#it genuinely means a lot to me!!! makes me feel like i belong somewhere

[viaetor]

(๑╥﹏╥)੭ ♡

[iomoru]

Hi, how are you? I read your rules, and I wanted to know if you could do Kinich x reader and how it would be at the start of the relationship. Like, go on a lot of dates and give you gifts (so romantic uwu) or would bring you to do commissions and half of the rewards would be yours (so romantic ✨️👌 in his mind that's a romantic date). Idk, I think it would be funny

-🦉

Treasured Moments

A/n: I actually made this at like 2 am or so but I forgot to post it bc I ended up falling asleep and woke up at 10 am (･ω･*)ｰ

Genre: Canon Verse, Fluff, Gn! Reader, Kinich x Reader, Second Person, Fluff

Summary: At the start of your relationship, Kinich fills your days with thoughtful gifts, surprise dates, and shared commissions, always giving you half the reward. Despite Ajaw’s teasing doubts, Kinich’s devotion and promises of protection make every moment feel even more meaningful.

The sun was low, casting a soft glow over the village as Kinich led you through the bustling market. You’d barely agreed to start dating him—something still new, almost surreal—and yet here he was, eager and bright-eyed, making sure to spend as much time with you as possible. Today, it seemed, was another one of those surprise dates.

“Close your eyes,” Kinich said, his hand warm over yours as he guided you carefully. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Though you were used to his surprises, there was always that thrill of wondering what he’d planned next. This time, when he stopped and told you to open your eyes, you were met with a small array of goods: a little pouch of silver coins, a fine piece of jewelry glinting with polished stones, and a small bag of sweets he’d picked up along the way.

“Choose whatever catches your eye,” he said with a smile, his gaze never leaving you. “I want you to have something special from today.”

You laughed, feeling your cheeks heat up at his genuine affection. “You spoil me too much, you know that?”

"Isn’t that the idea?” He winked, putting one of the sweets into your hand. The two of you shared a laugh as you wandered through the rest of the market, his hand sometimes finding yours.

The next day, Kinich’s presence at your door brightened your morning again, but this time with a new plan in mind. “Today,” he said, “you’re going to help me with a commission.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of getting free help?”

“Not exactly.” He chuckled. “Half the rewards will be yours. Just think of it as...a date with a little teamwork.”

As the two of you set off into the forest for the commission, Kinich cautiously leading you through each task, whether it was gathering herbs or helping a villager with some lost belongings. Whenever he handed over his share of the reward, he would make a show of adding a bit extra for you. Even the simplest of jobs felt special with him around, and the growing pile of trinkets and small rewards became cherished reminders of your adventures together.

And when night fell, he led you to a quiet spot by a lake, where you sat side by side, sharing stories and watching the stars. He offered you a small box—a new gift he’d been saving all day—inside, a delicate charm shaped like a flower, carved from bone and polished to perfection.

“Every date, I want you to have something to remember,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along your hand. “Something I've picked just for you.”

Suddenly, an all-too-familiar voice echoed in your mind.

“Are you really going to give them a piece of your pathetic salary every time you do this? I mean, really, Kinich?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, and Kinich groaned. “Ajaw…” he muttered under his breath, casting a quick glance around as if he could spot him.

“Don’t listen to him,” you whispered with a grin, leaning into his shoulder. “I like that you spoil me.”

He relaxed, shooting a glare toward the sky as if Ajaw were floating somewhere above you, listening. “Yeah, well, he’ll just have to deal with it.”

But before Kinich could say anything else, Ajaw’s voice appeared again, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

“Fine, but remember, love alone won’t protect them forever.”

You looked up at Kinich, catching the protective glint in his eyes. He squeezed your hand a little tighter, his gaze softening as he turned back to you.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet yet firm, “I’ll keep trying anyway.”

As he reached for you, Ajaw’s voice faded, leaving only the sound of the lake rippling softly, stars reflected in its waters. In that moment, with the weight of his promises and the warmth of his love beside you, everything felt perfect.

© ²⁰²⁴ ɪᴏᴍᴏʀᴜ ✰ do not repost, translate, plagiarize, use to train ai, or share my work on other social media platforms.

A/n: one more kinich x reader request and I'm jumping off a 500 story building (ㆁᴗㆁ✿)

[chestnutninny]

Dinner Date

No warnings, just pure fluff with Emily :)))

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The last few weeks, you had noticed Emily’s change in behaviour. She had been a lot more subdued than usual and it was starting to show to the rest of the team too. Every time you were both in the same room, her head would remain down and if you tried to talk to her, she would just stammer out an excuse and run off somewhere else.

“You know, you should just ask her out.” Derek remarked.

“What?” Emily responded, genuine confusion flashing across her features.

“Those feelings that you have, they aren’t going to go away any time soon. Trust me. What’s the worst that she’ll say, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Emily frowned at him, not fully agreeing  with his statement. She could think of lots of bad ways it could end up turning out, you being completely disgusted by her admission. However, she knew that at least then she’d have some form of validation.

She sat at her desk, plucking up the courage to ask you out, and thinking of how she would word it. She thought that she would keep it casual and just ask you out for dinner, but ultimately decided that coffee would suffice if you were limited for time. She stood up and made her way towards your desk as you were packing up your belongings, getting ready to go home after finishing your paperwork.

“Hey.” She greeted, nervously shuffling from foot to foot.

“Hi, Em!” You looked up at her, a smile taking its place on your lips. She couldn’t help the blush that tinted her cheeks at the nickname that effortlessly slipped from your mouth.

“I was thinking…”

“Oh no, I thought I could smell burning.” You joked with a smirk on your face, trying to lighten the mood as you could see she was nervous. You watched as she visibly relaxed slightly, a chuckle leaving her mouth in a sigh as she rubbed the back of her neck.

“Would you…” She started and abruptly stopped, watching as your face waited for her to continue, “Would you like- I mean, if you’re not busy…We could get lunch or dinner? Or maybe just coffee, if you don’t have a lot of time?”

“Do I make you nervous?” You stood closer to her, her breath catching in her throat, as you tucked a lock of her raven hair behind her ear. You chuckled as her head nodded rapidly, “I can do dinner.”

“Wait, really? I can’t lie, I didn't think any further than that, I wasn’t expecting you to agree.”

“Aw, Emily. Well, have a think about a date and time and just let me know.” She nodded along and returned back to her own desk, smiling as you exited the room.

“As if you picked her up, stuttering like that.” Derek laughed, feigning shock when Emily threw a scrunched up piece of paper towards him.

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The next day, Hotch had told everyone that they would have a shorter day, only having to do the final bits of paperwork that was left. You were earlier than the majority of the team, wanting to get a head start of the work. You looked up as you felt someone stood above you.

“Good morning.” Emily chirped, setting a cup of coffee down on your desk.

“Morning. Is this for me?” You smiled when she nodded at you walking past your desk and sitting up to her own.

You looked at the cup and took notice of the sticky note that was attached to the side of the cup. You took it off and took a sip of the warm beverage before reading the note. You hummed as the coffee enveloped your taste buds, blushing as you released that Emily had remembered your very specific order, before shouting a “thank you” over your shoulder.

‘Hey, pretty. Be ready for 7, I’ll see you then.’

You held the note closer to you, getting a smell of her perfume, your stomach doing backflips at the thought of tonight.

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You stood in front of the mirror, checking yourself out in the small, black dress you decided on wearing, admiring the way it hugged your curves and pushed up your cleavage just enough to grab Emily’s attention. You still couldn’t completely shake the nerves that you were feeling, yet excited to finally have Emily in a way that wasn’t just friends. You were excited to see where she had decided to take you, when suddenly a knock on your door pulled you from your thoughts.

You answered the door, seeing Emily standing at the other side of the threshold to your apartment. She was wearing a white dress shirt with flared black trousers, the pants fitting snugly around her hips. She was holding a small bouquet of flowers out towards you, all of your favourite flowers compiled together perfectly.

“Hey, you.” You leaned forward, planting a kiss to her cheek, a satisfied smirk leading its way on your face at the blush that kept up Emily’s neck.

“Hey! Wow, you look so beautiful, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Em. But I think you take the title for the most beautiful.”

You invited her into your apartment and she handed you the flowers, watching as you put them in a vase after filling it with water. She waited patiently for you to slip your shoes on and grab your purse before heading towards the front door. After you locked your door, you linked your arm with Emily’s and headed down to the parking section of your apartment complex.

“You know, I never actually gave you my address.” You bumped your shoulder with your own as you squinted your eyes at her.

“Well…Okay, I may or may not have asked Garcia to look it up on the computer system.” She shrugged nonchalantly, however you could see the embarrassment bubble in her eyes. You giggle at the flush that covers her face, and the way she avoids your eyes.

As you reach her car, she pulls your door open for you, waiting for you to get comfortable before closing the door to make her way around to her own side of the car. She ensures that you have your belt on before putting the car into drive and setting off towards your destination for tonight. You gasp as you pull into the parking lot of a new, and very fancy, restaurant that had just opened just outside of your town.

You didn’t even want to think about how costly this place is and how Emily had even managed to snag a reservation at the restaurant as the demands were high. You were pulled from your thoughts when your car door swung open, revealing Emily stood by your side with her hand outstretched, ready for you to take. You unclipped your seatbelt and took her hand, letting her guide you to the entrance to the restaurant.

She gave the reservation name at the front desk, following as the waiter led you both to your table, which was quiet and private in the corner of the restaurant. She ordered drinks for you both as you looked through the ample meals that were presented on the menus in front of you both. You settled on a risotto, which you couldn’t completely pronounce the name of, and Emily ordered the Fiorentina steak for herself.

The conversation flowed easily between the two of you throughout the night, and you noticed the confidence that Emily had slowly started to gain, showing that she had become more comfortable about being around you, especially alone together. You had both finished your meals and had ended with your dessert, just sipping the remains of the red wine that resided in your glasses. Emily had waved the waiter over to pay the bill, declining your offer of going half with her payment.

“You didn’t have to do that, Em.” You complained, knowing that she had spent an absolute fortune on the meals that you had helped devour.

“Well, I wanted to have the best first date with such a gorgeous woman.” She winked over to you, which left you blushing and stuttering over your words, the tables having completely flipped by now.

