sure the army was happy, you gave them big pay bonuses called donatives. Basically official bribes paid to keep the soldiers of the army loyal and happy. With each successive emperor the annual donative became bigger and bigger and thus a greater strain on the Imperial Treasury. If an emperor didn't pay up, he could be murdered by his own soldiers. Thus a lot of public money was paid just to keep the army happy so they didn't end up starting another civil war.

4. A Fucked up Economy --- Maintaining a large standing army to defend a large empire is expensive. Fighting civil wars is expensive. Rebuilding after civil wars is expensive. Constant regime change is expensive. Political intrigue is expensive. Eventually it got to the point where there just wasn't enough money to pay for all that. So emperors just minted more money, decreasing the silver content and minting more copper coins until eventually Roman money became worthless.

Today Roman money is still worthless. Go on ebay and find the cheapest Roman coins you can buy. Except for rarer collectibles Roman coins are still very plentiful and thus very cheap to collect. Worthless money made trade and commerce difficult, and thus the economy suffered. Not to mention constant bloody and destructive civil wars were damaging the economy. Political instability also damaged the economy.

5. Growing Disparity in Wealth --- Over time with civil wars and political instability the rich got richer and the poor got poorer. Eventually wealth became so concentrated in the upper class that the middle class disappeared entirely by the late 4th - 5th century. By then the average Roman was in a bad way. They had no opportunities and most Romans were forced to live as tenant farmers, essentially sharecroppers.

6. A Corrupt Tax System --- Meanwhile the wealthy became so powerful that they were able to wield that power so that they did not have to pay taxes. They could exploit loopholes, manipulate laws in their favor, or bribe their way out of paying. To try to make up the revenue, tax collectors attempted to squeeze the lower classes, which of course, didn't have any money. Thus by the late 4th - 5th century the empire was severely underfunded. This resulted in the degradation of infrastructure, public works, the army, the weakening of the government, and less investment in the economy and commerce.

7. Patronage --- By the 5th century the average Roman was out of opportunities and the middle class was gone entirely. More and more the lower class Roman was being squeezed for tax money, money which they didn't have. So in order to survive, Roman lower classes sold their services to a wealthy patron. The patron would house you and protect you and take care of your tax problems. If you were lucky and had special skills like a craftsman or artist you could make a good living under a patron. If not, you probably ended up a tenant farmer tied to the land of the patron, essentially a sharecropper, a serf, or a peasant. Due to this change in the socio economic system power was drawn away from the Imperial government and was redirected to the wealthy patrons. Thus the empire was becoming decentralized.

This would become the basis for medieval feudalism.

8. No One Wanted to Join the Army --- Why would you? You're dirt poor and have no opportunities. If you joined the army you may not even get the opportunity to defend the empire, as you're gonna get killed in a stupid civil war fighting a fellow Roman who is also dirt poor and has no opportunities. Your government is corrupt, your emperor is a snobbish entitled incompetent dipshit who was out of touch with reality, the tax man is trying to squeeze you for money you don't have, you have no rights, you've been forced to become a peasant to a proto-feudal lord, and it is clear the empire is dying. By the mid 5th century most Romans were like, "let it fucking die". As a result, the army suffered severe manpower shortages. Right at the time when Goths and Franks and Vandals and Huns are going to start swarming into the empire.

These to me are the primary reasons for the fall. Anyone have anything else to add in addition to this?

[sapphicseasapphire]

Living in a world as populated as it is by mortals, it is rare to come across a being who is not so. Rarer still is it to come across one who is both mortal and immortal- those who toe the line between Life and Death.

Reapers are abundant but undetected, doing their work for the spirits while hidden in a mortal body. They are bound to no Gods, serving only the lost souls of the land and answering only to the inevitability of Life and Death.

Hylian legends depict Death as a woman clothed in flowing white fabric, serene and tranquil, everlasting and inescapable. Some fear her, some hate her. Most bunch her up with the Goddesses.

She is not a Goddess.

She is… a promise.

And just as they’ve cast Death’s image onto a Goddess that doesn’t exist, they attribute Life’s gifts to Hylia, singing her praise. Hylia, the little sister of the Golden Three, tasked with protecting this world, is not Life.

Life has existed here for far longer than Hylia has. Some say that she was created with the breath of Farore, others speculate that she came before.