She led you out of the restaurant, your hand in hers, and guided you back to the car before she set off to drop you back off at your apartment. She turned on the radio as you both settled into the car, and your favourite song started to play, echoing off the windows of the vehicle.

“Oh my God, I love this song!” You exclaimed, you smile growing as Emily’s hand reached over and turned the volume up more, so that she could hear it better. 

She giggled to herself as the chorus came on and you began to sing your heart out to the song, watching the way you looked so happy and care-free, you looked the most beautiful right now. The song came to a close and you both sat in a comfortable silence, enjoying the company of being together right now. After a while, the car pulled into your apartment complex and Emily looked over to you.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” She decided, opening the driver's door before opening your door for you. 

You reached for her hand as you walked up the path to the main doors, and closer towards your apartment. You decided to take the stairs rather than the lift, wanting to spend as much time with Emily as you could before the night was over and she retired to her own home. You both slowed as you arrived at your apartment door,her hand lingering in yours.

“Thank you for tonight, Em. It’s honestly been amazing.” You smiled as your head dipped down, your hair falling slightly to frame your face.

“No, thank you, Y/N. I’m glad that I finally had the courage to ask you out. I’m really excited for our next one.”

“Ohh, so there’s going to be a next on, huh?” You smirked, despite the butterflies that were fluttering in your stomach with nervousness and excitement at the mention of another date with Emily.

“U-Um, only if you want of course?” Emily stuttered, her confidence flattering slightly.

“Of course, Emily. I’d love nothing more.”

You reached into your purse, pulling out your keys and sliding them into the door. Emily reached out her hand and took your hand in hers, giving it a squeeze in order to gain your attention. She tucks a strand of your hair that came loose behind your ear.

You leaned in closer to her, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt her warmth breath on your face, a complete contrast to the cool night. She leaned in and closed the gap in between you both. Her hands caress your cheeks, holding you close to her face, her body pressing against your own. 

“Thank you for tonight, Y/N.” Emily gasps out as you both part, coming up for air.

“Goodnight.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek, before setting off back down your corridor.

“Goodnight, Em.” You whispered back, watching as she turned the corner to the corridor, shooting you a smile over her shoulder as she disappeared from your sight.

You let yourself into your apartment and set down your belongings, a huge grin residing on your face after your incredible date. You couldn't wait for tomorrow at work, knowing exactly that Emily would return to her stuttering self without the liquid courage, and you could already see the deep blush setting on her face when her eyes would meet your own. You were snagged from your thoughts as your phone pinged.

‘I’m home, sweetheart.’

Your heart fluttered at the nickname as well as her informing you that she was home and safe. You slipped on your pyjamas and got into bed. As soon as your head hit the pillow, your eyes fluttered shut and your head filled with happy memories of the night that you’d just participated in.

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Taglist: @borinxnovak @zolofts @lolololalalala @chloeelou02x (join my taglist here.)

[h50europe]

Tommy Kinard - post mortem

Minear thought of bringing Tommy back for FOUR episodes. He should have stuck to that plan. Because of the huge fanbase these two garnered since their first kiss, he hastily wrote Tommy into more episodes (it shows) and developed a shitty love story for them. Obviously, he did not know how to handle it because he saw himself forced to diverge from his original plan. His interviews about them were nothing but smoke and mirrors. Saying what fans want to hear to keep their hopes high. And we all fell for it. Since OS said he knew from early on in season 8 about the breakup or even earlier, it means, for Minear, he was done with them by the end of season 7.

Funny, wasn't that what the haters always said? That's why he wasn't included in Epi 1 - 3 because Minear stuck to his original plan, in which Tommy was long gone. More smoke and mirror interviews followed. Telling us bullshit like Tommy and Buck were a couple and thriving, well knowing he was done with them. And all the while, the haters knew about it. Fueled by hints of certain journalists. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I don't believe in coincidence. A journalist usually gets the episode a few days ahead of its airing. And often, they don't get the final cut. And then one of them "guesses" the title for episode 8.06 and part of its content? Yeah, sure. To me, it almost looks like Minear is dropping hints anonymously.

He blindsided BT fans from the get-go. I wondered why they shot 8.06 BEFORE 8.05. Then we got the answer when he explained that 8.05 happened to give the breakup "more shock value." Bullshit! 8.06 was a zombie episode from start to finish, with the cut emergency from season 7 and a plot about a boy in a drain (also a repeat, only with his brother as the hero). The scenes around Buck/Tommy felt like someone tried to put a square into a hole. In hindsight, even Josh's Glee speech gets a shallow taste. Madney's pregnancy felt like an offer of reconciliation to the audience. Hey, look, we have a breakup, but someone's having a baby again, hooray!

As we know, the breakup was written horribly. Again, it shows nobody had a plan (square, hole).

Tommy reminds me of an unfinished sculpture. We know he longs to belong somewhere and is jealous of the family the 118 has become. We know his former Captain Gerrard reminds Tommy of his dad, but that's about it. This is another proof that Minear didn't lose a second thought about Tommy Kinard when he brought him back.

So everything he told us in his interviews was a blatant lie, which he formulated when he saw how the audience appreciated Tevan and their genuine chemistry. Nobody thought that they were taking off like they did. And because it doesn't fit in Minear's concept, they had to do the shitty breakup by retconning Tommy and giving him the even shittier exit.

Sending Buck on his baking spree and watching Tommy "bubbling" him is nothing more than to console the audience and give them a "feeling that Tommy is still around." The general audience isn't as informed as the fans are. They hardly ever read interviews or talk about the show like fans do.

This explains why the plots around "Brad" were fully developed and executed. Minear stuck to his original concept. For my taste, the focus on this character was over the top, and he was never much appreciated among the audience and fans.

I wonder if Minear is even considering bringing Tommy back. I've seldom seen such inconsistent writing about a relationship or a character. Instead of appreciating the welcome and integrating this character into the show, he was treated worse than any other of Buck's LI. What did Minear think when he brought a character back that was part of the show in season 2 and hooked him up with one of the mains? The way this "bi awakening" was handled is cringe-worthy. "I wanted to get Buck off the hamsterwheel" - only to throw him back in. This could have happened a lot less complicated by making Buck drunk and having sex with a random guy. Show him now "suffering" when Minear says he will find a new LI that isn't meant to last, translating into "I made Buck bi although I haven't thought it through and have absolutely no plan what to do next."

An idea would be to bring Tommy back, integrate him, and make him part of Buck's life. It worked with Tarlos.

Someone just told me something very true (and I am allowed to share it): His (Tommy Kinard) season 2 exit was perfect. He showed positive growth, made good friends who threw him a lovely farewell party, and then he went away to pursue his dream career. I know we didn't care about him that time the way we do now, but the stark contrast between the two exits breaks my heart even more.

On a side note, get a grip on Eddie's storyline. From what I know, a half-naked dance through your apartment never solved any problems or had a healing effect...

[ticktockmyclockworkhart]

I don't really think of any modern AUs for red dead for some reason, idk, I have modern AU thoughts for any other piece of media that takes place in the past but for some reason I just can't separate these guys from the old west for the life of me

BUT the one modern AU thought I had and that I have very frequently is the thought of the entire Van Der Linde gang going to disneyland. That thought just tickles me. Like

Tilly, Mary-Beth and Karen make it their mission to go meet every single disney princess and they also kidnap Arthur and make him go with them. But he actually ends up having a kinda fun time because he enjoys wonder and whimsy, doesn't mean every character interaction before they took pictures wasn't stiflingly awkward though. he mumbled the entire time and refused to do any whimsical poses for the pictures

Hosea and Dutch are camped out somewhere shady by the park entrance with everyone's bags and snacks and water to act as home base and collect all their idiots at the end of the day, the only time they move is when an employee runs up to them and asks if the exhausted man with the scars on his face who fell asleep on a bench in direct sunlight by splash mountain and may or may not be suffering heat stroke belongs to them and they have to go help John before the park calls an ambulance. They go on exactly one ride at night, the jungle cruise, with arthur and john. Hosea laughs at all the skipper's bad jokes and Dutch thinks the whole thing is fucking stupid

Susan is also camped out with them but she gets worried about everyone too often and keeps getting up to go to everyone's last known location to make sure they're alright, but at some point Sean tells her to go take a picture with the evil stepmother from cinderella because they look like twins so she just goes back to Hosea and Dutch and lets them fend for themselves

Lenny is genuinely having a fucking BLAST but is really embarrassed about it. He does get a picture with belle because she's his favorite disney princess (bookworms ftw) and he runs into Arthur there being held captive by the girls, they both rib each other about what brought them there later. After everything is said and done though he and Arthur totally go on some rides together

Sean WAS hanging out with Lenny but they got separated within like three minutes of entering the park because Sean kept wandering off so Lenny left him to fend for himself, but he actually stayed out of trouble the entire time, surprisingly. He just rode the carousel again and again for like 8 hours because he was piss drunk before he even got to the park (since you can't drink there) and if he closed his eyes it almost didn't give him motion sickness (he never considered the possibility that he could also just not ride anything? Or maybe go to where Hosea and Dutch said they'd be?)

John is living that one viral post where he sat on a bench and fell asleep from heat exhaustion, then woke up to his ice cream melted all over him and mickey mouse putting a cold towel on his forehead. He was there because Jack wanted to ride splash mountain btw and John was terrified of getting on

Kieran lived one of my magical disney park experiences, which was he went on one ride with the group and was feeling good about being included, but then he got off the ride and literally couldn't find a single person he rode with, so he's wandering the park aimlessly worrying if everyone just left him there (this is not exactly what happened to me btw. I went on a ride with an uncle who is no longer an uncle who had a tbi and so could act unpredictably some times, mostly by virtue of being incredibly spacy, he got out of line to go get a drink and when he came back the line had moved up a lot more so he just told me he'd meet me at the end of the ride. Then at the end of the ride I literally could not find him. I wandered the entire area for like twenty minutes realizing he'd wandered off somewhere before I finally gave up and reported it to my cousin who I kid you not was completely unfazed and told me not to worry about it, they'd find him eventually. I still felt so bad about it even after he turned up not even thinking twice about the whole thing)

Abigail is busy being a responsible mother to two children (her husband and also Jack), Jack is having the absolute time of his life and they've lost John about ten times because he's too scared to go on the rides and also too scared of the disney characters to join them for pictures so Abigail eventually gave up looking for him, Dutch and Hosea would find him and babysit him (they did)

Pearson is floating around between the different groups, he's got the big backpack with the snacks, water and sunscreen in it while Hosea and Dutch were holding onto whatever he couldn't carry. He's like pretty ambivalent about everything happening and is kinda just happy to be there, but he is hella interested in all the food vendors and taking notes on what everyone in the gang seemed to enjoy so he can try and make it himself later

Swanson got a little too silly before coming to the park and ended up stuck on the magic teacups ride because he couldn't process how to get off. He was at park lost and found for like two hours before Dutch and Hosea found him, only for him to end up stuck on the teacups AGAIN like an hour later

Sadie thinks this entire trip is fucking stupid and she exclusively sticks to the biggest thrill rides, spending most of her time in california adventure (is that part of the park still called that? it's changed so much since I've last been there), a few people who also enjoy thrill rides have tried accompanying her on her bender but she literally never takes a break and apparently can't get motion sickness

Bill is lost. He was pretty sure he was with Javier and the Marstons at first, but he lost them at some point and now he's stuck in the star wars land and doesn't know where the exit is, small children keep pointing at him and making wookie noises, and he really just needs a drink tbh

Javier has been EVERYWHERE. He has a plan and an itinerary, either keep pace with him or you're getting left behind (rip Bill). He finishes his schedule within like three hours and then goes to hang out with Sadie on her masochistic thrill ride loop before he has to tap out after like five thrill rides in quick succession. He started the day hanging out with the Marstons and Jack insisted he wear a pair of mickey mouse ears, so like the cool uncle he is he agreed and in every picture he's in he's standing there in bedazzled mouse ears with an extremely stoic expression on his face

Charles silently slinks off to critter country (is it still called that? idk how the park has changed) upon getting there because he wants to go see winnie the pooh. After a couple hours of wandering aimlessly and wanting to hit people who crowd too close to him he finds and joins Lenny and Arthur. They go on some rides and then go see winnie the pooh again. Tigger grabs Arthur by the hands and makes him bounce with him and Arthur is in such a whimsical mood and has been doing goofy shit around the park all day at this point that he actually enthusiastically participates. Charles considers it a 10/10 time

Micah was definitely not allowed into the park. 100%

Strauss didn't want to come to disneyland, he had work to do, and the entire gang tried their hardest but unlike several of the other gang members they were unable to force Strauss to join. Party pooper :(

Uncle is having a great fuckin time. He went onto the haunted mansion and just fell asleep and rode the loop until he was personally escorted off by staff because they were worried he died in his sleep or something

Trelawny is there!! They have not seen him for four months but he is there for some reason! Late into the night Arthur got onto the haunted mansion, turned to his left and Trelawny was just. there in the doombuggy with him

[blackenedsnow]

Trans reader x Beej? 🙏 I love reading your work, btw! 😊

ghost light

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Beetlejuice x Transgender! Reader

NOTE: Hey!! Thank you so much, this one’s got a big chunk of heart <3 I actually got some help from a trans friend to make this as real as possible. I love hearing from you all, so don’t hesitate to send more asks or thoughts <3

SUMMARY: It’s a weird thing being with Beetlejuice, but it’s also the most fun you've ever had. He makes you feel like yourself in a way no one else does – loud, strange, and totally alive.

There’s something about Beetlejuice that just feels right, in the loudest, strangest way possible. Even on the bad days, when you don’t quite feel like you fit into your own skin, he’s there with that wild grin and endless antics, making you feel like you could belong somewhere. It’s not that he really gets it – you're not even sure he really understands half of what you tell him about yourself, your past, the weirdness of figuring out who you are. But he listens, sort of, as best as Beetlejuice can.

“Wait, you mean to tell me you got a whole… thing with your body?” he says, scratching his scraggly chin with this exaggerated look on his face, like he’s really thinking hard about it. “That’s gotta be a real trip. Personally, I think you’re lucky – I don’t even have skin problems. Or organs. Or haircare needs!"

You laugh because that’s the thing with him. He has this gift of making everything feel like one big, surreal joke – but not in a dismissive way. It’s like he’s lifting the weight right off your shoulders, letting you laugh at yourself in the best possible way.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being you?” You ask, half-joking, half-curious.

He looks at you with these glowing eyes, brows wiggling in a way that’s simultaneously ridiculous and, well, somehow...charming. “Oh, honey, being me is the best gig in the Underworld! And you? You’re pretty good at being you, too, y’know?”

You roll your eyes, feeling that warmth bloom in your chest, the way he can just make everything feel like it’s already okay. And even though his teeth are gross and he’s grinning a little too wide, you believe him.

It’s like he understands the parts of you - you sometimes try to hide – the doubts, the days where you wonder if anyone will really see you the way you are. But with Beetlejuice, you feel seen in a way you never have before, like your weirdness fits perfectly with his own.

“You think I’m good at it?” You say, trying to keep your tone casual. “What’s my thing then? Just…being, I dunno, strange?”

He throws his hands up, a look of mock offense on his face. “Strange? You’re one-of-a-kind, babe. An original! If there was a pageant, I’d parade ya around like a prize! You’re the whole package!”

It’s over-the-top, ridiculous even. But it makes you laugh.

It’s not all fun and games, though. Sometimes, when you're alone, he’ll look at you in this quiet way, without the show or the wild grin. It’s rare, but it’s there – like he really, actually cares. And maybe that’s why you stick around. You think, in his own odd way, he sees you, all of you, even the messy, uncertain parts. And he loves you for it.

One night, you're lying on the creaky old bed in his little corner of the Netherworld, and he’s uncharacteristically quiet. You're lying there beside him, feeling his gaze on you, intense and curious, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“So, what’s the deal with you wanting to change so much?” he asks, in this genuinely curious way, like it’s just a passing thought. Beetlejuice is hundreds of years old, you have to explain a lot to him. “I mean, you’re pretty great as you are, kid. And trust me, I’ve been around long enough to know greatness when I see it.”

You smile, looking down at your hands, feeling a little of that doubt creeping back in. “It’s…complicated. Sometimes, I just don’t feel right in my own skin, like it doesn’t really match, y’know?”

He nods, though you're not sure he fully understands. But it’s the fact that he wants to that makes it matter.

“Look,” he says, leaning over so close that you can see the glint in his eyes, “whatever skin you’re in, I think it’s damn near perfect. Got it?” He grins, flashing those nasty teeth again, but there’s a warmth to it that makes your chest ache.

He pulls you close, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, you let yourself relax into his embrace. You let yourself believe him – even if just for a moment – because in this strange corner of the world, you're exactly who you need to be.

[gullemec]

Pandora's Box

Golden Cage - Chapter Two

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: The Boys send you on your first mission and you end up with more than you bargained for.

Warnings: emotional abuse, daddy issues

WC: 4.5k

A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone who liked/commented/reblogged chapter one, it genuinely means so much to me🥹 i've started a taglist as well so please let me know if you'd like to be added!

The Boys, as you’ve come to know them, waste absolutely no time.

After quick introductions to MM, a steady and level-headed founding member, and Kimiko, a silent but razor-sharp Supe liberated from captivity, Butcher starts laying out the plan with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer.

On the coffee table before you sits a small fortune in spy gear: bugs, GPS trackers, cameras, audio recorders, and a litany of tiny devices that look like they belong in a spy movie. The sheer quantity makes your head spin.

Hughie kneels by the table, carefully picking up each device and explaining its purpose. His earnestness almost makes the whole thing less intimidating. Almost. Truthfully, he could tell you just about anything and you'd continue to nod along. Seeing as you've never taken up cat burglary or espionage as a hobby, you barely understand anything he's telling you. 

“This one here,” Hughie says, holding up a tiny black button-like device, “is a bug. A listening device. You stick it somewhere, and it picks up sound within about twenty feet. Pretty good range.” He hands it to you, and you turn it over in your fingers, pretending to understand.

Behind him, Butcher leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watches the two of you silently, his sharp eyes flicking between the gear and your increasingly overwhelmed expression.

“Right,” Butcher drawls, pushing off the wall and strolling over. He snatches the bug from your hand, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. “Here’s how this works: you stick this under your dad’s desk or somethin’ that gets a lot of traffic. We’ll be able to hear every dodgy little word that comes out of his mouth.”

You nod, eyes wide, shellshocked. You're taken back to the time your mother brought you to see Spy Kids and you spent an entire month afterward somersaulting around the house and peeking around corners pretending you, too, were a spy. You had even begged her to order you a spy kit through your school's Scholastic Book Fair. The real thing, as you've come to learn, involves much less gymnastics and invisible ink than you'd originally thought. 

This is all so ridiculous. You woke up this morning prepared to face another day of monotonous lab reports, mind-numbing thinktank meetings, and unending feelings of inadequacy. Now you’re playing Inspector Gadget with a ragtag group of vigilantes to infiltrate a corrupt conglomerate that may or may not be responsible for your mother’s death. 

If you don’t laugh, you’re pretty sure you might just cry.

Butcher doesn’t seem to notice your inner spiral. “Easy as pie,” he adds, smirking like it really is that simple.

“Sure,” you murmur, trying to sound more sure than you feel.

Hughie, sensing your nerves, holds up another device, a thick black disc about the size of a hockey puck. “This one’s a GPS tracker. While you’re planting the bug, Frenchie and I’ll slap these on your dad’s and Monica’s cars. That way, we’ll know where they go and when.”

Your stomach twists. This is all so surreal.

Hughie hesitates, his brow furrowing as he takes in your face. “Look, I get it. It’s a lot. First time I got roped into this, Butcher had me bug the Seven’s meeting room. Thought I was gonna throw up the whole time.”

You gape at him. “Wait—you bugged the Seven? How the hell did you pull that off?”

“I didn’t,” Hughie says with an awkward laugh. “Got caught.”

Your eyes widen. “You got caught?” The words come out more panicked than you intend, and your sweaty palms rub against the worn fabric of the couch. “Oh, God, I can’t—this is—what if I—”

Your mind explores every possibility, every unique way this can, will, go horribly wrong. Monica finds the bug and calls security. Your dad catches you red-handed, his disappointment turning into something darker.

Or, perhaps worst of all, you succeed and uncover the truth, and it will be worse than the weight of the uncertainty you've carried.

A heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder, stopping your thoughts cold.

Your head snaps up, and your eyes meet Butcher’s. His expression is calm but firm, and his grip feels strangely reassuring. For a moment, the world seems to steady itself. You grab his hand instinctively, your fingers brushing his. He notices, clears his throat, and pulls away, leaving you colder than you’d like to admit.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, his voice softer than you expect. “Smarter than Hughie, anyway. Low fuckin’ bar, I know, but still.”

“Hey!” Hughie protests from the floor. “What the hell?”

But Butcher’s already moved on, ignoring him. “Focus on the job. We’ll be outside in the van, listenin’ through the bug. If anything goes sideways, just leg it outta there.”

The authority in his voice is oddly comforting. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve misjudged him, if there’s more to him than the sarcastic, sharp-edged persona he’s so quick to project.

Hughie looks between the two of you, confusion playing on his face.

Butcher clears his throat. “‘Less of course you have a run in with Homelander. I ain't dealing with that cunt today.”

Ah, yes. There's the asshole who kidnapped you. You nod sagely, grimacing.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins, sharp and wolfish. “That’s the spirit.”

You roll your eyes, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Hughie glances between the two of you, his confusion obvious. “Wait, is Homelander actually a risk here? Or is he just—”

“Don’t overthink it, Hughie,” Butcher cuts in, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him wince. “She’ll be fine. Won’t ya?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

But as the plan starts to crystallize, the reality of what you’re about to do settles in your chest like a weight. 

Fine is a relative term.

~~~

Frenchie deposits you back where he found you, the cloak of secrecy still intact. Sure enough, your heels and lab coat remain where you left them, an unremarkable crumple of fabric and leather in the shadows. It's somewhat comforting to know no one else has discovered your secret smoke spot, but disappointing all the same that not a single soul came looking for you.

Eight hours. The workday has long since ended, and it’s painfully clear that the wheels of CytoGenix churn on, unbothered by your lack of presence. You collect your things and swipe your badge, heels clicking sharply against the cold tile as the fluorescent lighting hums its dispassionate scrutiny above.

CytoGenix headquarters looms like a monument to ambition, nearly as ostentatious as Vought Tower. Fifty-five stories of cutting-edge labs, supercomputers, and glassy offices stretching high above Manhattan. Your father insisted that keeping most everything in-house kept CytoGenix self-sufficient, giving it an edge against the competition. You wondered if that same logic applied to the crown jewel of the building, his infamous combination office and bedroom in the penthouse. Your mother used to jokingly refer to the family home upstate as your father's vacation home, since he primarily lived out of the office. You couldn't deny that conducting an affair mere feet away from his work desk met the definition of efficient.

You step into the elevator now, the glass box offering a vertiginous view of the city below as it rises. The sight makes your stomach churn, so you focus on the reflective silver doors instead, breathing slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth.

The penthouse is as you remember it, coldly modern and sleek, with wide-open spaces and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the cityscape. Soft jazz hums from a turntable wedged between a pair of file cabinets, a strange touch of warmth in the otherwise sterile setting.

Your father’s mahogany desk is the only thing that breaks the space’s futuristic aesthetic. Stacks of papers teeter precariously, coffee mugs crowd the edges, and there he sits, hunched over a legal pad, scribbling furiously. He barely registers your presence as you approach, only flicking his eyes up briefly before returning to his work.

He says your name flatly, without warmth or curiosity, the same tone he might use for a colleague interrupting his train of thought.

Your heels click purposefully as you move closer, forcing yourself to breathe steadily, to keep your hands from trembling. You can’t afford to give yourself away.  He can't suspect that you're here for any reason other than a friendly meeting between father and daughter. 

Only, that in and of itself is suspect in your case. 

When you look at him now you wonder if you see anything new, a different plane of his face you'd never noticed before, a nervous tic you'd ignored. Something, anything, that might suggest his culpability in your mother's death. Did he know? If so, what did he know? Had he been a passive player, vaguely aware that it was no accident? Or had he orchestrated the entire thing, feigning his grief all this time? 

Who was the man sitting in front of you?

“Hi, Dad,” you begin, your voice carefully neutral.

“What is it?” he replies, not bothering to look up.

A flare of irritation rises, but you stamp it down. You’d expected this. “I was hoping we could talk.”

That finally gets his attention. He leans back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “About?”

“The internship,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “I just… I don’t think it’s working out. I’ve been thinking I might explore other opportunities instead.”

He stares at you for a moment, blinking slowly, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke he doesn’t find funny. Then he exhales sharply, tossing his pen onto the desk.

“Are you kidding me?” he says, his voice low but brimming with disdain. “You’re giving up already? How many times have Monica and I talked to you about seeing things through? About doing something useful with your life?”

The sting of his words is familiar, like a bruise you’ve stopped noticing. Still, it’s enough to spark a flicker of anger.

“I’m not giving up, Dad. I’m just saying this might not be the best fit—”

He cuts you off with a scoff, rising abruptly from his chair. “Fit? Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. The world isn’t about fit, it’s about work. Something you’ve clearly never understood.”

You grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself as he paces, one hand rubbing the crown of his balding head.

“I spent tens of thousands of dollars sending you to school overseas,” he continues, his voice rising. “You didn’t need a fancy education for this job but I agreed anyway, because you and your mother insisted on it. And for what? So you could come back here and whine about an internship? Biology isn’t going to help you run a company, sweetheart. Know your place.”

“I’m trying to tell you—”

“No! You don’t get to try,” he snaps, spinning to face you. “You do. You’re going to finish this internship, and then you’re going to take the seat on the board. Enough of this nonsense.”

You can see the veins in his temple pulsing, his voice growing louder with each syllable. It should scare you, the way his anger always boils over so quickly, but instead it just feels… predictable. Like muscle memory.

He's working himself into a frenzy, rising from his desk to pace around the room, reciting old adages about a hard day's work and bemoaning the laziness of today's youth, errant jabs directed toward your personal shortcomings scattered throughout.You absently consider making a bingo sheet with his favorite token phrases to bring to your next family dinner, barely concealing a chuckle at the thought of shouting BINGO! as Monica demurely chews her smoked salmon across from you.

Finally he turns to rest his head on the bookshelves that flank his desk, as though he were seeking refuge from your insolence among the leather-bound books you were certain he'd never read. 

Perfect.

As he mutters to himself, your hand slips into your pocket, fingers closing around the small bug. His voice fades into a dull roar as you focus on the desk, feeling along its underside until you find the right spot. The adhesive sticks fast.

Done.

“You’re right,” you say robotically, standing and smoothing your skirt. “I’ve been stressed. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He exhales sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Stressed? Sweetie, you don’t even know the first thing about stress.”

Have you ever been kidnapped? You think.

Your teeth clench, but you force a smile, nodding as though you agree. Your eyes drift to a velvet painting of lilies above the turntable, the soft white flowers providing a point of focus as his voice fades into background noise.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” you say suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. You grab your purse and head for the elevator.

 But something makes you stop, your hand hovering over the button. Something about his anger and the way you learned from your mother how to deal with it, how to defuse the bomb. You turn back to face him as he sits down to resume his work, the rage leaving his body as rapidly as it had arrived.

“You know, I really miss her. Mom, I mean.”

The words seem to strike him like a physical blow. He freezes, his face unreadable. After a moment, he clears his throat and forces a tight smile. “I miss her too.”

Liar. Thief. Asshole. 

You say nothing. You leave. You hold your tears all the way down the elevator, all the way down the fluorescent hallway, all the way until ‒

Clickclickclick. 

The sound of bitchy little heels, but not your bitchy little heels. The shrill echo of your name, all false sweetness and feigned excitement. 

“Monica,” you say stiffly as she approaches, taking in her perfectly laid curls, pristine white blouse, and silk pencil skirt. The picture of elegance, the bane of your existence. 

“Darling,” she coos, her saccharine voice grating. She places a hand on your shoulder, her grip just a little too firm. “What are you doing here so late? You’re usually long gone by now doing… Whatever it is you do.”

She says it like she's not quite sure what the hell you could possibly be doing with your time that doesn't involve being hunched over a desk, awash in the glowing blue light of a computer screen. You'd endured many a lecture from Monica about work ethic and potential, always with the implication that you were severely lacking in both departments. You desperately wanted to ask her if she'd ever familiarized herself with things like fidelity or morals, but reasoned it would be easier to just keep your mouth shut.

You force a smile, brushing her off. “Just stopped by to see my dad. Nothing exciting.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you wonder if she sees through you. Can she clock your quickening heart rate, or the sheen of sweat on your face? Does she notice the frizz of your hair, the way you couldn't quite get it to sit the way it had before a hood had been thrown over it? She knows something is off, just not what exactly. 

But then the plastic smile returns, all teeth and no sincerity. 

“Lovely,” she says, squeezing your arm. “Well, don’t be a stranger. Cheers, darling.”

Monica loves to talk like a posh Londoner sometimes, like she wasn't born in Cheboygan, Michigan. You could vomit.

As she clicks away, you exhale and slip out into the alley. Across the street, the van waits, nondescript under the streetlights.

You’re vaguely aware of the bitter irony as you climb back into the van of the very men who kidnapped you hours earlier, but the relief is undeniable.

“I did it! And he didn’t even notice!” you announce, grinning despite the bizarre circumstances. Your heart thuds in your chest, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

The silence hits harder than expected. Butcher, Frenchie, and Hughie all avoid your eyes, their expressions ranging from uncomfortable to grim.

“Damn,” you say, trying to inject some levity. “Not even a ‘good job’? I was expecting at least one sarcastic thumbs-up from you guys.”

Nothing.

The tension in the van is thick and stifling, coiling in your chest like a lead weight.

It’s Hughie who finally speaks, his voice soft but pointed. “Wow, you, uh... weren’t kidding when you said your dad’s an asshole.”

The smile falls from your face. The weight doubles.

They heard.

They heard everything.

Every cutting word. Every ounce of disdain your father had casually thrown your way. All of it.

You feel like you’re standing naked under a spotlight. “Oh my God,” you stammer, your voice small and wavering. “I’m sorry you guys had to hear that. I—”

“It’s fine, ma poupette,” Frenchie interrupts gently, his voice warm. “Do not let it sit in your heart. It is... nothing.”

You nod, grateful for his kindness, but it doesn’t help. The sting of exposure lingers, burrowing deeper. Despite your rather brutal introduction, you can’t help but feel a sort of kinship with the Boys. These men have been through hell, you know that, but something about them hearing your father’s tirade, hearing things you secretly believe about yourself echoed by the man who raised you, feels suffocating.

Your eyes drift to Butcher, hoping for some sharp remark or offhanded quip to cut through the tension. Instead, he says nothing at all, his jaw tight as he avoids your gaze entirely.

Before the silence can grow unbearable, a crackle of static from the nearby receiver draws everyone’s attention. Hughie leans forward, fiddling with the dials as a voice filters through, thin and distorted. 

Monica.

“I saw her in the hallway downstairs. What was she talking to you about?”

Your father's voice responds, crisp and biting. “Bitching and moaning.” 

He laughs. Monica laughs. You wince. 

Hughie plays with some dials, attempting to improve the sound, pretending like he didn't just hear that exchange. 

When Monica's voice filters through again, it's clearer. “I come bearing good news,” she says, her tone syrupy and smug.

“Oh? Do tell,” your father replies.

“Quality Control will be testing the first batch of V2 in a couple weeks. Please tell me I can invite some of my Vought friends?”

Your stomach twists.

“Baby, you know exactly how to make a man happy,” your father drawls, his voice carrying an oily satisfaction. “Of course you can. Now, come here.”

Then, sounds. Sounds you'd rather not hear. Evidently, sounds the others would rather not hear as well, as Hughie quickly flips a switch, killing the audio. 

The silence that follows is deafening.

“What the fuck is V2?” Hughie blurts out, breaking the tension. His voice is edged with unease, his wide eyes darting between you and the others.

You shake your head slowly, the knot in your stomach tightening. “I—I don’t know. CytoGenix and Vought have done joint projects before, but it’s usually just sponsorships or tech. Nothing like this.”

Butcher leans back with a sigh. His hand moves to his face, dragging down as if trying to physically scrape off his frustration. “I don’t know what it is,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, “but it sounds a bloody sight worse than V.”

Frenchie lights a cigarette, his hands shaking ever so slightly. “If it is anything like the first, then we are in very deep shit, mes amis.”

Your chest tightens further as the implications hit you. V2. A new generation of the drug that turned people into ticking time bombs of chaos and destruction. A knot of guilt begins to form in your chest, curling tighter with every second.

This was your father’s doing.

“Whatever it is,” Butcher says finally, his voice cold and hard, “we’re not letting it see the light of day.”

His eyes flick to you for the first time since you entered the van, sharp and assessing. It’s not pity, not anger. It’s expectation.

You realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s already decided you’re a part of this fight now. Whether you like it or not.

~~~

The van pulls up outside your apartment building on the Upper East Side. After the chaos of the day, the sight of the familiar facade feels almost surreal. A part of you wonders how you’re supposed to just... walk back into your life as if everything hasn’t been irrevocably altered.

You glance back at the men in the van, your kidnappers turned allies, and feel a pang of awkwardness. “Alright... goodbye, I guess?” you offer, your voice uncertain.

Butcher gives a dry, humorless smile. “In a week’s time, come back to the laundromat. Bring some clothes, do laundry like a good little citizen ‘til one of us shows up. If you’ve got a tail, they’ll think you’re just there to bleach your knickers.”

“Okay, I can do that,” you reply quickly, trying to sound more confident than you feel. Deep down, you want to prove yourself to them, to him. To show you’re not the helpless daughter your father paints you to be, in spite of what they heard today.

In spite of what you think of yourself every day. 

You climb out, but before you can take more than a few steps toward the building, a hand grabs your elbow. You turn, startled, to find Butcher standing there.

“Let me walk you up,” he says, his tone gruff but somehow quieter than usual.

You blink. Butcher? Offering to walk you up to your apartment? You glance back at the van and catch Hughie and Frenchie craning their necks, their expressions mirroring your own disbelief.

“Uh... sure,” you say, fumbling for words. “I mean, I’m fine. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t respond, just nods toward the building. Reluctantly, you lead him inside.

The elevator ride is suffocatingly quiet, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but his expression is unreadable.

You feel a little silly leading the man into your lavish, paid-for-by-daddy apartment, knowing that he'll rest his head on a cot in the basement of a laundromat tonight. You wonder idly if he has an apartment to call home, or if, like your father, he too shits where he eats. You wonder why he feels the need to come in and see the apartment, but nothing about him being in your space feels intrusive. 

When you open the door to your loft, you hesitate for a moment before stepping inside. “Well, this is it,” you say, your voice faltering.

He follows you in, his eyes scanning the space. The eclectic decor—a mix of warm woods, mismatched textiles, and knickknacks—feels so far removed from the sterile confines of CytoGenix. You can’t help but notice how out of place Butcher looks here, yet oddly... fitting.

You watch as he pokes around, taking in the details. The art prints on the walls. The stack of books on the coffee table. The half-empty cup of tea you’d abandoned this morning, now cold.

For a moment, you imagine him here. Standing in your kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. Slouched on the couch, the trench coat swapped for something softer. Following you up the stairs to the loft.

Your cheeks burn, and you shake the thought away violently. What the hell is wrong with you?

His voice cuts through your daydream. 

His voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts. “I had a proper cunt for a dad too,” he says, his tone soft and almost hesitant.

You blink, caught completely off guard. “Oh?”

He doesn’t look at you, instead focusing on a small photo on the shelf—a candid shot of you and your mother from when you were small. He picks it up, his thumb brushing lightly over the glass. “Used to say the same shit to me and my brother. Called us lazy, useless... worse things, sometimes.”

His voice is flat, but there’s something raw beneath the surface, something unguarded.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say. “I’m... sorry,” you manage.

He sets the photo back down and finally looks at you. “Don’t be. He’s six feet under now. Good riddance.”

There’s no malice in his tone, just a hollow sort of finality. For a moment, the Butcher you’ve come to know, the sharp-edged, foul-mouthed enigma, feels human.

But as quickly as he let the walls down, they slam back into place. “You got your mum’s autopsy report here?” he asks, his voice clipped and businesslike.

You nod, the sudden shift catching you off balance. “Yeah. I’ll get it.”

You head upstairs to retrieve the manila envelope, your hands trembling slightly as you pull it from its hiding spot. When you return, he takes it from you without a word, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

The two of you stand there, the silence heavy. You want to say something, anything. To thank him for helping you, to ask about the man behind the trench coat, to yell at him for upending your life in the span of a single day. But the words stick in your throat.

It’s Butcher who finally speaks. “I’ll look into it,” he says, tucking the envelope under his arm. “See if it’s legit.”

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then, without another word, he turns and heads for the door.

“Well,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder, “I’ll see you in a week.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The sound of the lock clicking into place feels deafening in the quiet that follows.

You sink onto the couch, the events of the day crashing down on you all at once. 

An eternity seems to have passed since that midnight phone call, since the sterile voice on the other end of the line informed you that your mother was gone. The grief had consumed you, left you hollow and detached, moving through life like a shadow of yourself. You had gone through the motions, not even making the slightest effort to force life into your flat affect. Every single day you met the world with a brave, numb face, waiting until the apartment door clicked shut before allowing the full-body, hyperventilating sobs to overtake you. 

And then, in a single day, everything changed.

You glance at the photo Butcher had touched, your mother’s warm smile frozen in time. The guilt of betraying your father gnaws at you, tangled with the confusing comfort you felt among the Boys, and your inexplicable attraction toward the man who had both abducted and protected you.

Shaking your head, you retreat to your room, shedding your clothes and crawling beneath the covers. The too-big bed feels impossibly empty, and you lay there staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on you.

You stare half-lidded at the ceiling waiting for the familiar pull of your chest as the first sob claws its way out. When the tears finally come, they’re violent and unrelenting, wracking your body until it physically hurts.

Eventually, exhaustion claims you, and you dream of your mother.

Taglist: @mystic-writings

[mulloey]

inhibitions • kys

warnings: bdsm club au, talk of bdsm (duh), training, whipping etc. dom yeosang proposing a dynamic a bit too quickly but good intentions

—————

Your eyes are closed and you’ve nearly chewed through your lip, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. Whichever way you sit there always seems to be something jabbing into you somewhere, reminding you of how painfully out of place you are here. You’re not going to find a way to fit in and you’re not going to find a way to sit comfortably. This is the complete wrong place for you, it’s too loud, too crowded, everyone is too familiar with each other— already acquainted, already comfortable and there’s no room for you, no need for you. You’re about to stand up and bolt, or black out, when a hand on your shoulder jolts you awake.

“Hey,” a voice says. It’s pretty, you notice. Deep. “Are you okay?”

“What?” You blurt louder than you mean to, but luckily the noise and, well, entertainment of this place has the other patrons’ attention elsewhere. Heat flooding your cheeks, you stare down at your hands, desperate not to meet the eyes you feel on you. You've already embarrassed yourself and coming to the club is starting to feel like a big mistake. You were naïve to think the atmosphere of a place like this could be portrayed through grainy, recycled twitter porn, and now you’re in too deep. But you swore you’d stick this out and you still haven’t answered the man’s question. “Yeah,” you say finally. “I’m fine.”

You wave him away weakly, embarrassed, but he makes no move to leave, instead taking a seat next to you. His hand ends up laying next to yours and, like his voice, it’s pretty. It looks soft. He must be beautiful.

He sits quietly for a few minutes — or maybe it was seconds, who knows, everything’s a blur in here — before turning to you. “You won’t look up from the bar,” he says. “That doesn’t seem fine. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I—”

“You’ll need to speak up,” he says, cutting you short. You want to be annoyed but you can’t help but feel like you’ve just been saved. Whatever. “It’s noisy in here.”

“I don’t know,” you say, louder this time. “You just— I’m nervous. I’m already sort of scared being here and I’m worried you might be… a bit beautiful.” The last word is whispered, shameful. You don't know why you said it.

His laugh is loud but he doesn’t seem to be laughing at you, because you don't feel embarrassed or anything and it doesn’t sound mocking. He’s just genuinely amused by you. And, you dare to think, maybe even curious. “Find out,” he says softly, so you do.

Damn this man, is your next thought, damn him straight to hell. He is beautiful, beyond beautiful, and not in the way you’d expected, both based on his voice and on the sleazy, forbidden atmosphere of this club. He doesn’t belong here. He’s too… angelic.

You realise too late that you haven’t said anything in a while, just sat there gaping at him like some kind of idiot, and feel your face reddening.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’m staring at you. I just… you don’t look like the type to be here.”

“Neither do you,” he points out and he’s right. Neither of you, young and admittedly quite attractive, look like you’d be in a borderline sex club.

“Then why are you here?” You ask.

He flashes another small smile at you. “I work here.”

You can’t help the look that crosses your face, though he seems to take no offence by it. He must see it a lot, because by the looks of him, he’d be more suited working as a model, or an idol or something. Not in a BDSM club. Not in a place where ‘working’ can mean being tied up and dominated in front of a crowd.

“In what…capacity?” You ask as delicately as you can.

He knows what you’re getting at. “Don’t worry. They don’t chain me to the ceiling and whip me in front of everyone,” he chuckles. You give a small laugh, feeling yourself starting to loosen up, but the next sentence isn’t so funny. “It tends to be the other way around.”

Oh Christ. Oh Jesus Christ no. You nearly choke on air, because the idea of such an attractive, well-spoken, perfect seeming man working at a place like this, especially in such a… central role, is a little thrilling. Images of him up on that stage, dark and dangerous with a whip in his hand, fill your mind before you can stop it and to your ire, you can’t help but see yourself as the one at his mercy, chained up and taking strikes while the whole club watches. Wow. This man is bad for you.

But it fits him, you think. You imagine he must make a very good dominant, if only based on how meek you feel next to him, and the desire bubbling within you to do what he says, to obey and submit to him. He must be pretty popular here.

“I am,” he laughs when you ask him. “It seems dickish to say it but sometimes they queue for me. ‘S’why I have them book in advance now.”

You want to laugh at him, want desperately not to believe him, but the thought of people lining up to obey this man is frighteningly realistic. And what’s worse — the faces in that hypothetical line look a lot like you.

“So no chance for me tonight then?” You ask with a laugh. “I’m crushed,” you say, and you only kind of mean it.

“Actually, I’m not officially working tonight,” he says, and you dare to perk up a little. “The bookings are normally for my paid services, but on a leisurely basis I can play with whoever I want.”

You jolt. He can play with whoever he wants. Play. You like that word, like the way it sounds on his tongue. Play. He plays with people. You want him to play with you too.

“Would you play with me?” You ask, forcing the words out before you can second guess yourself. “Leisurely?”

He laughs a little but his eyes are serious. “I would.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he says. “But I’ll take a guess that you’re fairly new to this, so I couldn’t do as much as I’d like to today.”

You just nod, trying not to feel too disappointed because you know this is a good sign, the sign of a responsible dominant, and there’s plenty of fun to be had without ropes and whips and gags. Just not as much. “Yeah, that’s fine,” you say. “I understand.”

He stares at you for a second, amused. “You don’t want that though, do you?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Me neither. So let’s strike a deal.”

A deal — you like the sound of that. You nod, bidding him to continue, desperate to hear what he has to say.

“Be mine,” he says, voice low. “On a trial basis. Let me train you. Let me show you what it means to submit. To be owned.”

His words are dizzying and you blank for a second. You already knew what he was getting at but to hear him say it, make the offer so directly, takes you aback. You hope you get used to his forwardness, but for now you’re fine to sit in shock over this beautiful man saying he wants to train you. Like some sort of animal.

You remember the summer in high school when you worked as a dog trainer — teaching the puppies how to behave, showing them commands, rewarding them for completing tasks. And you know the image of you as the dog, being talked down to and conditioned by a man, should be, is demeaning, backwards even, but the feeling low in your stomach betrays you. You want this.

“You’ll train me,” you breathe, needing confirmation.

“I will,” he nods. “If you want me to. Let’s try it out. I know I can make you the perfect pet.”

A rushing sense of pride fills you at his words and you almost feel guilty for it but fuck your moral compass, this is what you need. You’re going to be the best pet for him, and he’s going to take care of you. He’s going to own you.

He doesn’t say anything while you think, watching the gears turn in your head.

“So you’ll be my…dom?” You nearly spit out the last word; it sounds awkward and foreign on your tongue, like you shouldn’t be saying it, shouldn’t even be thinking it. How he can say words like train, submit, pet with the casualness of someone talking about the weather, you have no idea. Maybe that’s why he’s a dom, and you’d be the…sub. You’d be his sub. Fuck.

He nods. “Is that what you want?”

Yes. God yes. You can’t get the words out fast enough. He holds out a hand for you to shake and you realise then that you haven’t even introduced yourself. Talk about getting ahead. Embarrassed again, you mumble your name and he repeats it as if it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“I’m Yeosang,” he says. “Welcome to my world.”

—————

i’m alive, life is kicking my ass lately. i might make this a series but its pretty rough. reblog & comment if u enjoyed :) love🖤

[veelzievul]

Honestly, when it comes to canon, I feel like the “WillCare” theory is way too overlooked and despised in the fandom. For those who don't know: “WillCare” is the theory that William actually cared for his family, and many believe that, well.. He didn't. My point is, such surface-level overview of a character's psychology is just... Wrong. When it comes to villainous characters, people just LOVE to exaggerate their recklessness and carelessness, like “oh yeah he doesn't care about anyone or anything cuz he's so cold and cool and stuff 🤪”, and that's just an understanding of a character so dry it genuinely makes me sad. I mean, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but I've seen people literally getting attacked for not agreeing to William being a literal heartless monstrosity

In my opinion, Afton is (OBVIOUSLY) affected by a mental illness, which makes him less empathetic and more risky with his decisions which leads to him displaying serious neglect towards people he should care about

He does not know right and wrong, exposing his family to danger he doesn't see as “that serious”, and he often prioritizes minor victories in his passion over them, which, obviously, creates an appearance of a heartless person, but could actually be a result of him just being... Unstable. Ill.

When it comes to people who are ill, you can't just choose one side of a spectrum and proclaim you're correct. When trying to prove their point, i've seen a lot of people say something like “he did (bad thing), (bad thing) and (bad thing), obviously he doesn't care about anyone! But don't bring up (that one thing where he displayed actual care) because it's overshadowed by the amount of the bad deeds”

Why not take valid arguments into account? The relationships of a character is not some rock-concrete “yes or no” question, it's not “one or the other”, and I think many people fail to understand that. For example, if William actually did not care about anyone, why would he continuously tell Elizabeth not to go to Circus Baby? What would be the point of that? If he did not care what child would be the test subject of the kidnapping mechanism, why care if it's Elizabeth or not? In fact, if it was her, it would be even beneficial to him, as nobody would question his innocence as the owner of the restaraunt if it was his child that dissapeared, and it would be just one less mouth to feed. You can't just leave that out as “inferior” to the arguments that prove his horribleness. Why would he organize a birthday party at his restaraunt for the Crying Child if he did not care? And, when it comes to the movie, why would William give away personal belongings of the victims, his “trophies”, to his daughter? Why would he care to make his kid happy with yet another toy if he could just keep it somewhere, hidden? I think it's obvious he viewed his children as his children, just very negligently exposing them to danger and hurting them with his experiments or his blind devotion to his work. When he stabs Vanessa, you can see a moment of thought and regret in his eyes – which is, of course, just a speculation, but adds to the point.

I feel like people just hate the assumption of Afton being actually human with human feelings, which are, surprise-surprise!, complex, and complexity is what makes a good character. You don't need a character to be literal Satan to be considered a worthy villain, and accepting their humane characteristics does not equal justification for their wrongs. In fact, if you cannot consider a character a villain if they're not the incarnation of evil in their every aspect, it's possible that you find any positive or neutral feature of theirs a worthy excuse that cancels out their every wrongdoing and makes them “less of an antagonist”, which puts your understanding of right and wrong to the question.

Just to be clear, I am not trying to attack anyone in this post, I am not seeking to start an argument – all I'm saying is, if you take EVERYTHING into account, it is false to decide on just one part of a character's behaviour and call it absolute. You should be equally accepting of all opinions and not start unnecessary fights on the internet because somebody thinks differently. Be nice spread love

btw guys english is not my mother language don't question my wording I don't know what I'm saying either

[prettyflyshyguy]

Over the next few days as I try to enjoy myself as much as possible, and rid myself of the anguish and horror of my twenties via hard-partying (going to the zoo, making my direct family experience an escape room with me, drinking as many milkshakes as I can physically cope with) - I feel its worth reflecting on some things from the last decade.

-I really didn't know what I was doing when I existed uni, and I still don't know what I'm doing HOWEVER -- I have a much clearer idea of what I'm good at, and what makes me happy.

-I've won multiple awards for miniature painting. Coming from a kid who dreamed of one day owning a cool skink army (and I do but its mostly not assembled BUT DON'T WORRY AB--) that's pretty fucking sick.

-I've tabled at multiple big conventions, and I'll be tabling at an event next year that I've dreamed of tabling at since I was 14. And. AND. Each one was actually profitable.

-My art journey has taken a while, but each year I get better and do more things and although I'm not where I want to be, I've made things with value and meaning and I'll only keep improving if I put the time in. I've done things I could only once dream of doing. I've also hit a point where, things may take a bit, but I genuinely feel like I can tackle almost any subject matter and I'll break through.

-I've met so many incredible people and forged wonderful friendships both online and IRL and I'm thankful for it all. It's hard to know what to do with everyone sometimes when I struggled with friendships for years.

-I was a weirdo baby-alt-fashion 20 year old, had a normie phase somewhere along the way, and now my fashion has returned to where it belongs: straight out of 2010 and I care less and less about what people think and I grow more and more confident in just being myself.

-If I'm being real -- I'm not where I want to be, in a lot of ways. Thing's have been a downward spiral the last few years, but I've been growing in my work and my resilience and by god you cannot kill me in a way that matters.

-My biggest takeaway is really: not everything gets better. But a lot of things do. And you have a lot of power over a lot of things - you just have to be brave and keep kicking. Some things get better, some things get worse, some things stay mostly the same. But you keep growing. You keep changing. You gotta persist. You gotta.

[strawberrykisseslia]

"i wish you were a boy."