People think that Death exists in Life’s shadow, that they are entirely separate from one another. One brings joy, the other brings pain. This is, wholly and entirely, untrue.

For Life and Death wear matching white cloth, and they stand so closely together that they are indistinguishable from each other. One cannot exist without the other. They are… the same, in nature. They are patient. They take nothing more than what they are given; they give nothing more than what they take. It is balanced, in that way.

Everyone must face them, one way or another. Even Gods cannot deny the push and pull of Life and Death.

Although, there are occasions in which they can be swayed. In the case of a young boy who’d met his end during his quest, so beloved by the spirits, Death chose to wait. She did not claim his soul, not yet. She heeded the pleas of the spirits and allowed him to continue on- to finish what he had started. But this was not without a cost.

The boy- only twelve years old- was named Link, and he was not unique. Those who are favored by the spirits and succumb to illness or injury are often granted these second chances. They may never remember that they had died, but they are forever changed.

These people are known as Reapers. They recruited by Death to guide lost spirits to the afterlife. They have heartbeats, they breathe, they require sustenance. Reapers are mortal, normal people.

Until it becomes time to do the reaping, that is.

In order for a Reaper to find and guide spirits, they must use spirit magic. Spirit magic is as potent and variable as any other type of magic, except its power source is distinct: it is fueled by the power of an untethered soul. It comes naturally to Reapers, except in order to use it, they must free their soul.

Reapers have the ability to separate their souls from their bodies, becoming nothing more than a spirit. Once freed, they are immediately pulled to the nearest lost soul and it is their duty to aid them in their journey to the next life. The pull of a Poe is just as potent as the pull of a portal: demanding and unavoidable. Reapers feel it physically.

When their soul is outside of their body, a Reaper will appear comatose to the waking world. Unresponsive and unmoving, almost like they’re asleep. Their hearts still beat, their lungs still breathe. They still live but there’s nothing there. If their body is moved during this time, the Reaper will have a difficult time returning to it. Their survival will depend on whether or not they can find their body.

Link is one of many Reapers that serve under Death, and he is not unhappy. He sees the Threads of Fate that bind all things- the red ones of the living, the black ones of the dead, and the white ones of the immortal- and he takes pride in helping wayward Poes follow these threads home. He… has experience guiding souls, after all.

Link doesn’t remember when exactly he died, but he knows it had to have happened during his quest to rid the Demon King from Princess Zelda’s body. With her spirit by his side, he felt unstoppable. And his new job isn’t much different. He doesn’t feel sadness when he guides a Poe to their next adventure. No, he feels… at peace.

Death is extremely welcoming to him, for she knows that in time, he will return to her. Just as all things do. Link- our Spirit- admires Death. He serves under her but he is not opposed to it. He’s wholly dedicated to his job. He takes pride in it. It doesn’t interfere with his waking life too much and even as he cast on another adventure, it’s not too much to manage. Death treats him well, and he’d never denounce her.

When he’s reaping, he’s making a difference. He’s helping people. Is that not what a hero should strive for?

He’s… home.

Some notes!

• This kind of turned into a post about Reapers specifically and less about Spirit, but ehhh lore is lore

• Spirit and Wind are BEST BUDS. I’ve been referring to them as “the twins” in my head this whole time

• Spirit’s pupils glow when he is looking at the Threads of Fate. He can’t see them all the time, just when he really focuses on them, or else he’d be blinded by all the string everywhere!

• More on that- he doesn’t only see the threads that bind people to each other. He also sees the threads that bind people to objects. Everything has a memory, everything has a story.

• Something about Spirit’s presence is so inherently peaceful. He speaks quietly and clearly, he moves like a whisp, he smiles so gently. He can 100% be a little goblin in his own right, but he can be incredibly comforting when he wants to be.

• He cannot swim. Wind is APPALLED.

• He knows that Time is a God right away. His string is white. He doesn’t tell anyone, though, because it’s not his place. Everyone has their secrets, everyone should have the right to reveal themselves at their own pace.