☆ pairing: vanessa shelly x fem! reader

☆ part 1

☆ tw: hurt, no comfort only near the end, slight fluff, not proof read at all, the images do NOT belong to me. only the absolutely trash good fiction.♡ use of y/n once

☆ cw: 1.1k

☆ genuinely dk why it took me so long to write this but this song saved the whole small series, thank her ( no jk, im dead serious )

☆ how i love this trope. ( LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER )

☆ heavily inspired by Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan ( PLEASE I LOVE HER SM, i think this is a normal reaction to her? )

☆ yall... did i make reader toxic? now that i've come to think of it... I HOPE NOT OH MY GOD

☆ also so so sorry if it looks messy!!! i didnt write it on Tumblr but i kinda like it, thoughts? please give me thoughts about this whole thing because i'm genuinely not sure how to feel about it, would appreciate it!

It has been some time since you and Vanessa actually had a right conversation. always passing each other quickly though the house, awkward greetings here and there but nothing close to a “how are you?” or “how was your day?” nothing.

you had been thinking about moving out as fast you can but didn't really find anything good right now. especially because your work was taking more and more free time away from you. which led you to just wanting to sleep instead of doing anything.

you noticed though how vanessa stayed out longer, even on her breaks. she was really not the one who would go out even. not to stay out more than two hours.

you guessed this whole thing had an effect on her too. right? at least she was regretting it. but oh, how you craved to talk to her really again. at least she used to be your best friend. your favorite person. and you were hers. it was true.

you didn't really know but she thought of you. a LOT. at work. at the bars when she tries to numb her feelings for you. in her car on her way to somewhere. even at home, when you two are basically only some meters away.

as much as she was thinking of you she realized how much you mean to her. and how much she loves you.

at first, she didn't want to accept it. it felt weird and new to her. she was never in love with a girl before.

she knew you were hurt, deeply. but she didn't know how to cheer you up right now. she never got comforted in her life at all, of course you did comfort her. but she didn't know how to comfort someone.

though, one night something changes. she puts every confidence in her and tries to talk to you.

-

she gently knocks on your door around 10pm on a Tuesday night. you are laying in your bed all comfortable, watching some shitty tv show while eating your favorite snack. you feel your heart beat a little bit faster as you climb out of the warm and make your way to the door.

“vanessa?”

she looks down, fidgeting with the bottom of her shirt. she is almost silent for a minute.

“i am… so sorry, (y/n).” she manages to speak up. almost crying.

you sigh and look down at your feet.

“i wanna make things right between us. after all… we were once best friend?”

you nod, yet you can't forget how she said ‘i wish you were a boy.’

“vanessa…” you whisper.

“i know i messed up. it was a lot. but please, give me a second chance,” you look up at her. she is already looking at you.

“i want to be friends again— i’m sorry… but i have no feelings for you.”

you can only nod at that. you should have expected this outcome. she could never be in love with another girl. yet, there were times where you hooked up. however… you both were really drunk.

vanessa exactly knew she was lying to herself but somehow she couldn't tell you how much she loves you. even, she didn't know why. maybe it was because she always wanted to be the perfect daughter for her terrible father. you heard her cries about him so many times, you couldn't even count on your two hands. deep down in her heart, she knew she will never be enough for him, yet you told her countless times that she doesn't have to be.

“i am not too sure, vanessa… i'm sorry.” you answer to her.

“after these past weeks of us ignoring each other..,” you don't really wanna bring up the thing she said because you know, you would break down. “both of us acted childish, but it's taking it's tool out on us now,” you look down. “and i want someone who doesn't only hookups with me when they're drunk.” you say the last part much more quietly.

she nods. she is unable to speak up. her stomach flips with every second. she prepared herself for the first really, but deep down she was never prepared enough for this.

“i understand you.” after some time she manages to talk.

you don't know what's going on inside you. your stomach is walking up and down in you and your heart is loud enough for the neighbors to hear it. you don't know if you wished for vanessa to be understanding or to fight for you.

she doesn't wanna push you past your limits. she doesn't wanna make you cry again.

the fact you craved to talk to her again like old times yet here you are saying you don't wanna get close to her again.

“well, i hope everything goes good for you.” she speaks up and gets you out of your thoughts. you can hear she is about to cry depending on seconds. you only nod.

“goodnight.” she says and turns around.

“you know…,” you starts she faces you. “it's better to talk about feelings then for them to drown.”

she nods in agreement. “yes, i know…” she hesitantly reponds. deep down you know that applies for you too, but wasn't that kiss enough to tell everything to her?

-

the next week you move out. you finally found a house that you can afford and it looks exactly like how you want it to. after that, you never talked to vanessa. in fact, you even started to slowly move on and start to search for love. not always thinking about needing a relationship but if you find the right person then you'll go for them.

for vanessa… well. she thought about you too much. she missed your presence in the house so much. your voice, your smiles, your laughter, your cooking. everything.

though, after two years or so, she found love. or maybe someone who would look after her when needed someone. a man, of course. vanessa never spoke about you. tried to not think of you after her marriage yet… almost every night she thought of you. the pictures of you on her phone, she often looked through them.

in the meantime you found love too! a really sweet girl. she was your whole world. your everything. you never really thought of vanessa. maybe some times. but this girl showed you colors no one has ever.

-

sometimes you fantasize about standing in front of vanessa and telling her everything you felt when you moved out and wanted to tell her, you told her so many times how she would end up in a loveless marriage if she doesn't speak about her feelings at least a little bit more often as time went on. at least to you. someone she used to call her best friend!

still, these were meaningless little fantasies you had maybe two monthly.

only if you knew.

[jewishbarbies]

So I debated for a long time whether to send this or not bc I explicitly do not want to equate what's happening in I/P to fiction or in any way trivialize the very real people who have died

But I find it incredibly ironic (in a bad way) how the leftist circles screaming about Zionism are the same circles that are STILL openly proudly fans of tv shows/books/movies that depict war in genuinely nuanced ways. Ways that EXPLICITLY contradict the black and white narratives exploding in leftist spaces.

So like. Did y'all miss the point or do you think nuance is for fiction only? There are innocent civilians on every side in war and civilians shouldn't be blamed for the actions of their governments --but only in fiction? In the real world it's fine to celebrate civilian casualties as long as they're Israeli? Guilt by association in fiction is bad but every Jewish person should be held accountable for the Israeli military???

Like I'm intentionally not naming any fandoms bc this SHOULDN'T be about fandoms, but the hypocrisy is killing me. They claim to be fans of the "killing civilians is bad even when they're from the Bad Culture™" shows but they're out in the real world denying (or worse celebrating) Oct 7th? They love the fictional characters who say "killing civilians is bad" but can't stand Jewish people mourning the civilians in israel? What???

(again, I'm really not trying to make this extremely real problem about fiction. I just mean the complete lack of self awareness I see every day has me ready to explode. )

no, i get what you mean. i definitely think there's a link between the massive drop in critical thinking and media literacy and the fandomization of real world issues. there's some statistic that gen z is the most politically active of most previous generations and while that's inherently a good thing, they're not engaging with politics and conflicts in responsible ways. they'll do a lot of organizing for a cause here in america and get something done, and then think they can do the same thing for international plights and just end up stepping on everyone's toes, inadvertently perpetuating that america-centric attitude they claim to be against, bc they don't listen.

a lot of people these days refuse to engage with media in the way it's intended and therefore ignore or flat out miss its entire message. you'll have a movie/show/book/whatever about the nuances of war, like the hunger games (which gen z is so completely misinterpreting), and how easy it is to become the person you're fighting against if you let yourself do the things they do eye for an eye style, and they'll come away from that comparing hamas to katniss. it makes no sense within the context of the book's narrative, yet that's the conclusion they draw because they refuse to properly engage. it contradicts their second-hand anger. they're mad about their own shitty life in the states and the powerlessness we all feel here as our rights are being threatened every single day, and they'll look for somewhere else to put it all. so they butt in to situations they don't belong in and make it worse like bulls in a china closet.

bottom line is that they see what they want to see because of their lack of self reflection and self awareness, thus allowing their lack of media literacy, critical thinking, and confirmation bias run the way they think and believe. they've taken "it's fiction" to the point where none of them would pass a basic english class and now palestinians and hamas are all blorbos in The Real World Show.

[fuck-you-showerthoughts]

hello, I apologize on the behalf of my fellow angry people in your inbox.

I'm also a little angry but I'm doing my best to put that aside because I'm trying to understand you. Please understand that I'm not trying to hurt you with this or anything. This comes from a place of genuine intrigue (while also kind of mad).

Why do you feel the need to define yourself using the transfem label? I get that you think of yourself as approaching femininity from a masculine start point. You said earlier that it's a different, new kind of femininity, like two different sodas. How? Why? From what I understand being a woman is not choosing a monolith out of a henge but instead just identifying with a group. Why are you getting out of the group only to return to a different part of the same group?

I know men and other bigender/multigender/etc people who started as men, fucked around with being a woman or nonbinary for a while and then either returned to masculinity or kept it as part of them. None that I know of insist of saying they're transmasc the way you do. [I have also seen afab people do the same thing, I'm not making this a birthgender thing, I just used this example somewhere else] I myself, during a period of my life "detransitioned" from transwoman to nonbinary and I did not consider myself transmasc for that.

My kneejerk reaction is of course "fuck you, get your effeminate hands off my special little word" [I'm making fun of myself] but after reading through everything you posted recently and thinking about shit I'm asking myself why. Why do they want the word?

possible answers include:

they just want it

internalized misogyny causing them to grow disillusioned with their previous identity as a woman but they still feel like one and wish to return to it under a new pretext

genuinely feels like they have disconnected entirely with womanhood while transistioning and wants to reconnect

I'm doing a shit job of summarizing my feelings on this, I apologize.

Also, why do you refer to yourself as a trans^4 multigenderqueer (hyperbole) but still have your pronouns listed as they/them.

off anon because I think people who hide behind it are cringe.

hello! thank you for such an excellent breakdown of your feelings, and for taking the time to think about your own emotions (completely sincerely, I had a similar journey like this a while ago and getting rid of first impressions is HARD). I think the main disconnect here is the idea of masculinity and femininity being separate (inherently and for me specifically) -- like i said in the answered ask before this, I'm already both a man and a woman, together, at the same time. This, for me, means that both of those aspects of me are trans simultaneously -- I use transfem while being afab because my femininity is trans. (The same would be true of my masculinity had I been amab)

I can't leave cisfemininity because I never belonged there in the first place, and I would never abandon being a girl altogether, so to me the obvious (and quite honestly only) conclusion is queer femininity (which naturally mtf trans women are an immediate part of). The bullet point explanation you've missed here is that I use transfem because it's simply the most accurate word I've found to describe my identity, and gender limiting things in 2024 of all times just doesn't make sense to me :]

(Also I have they/them because that's what I'm most comfortable being addressed as by *checks follower count* almost 20k people. I use different sets with different people -- but also sometimes expression is a lot simpler than identity haha)

[maiafields]

An Exploration of Femininity

There are a lot of preferences, ideas, and standards out there that we get told we should live up to. 

We should better ourselves for others, become more attractive, and strive to be more beautiful, and intelligent, but not too beautiful or too intelligent. 

Also don't be better than other people, 

but make sure you hold yourself high, obviously not too high. 

Be the "clean girl" the "it girl" "that girl" the "female manipulator" a “femcel" “the girl next door”. 

There are so many boxes to fit into that don’t quite hug my curves.

It’s a balancing act to even hold yourself on your feet. 

Articles about how to be more feminine, but in a way someone would want you to be, products to make yourself ‘better’ and erase the texture of your skin, pills and diets that are meant for genuine illnesses but if you have a crooked doctor they will make you a more desirable shape, 

even though the shape you have has been passed down to you from generations. 

We take in a lot of standards of what our lives ‘should’ look like from people we’ve never met before, and will most likely never meet. 

We feel lost in ourselves when none of the boxes fit. When you are told that the shape you are in isn’t quite what they were looking for. Told you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, 

strong enough, sexy enough. You start to feel like you are a culmination of all the things you aren’t until 

you don’t quite know what you are. 

So, who are you? 

And, who you are, despite all of that?

“What does my femininity look like without all of this weight on my shoulder?” 

“What could I be without this idea of feminine perfection?” 

“Would I be happier to ignore all of these pressures and just carve out my own idea of femininity?” 

I want wild and messy femininity. I want explorative femininity. I want it to look like anything i want it to be. It can be a staggering leather, lace, combat boot wearing, hardcore, truth shouting, sharp wit, intelligent mind, sun-loving, sand dancing, warmth to the touch, soft skin, thick thighs, unshaven, bombastic voice, 

the clack of lightening across the sky, 

a gentle lift of a chin. Your femininity can root itself into the earth to sway amongst the trees, it can be the scent of pine needles on the ocean's tongue. 

It can be everything your mother taught you, everything someone said wasn’t worth it, it can be a home from which you can rest in and know that you will hold yourself when the world tells you you aren’t worth it. 

Because you are. 

And if you can’t feel that right now, know it's there. It’s somewhere in you. You belong here.

And one day you will be able to say, “I like me. 

I like the curve of my lips. 

I like the power behind my laugh. 

I like the crease from my smile. 

I deserve to be happy. 

I’m lovely, and strong, and kind.”

And you will feel proud and this extraordinary feeling in your body, a sense of self love that prickle's your skin and lifts your chest. Maybe, you’re like me, and you’ll say it with a knot in your throat because you never thought that you would ever say anything like that to yourself 

and mean it. 

Because you don't have to be anything other than what you are right now, at this moment. Because what you are, who you are, is worth it. This is not a sentence for you to live out, it is an energy to be explored, nurtured, and loved wholeheartedly, because that is what you deserve. 

And you do deserve it. 

Don't condemn yourself to someone else's idea of what you should be. 

[originemesis]

@brokendreamscreation xxx

Aside from the blatant twitching and inability to move from his curled electric prison, Lucid deduces that the commanders of the exorcist army is in fact just fine. Whining and bitching about the situation, it is something the seraphim has since become accustomed to. If Adam did not, then he will have genuine reason to remain alarmed. The corners of his mouth remained turned down, lips parting to expel a breath. How should he go about this predicament? With them both currently in the Heaven Embassy, which is located in the center of the Pentagram, the closest place he could take Adam is none other than the place that belongs to his life long nemesis: Lucifer Morningstar’s palace. Lucid has since had a room offered to him to make his own, which he occasionally does stay the night there. Maybe if he took Adam there he won’t realize they’re in Luci’s house in his current state…But then he likely will have to shoo Lucifer off from barging in to assault the angel with mockery and laughter in his miserable state. And Lucid knows that entire situation will come down on his head with more than just wing beatings later. The short bodied angel slips his arms under the huge angel, scooping him up effortlessly as if he were nothing more than a sack of flour. The flea jumping sparks zap his own wings, making the angel flinch and promptly shake it off with a wing beat. “Right. Let’s get you somewhere to recover. The embassy has got to have a sleeping quarter around here somewhere, right? Like an employee sleeping place for long shifts?” Not exactly a hospital, but teleporting between Heaven and Hell could take a lot out on the average angel. So surely there’s some kind of nap setup down here, right? If not, well, there’s plenty of couches Lucid supposes. Only one way to find out. Bare feet lightly slap against the tile as he meanders the embassy with the First Man cradled in his arms.

Though his body seems out of order for the time being thanks to the incapacitating zap, his mouth works just fine, as Lucid would find out the more the larger angel carried on with clicking teeth and goose hisses filtered through them. "The actual nerve of this place- not coming equipped with portal neutralizers?? I mean yeah, I should be able to go around fucking holes in reality around this shithole just fine, but not some gooner with a literal taser! Like BRUH. Someone's getting a fat lawsuit, and his name starts with the same L he's gonna be taking up the ass-" Like an overly chatty budgie screeching its complaints whilst clinging carelessly to its cage bars, the first man, and unfortunately first ambassador to hell carries on to his not exactly captive audience, though the deal still remained between them...not that Adam could exactly summon up that contract now in his sizzling condition.

His loud and lingering complaints trail into a soft 'huphff' once his unwitting company peels him off the charred tiles and lifts the potato sack shape commonly afforded to human-blended archangels. His wings remain heavy and limp, grazing the floor grooves with frizzy tipped primaries until the seraphim clone could collect them underneath his current load. Wriggling and thrashing the other with his wings currently out of the question, he loses several restless squawks as the much smaller angel carries him a few steps through the embassy.

"Hey- hey, WHOA! Waiiiiihaittttt...you're so fucking going to drop me-mmpfh?!" His floundering remarks suddenly suffocate with the smushing of his face against the other's chest when he's suddenly tucked and hiked up into a more reassuring cradle. He goes quiet only until another adjustment frees his face again, but his panicked gaze from earlier is now a soured squint.

"How about don't waste my time looking, dude? This is a political playground, not exactly a hotel." The subtlest squirm indicates he's getting some feeling back, even if it's just the point between his neck and shoulder. "Might as well head to the break room. I could use a soda after being, y'know- electrocuted." Shouldn't be anyone still kicking around at this hour anyway... shouldn't be-

[toffeelemon]

I don’t feel like our love is brand new. There must have been lovers, soulmates, before us, experiencing what we get to have. And it’s giving me comfort to imagine there will be many more like us to come. Our kind of love is the kind of love that makes this rotten world worth living in.

prince simon in madrid

a pilgrimage along the world that @prince-simon created 🥹

Simon’s neighbourhood, Chueca

“It’s actually the Queer Neighbourhood of Madrid, and coincidentally also where I live.” He lowered his voice as if to tell a secret, “It’s actually not a coincidence at all.” (chapter 2)

Casa de Campo (view from the Royal Palace lol oop)

Wilhelm didn’t even recognise himself. He didn’t think he’d ever looked that happy. And Simon… his eyes were closed and his curls were a mess and Wilhelm had never seen anyone more beautiful. (chapter 3)

El Retiro

Simon looked at Wilhelm much too adoringly for a statement this goofy. “The ducks are gay!” He yelled at Santiago and Paula, “Just so you know!” (chapter 9)

Palacio de Cristal

“Here’s a funny thought - bear with me, okay? But just imagine. Flowers. Everywhere, like on the ceiling, up the walls. Fairy lights scattered all through it. It would be so gorgeous as a- uh, like. For a wedding…” Realising where his train of thought had gotten him, Wilhelm fell quiet, looking at Simon with wide eyes. (chapter 9)

El Palacio Real de Madrid (more specifically the Throne Room lmfao)

Simon traced his fingers over the bruises on Wilhelm’s neck and in the opening of his dress shirt, humming contentedly. Wilhelm followed the movement in the mirror, and marvelled at how good they looked together, how well they fit together and how much Simon belonged right here – on the throne, with Wilhelm. He deserved the world and so much more. (chapter 12)

Museo Nacional del Prado

Around them, the other visitors kept moving, admiring the art on the walls, and for the moment Wilhelm felt infinite, imagining himself a painting, looked at and analysed hundreds of years from now. El Abrazo de los Príncipes.

Lo Spasimo, Raphael, 1515-1517

“Are we allowed to kiss in front of Jesus on his way to crucifixion or is that tasteless? Because I really want to kiss you right now, Simon.”

Las Meninas, Diego Velázquez, 1656

“He made me look at Velázquez in the painting and how he was looking back at the viewer, at me. I still remember the exact tone of his voice, how he was so certain when he told me that I had every right to be where I am. That I am the subject of this painting, the king being painted. All those tyrants, King Felipe and Emmanuel and all those that came in between, they are trapped in that mirror forever while I am here, alive, we’re here. Velázquez is looking at two queer princes, ready to paint us.” (chapter 13)

Casa Alberto

“So, tell me more about this special part of Madrileñan history.” He was slightly teasing but mostly actually curious. 

Simon seemed all too eager to answer that question, and it hit Wilhelm how genuine Simon’s care for his city — his country — and its people was. It made him a little sad to know that a lot of people didn’t get to see that because they only focused on Simon being too gay or too Latino, or even just too carefree and enjoying life because he was young, to be their future king.

bonus content:

Iglesia de San Antonio de los Alemanes (where Simon goes to church)

“I think I need to go somewhere.”

“Oh?” Wilhelm said softly, “Right now?”

Simon hesitated before he nodded. “I need to- get some clarity? Or - I hope that I’ll get it there?” He whispered, voice shaky.

“Do you want to tell me where you’re going?”

“To- uh, to pray? I mean- to church? I don’t know if I’ll pray…” Simon’s voice was shaky, uncertainty shining in his eyes when he dared to look up at Wilhelm. (chapter 11)