• He and Wild sure do have a relationship. Yep. Just. The Reaper- the one who is tasked with guiding lost souls. And the literal spirit, actual ghost. Uh huh. They. Um. Yeah, they definitely have a dynamic. (This dynamic is the reason that I was convinced to add Spirit to my Cryptid Chain)

• A spirit is any soul without a body. A Poe specifically refers to a spirit that is lost. Hopeless. One who needs help. Wild is not a Poe. (Kind of)

• Spirit is like Time in the sense that he has not fully ascended, and won’t until his mortal lifespan is over. When he dies, he will continue to be a Reaper, but much more powerful as he will not be bound to a body. But that’s far, far off. He’s twelve, I won’t be cruel to him

• hehehehe

• He’s so incredibly good at playing the pan flute.

• Also this kid’s hilarious without even trying. (Spirit Tracks is the funniest Zelda game of all time)

• NERD. HE LOVES HIS TRAINS. HE IS IN PHYSICAL PAIN THAT NONE OF THE OTHER LINKS EVEN KNOW WHAT A TRAIN IS!!! SEND HELP!!! TELL HIM ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE TRAINS!!! HE MISSES HIS TRAIN!!!

• He has the unique ability to talk to Poes and Spirits directly, so he’s gonna be the best bet when it comes to translating for Wild. If Wild will let him come close, that is.

• “Don’t disturb me guys, I have some reaping to do,” he says, and then takes a nap. The others can’t tell.

• Or, mid battle, the decides they could really use a blast of spirit magic to aid them. So he just. Separates his soul from his body, as one does. Falls limply to the ground as the monsters they were fighting just suddenly all die. What just happened???

• Do monsters have souls? Do they become Poes? Thoughts that keep Spirit up at night.

[catboybiologist]

Do you see a future where we can give a trans person a shot and have their body start making the correct sex hormones (eg testes change to make E, or ovaries change to make T)? How far off? What things need to be accomplished to achieve it, and what tools do we already have?

Disclaimer that none of this is gonna be all that scientifically robust, the terms used are gonna be descriptive rather than technical, and that I'm just woke up and these are the ravings of a woman gone mad.

A single shot is ambitious, but I could see a course of several months or a couple years that, after those several months, lasts a lifetime.

How far off? I mean, wildly dependent on funding and focus. Unfortunately, nothing related to trans healthcare is gonna see a serious push I would think. With an actual, serious push, I would give it a few decades of research (if that)(this is blisteringly fast btw) until it's punted over to the FDA. At that point it's outside of my knowledge to know how far things would move forward.

But honestly, it's part politics, part luck of the draw on what people research and push forward. Might happen in our lifetime, but don't hold your breath. Research is grindingly slow.

This is mostly based around the possibility of inducing transdifferentiation. Tldr:

-stem cells are exciting bc they can become any cell type. They haven't "locked in" their cell fate yet.

-most research on cellular differentiation centers around deprogrammed differentiated cells, reverting them to stem cells, and then reprogramming them into something else. The deprogramming is actually well studied (shoutout Yamanaka factors) but I don't see something like this reaching a medicinal, in vivo use soon.

-in extremely rare and induced cases, however, you can force a fully differentiated cell type to become another fully differentiated cell type *without* that intermediate. This is likely way easier to pull off in vivo, even though the initial molecular triggers are much, much rarer and more difficult to study.

Which brings us to the two theoretical dots that we can use here: prostatic metioplasias as a result of testosterone (for transmascs) and the role of DMRT1 for transfemmes.

Broad tldr of each of these points:

-there was a study that studied vaginal lining of transmascs who had been on T for several years and gotten hysterectomies. They found some prostate tissue intercalating the vagina.

-removal of a particular gene (DMRT1) allowed testes to slowly become ovarian tissue and produce estrogens. This gene is responsible for maintaining testes cell fate- keeping the lock, locked.

Neither of these provides a direct basis for actual medication. They show avenues for what will work, however. What's necessary here is to understand the upstream signals that control the expression of genes like DMRT1, which can then be exploited to force expression or stop expression in vivo, in a human.

Basically, the way transdifferentiation would work here is blasting the appropriate cells with enough of these signals, over enough time to ensure that everything actually undergoes TD, to reprogram everything you want to reprogram.

(yes, I know about the crispr transfemme who targeted DMRT1. No, I don't think that's real. I've posted about that before.)

You don't have to bother reading these, but here's the primary sources I'm talking about for anyone interested: