#literally going to be using this furniture everywhere

[butteriish]

obsessed with the new junimo catalog <3

[eclips-moon]

Batboys finding you sleeping in wierd places headcanon:

Damian Wayne

"Bro, you can't keep doing this." Damian finds you sleeping in the weirdest spots, and he's lowkey over it. One time, you're passed out in the Batmobile, snacks everywhere, legs hanging out the door. He just stands there, staring at you like you're the most chaotic thing he's ever seen. “How do you even fall asleep like this?” But of course, he’s not gonna leave you there. He rolls his eyes, adjusts the seat, and tucks you in (very dramatically) like, “Don’t make this a habit.” He’s not mad. He’s just... concerned? But mostly shook by your ability to sleep anywhere.

Tim Drake

“I literally told you to stop drinking so much coffee.” Tim finds you asleep everywhere—face down on a stack of papers, in the middle of the Batcave, on top of the Batcomputer. He doesn’t even act surprised anymore. He’s just like, “Well, I warned you.” One time, you’re passed out on the couch, snacks everywhere, and Tim picks up the coffee cup you definitely spilled while napping. “I love you, but this is chaos,” he says, brushing some crumbs off your face. "Next time, please at least use the chair." He leaves a note with your next coffee: “You’re welcome.”

Dick Grayson

“You’re so cute, but like, also... why???” Dick finds you asleep in the kitchen, spread out on the counter like you’ve been hit by a truck. He can't help but laugh, but also he's lowkey impressed that you managed to fall asleep there. He pulls out his phone and takes a pic (because of course he does). “I’m definitely showing this to everyone,” he says, not even hiding his grin. You wake up mid-photo, trying to act like you weren’t drooling, but Dick just chuckles. "Gonna frame this one." You’re like, “Please, no,” and he’s already texting it to the group chat.

Jason Todd

“You’re literally doing this to mess with me, aren’t you?” Jason finds you sleeping everywhere—on the floor, under the Batmobile, sprawled out on the roof. He’s got that annoyed big brother vibe, like, “You’re going to get a crick in your neck,” but the second he sees you all cute and dead to the world, he can’t help but sigh. One time, he even gently picks you up to move you. You wake up in a daze, and he’s like, “I didn’t sign up for this. But you look adorable when you're asleep, so whatever.” “No need to carry me, I’m fine,” you mumble. “I’m doing it because I have no choice,” he responds.

Duke Thomas

“How do you even sleep like this?” Duke is actually concerned when he finds you sleeping in random spots, but at the same time, it’s kinda funny. One time, he finds you passed out on the floor of the training room, head on a punching bag like it’s your pillow. He’s like, “You... you okay? How does that even happen?” He sits down next to you and gives you a little nudge. “You’re making me look bad, you know that? I’m over here trying to be all cool, and you’re taking naps in the middle of the Batcave.” He laughs but also kinda adjusts you, “Next time, at least use a pillow or something.”

Bruce Wayne

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Bruce, being Bruce, finds you sleeping in the weirdest places—and honestly, he’s just not even shocked anymore. One time, you’re passed out on top of the Batcomputer, legs dangling off the side like you’re part of the furniture. Bruce just stares for a second before doing the whole “I’m-not-angry-I’m-just-disappointed” thing. “Please don’t sleep in here,” he says, carefully moving you to a more... comfy spot (probably your bed, but he’s not gonna say that). He tries to keep it chill, but there's definitely a dad vibe. "You could’ve at least stayed on the couch." You wake up, confused, and he’s like, “Just... don't fall asleep in the Batsuit next time.”

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

SFX Magazine Issue 372 - Designing Good Omens ❤ 😊

PRODUCTION DESIGNER MICHAEL RALPH REVEALS HOW THE SHOW’S CENTREPIECE SET, WHICKBER STREET, WAS GIVEN A DEVILISHLY CLEVER UPGRADE FOR THE SECOND SEASON

WORDS: DAVE GOLDER

Invisible Columns And Thin Walls “The new studio is Pyramid Studios in Bathgate – it used to be a furniture warehouse. And unfortunately – or fortunately, because I accept these things as not challenges but gifts – right down the middle of that studio are a series of upright columns. But you’ll never spot them on screen. I had to build them in and integrate them into the walls and still get the streets between them. And it worked.

“There’s all sorts of cheeky design values to those sets. Normally a set like this is double-skin. In other words, you do an interior wall and an exterior wall, with an airspace in between. But really, the only time a viewer notices that there’s that width is at the doors and the windows. So I cheated all that. I ended up with single walls everywhere. So the exterior wall is the interior wall, just painted. All I did was make the sash windows and entrances wider to give it some depth as you walked in.”

GOOD OMENS HAD A CHANGE of location for its second season, but hopefully you didn’t notice. Because Whickber Street in Soho upped sticks from an airfield in Hertfordshire to a furniture warehouse in Bathgate, Edinburgh. It’s the kind of nonsensical geographical shenanigans that could only make sense in the crazy world of film and TV, and production designer Michael Ralph was the man in charge of rebuilding and expanding the show’s vast central set. “I wish we could have built more in season one than we did,” says Ralph, whose previous work has included Primeval and Dickensian. “We built the ground floor of everything and the facades of all the shops. But we didn’t build anything higher than that, because we were out on an airfield in a very, very difficult terrain and weather conditions, so we really couldn’t go much higher. Visual effects created the upper levels.”

But with season two the set has gone to a whole other level… literally. “What happened was that the rest of the street became integrated into the series’s storyline,” explains Ralph. “So we needed a record shop, we needed a coffee shop that actually had an inside, we needed a magic shop, we needed the pub. To introduce those meant we had to change the street with a layout that works from a storylines point of view. In other words, things like someone standing at the counter in the record shop had to be able to eyeball somebody standing at the counter in the coffee shop. They had to be able to eyeball Aziraphale sitting in his office in the window of the bookshop. But the rest of it was a pleasure to do inside, because we could expand it and I could go up two storeys.”

For most of the set, which is around 80 metres long and 60 metres wide, the two storeys only applied to the shop frontages, but in the case of Aziraphale’s bookshop, it allowed Ralph to build the mezzanine level for real this time. According to Ralph it became one of the cast and crews’ favourite places to hang out during down time.

But while AZ Fell & Co has grown in height, it actually has a slightly smaller footprint because of the logistics of adapting it to the new studio.

“Everybody swore to me that no one would notice,” says Ralph wryly. “I walked onto it and instinctively knew there was a difference immediately, and they hated me for that. I have this innate sense about spatial awareness and an eye like a spirit level.

“It’s not a lot, though – I think we’ve lost maybe two and a half feet on the front wall internally. I think that there’s a couple of other smaller areas, but only I’d notice. So I can be really annoying to my guys, but only on those levels. Not on any other. They actually quite like me…”

Populating The Bookshop “The props in the new bookshop set were a flawless reproduction from the set decorator Bronwyn Franklin [who is also Ralph’s wife]. It was really the worst-case scenario after season one. She works off the concept art that I produce, but what she does is she adds so much more to the character of the set. She doesn’t buy anything she doesn’t love, or doesn’t fit the character.

“But the things she put a lot of work into finding for season one, they were pretty much one-offs. When we burnt the set down in the sixth episode, we lost a lot of props, many of which had been spotted and appreciated by the fans. So Bronwyn had to discover a new set decorating technique: forensic buying.

“She found it all – duplicates and replicas. It took ages. In that respect, the Covid delay was very helpful for Bron. There’s 7,000 books in there and there’s not one fake book. That’s mainly because… it’s a weird thing to say, but we wanted it to smell and feel like a bookshop to everybody that was in it, all the time.

“It affects everybody subliminally; it affects everybody’s performance – actors and crew – it raises the bar 15 to 20%. And the detail, you know… We love a lot of detail.”

(look at the description under this, they called him 'Azi' hehehehe :D <3)

Aziraphale’s Inspirational Correspondence “There’s not one single scrap of paper on Aziraphale’s desk that isn’t written specifically for Aziraphale. Every single piece is not just fodder that’s been shoved there, it has a purpose; it’s a letter of thanks, or an enquiry about a book or something.

“Michael Sheen is so submerged in his character he would get lost sitting at his own desk, reading his own correspondence between takes. I believe wholeheartedly that if you put that much care into every single piece of detail, on that desk and in that room, that everybody feels it, including the crew, and then they give that set the same respect it deserves.

“They also lift their game because they believe that they’re doing something of so much care and value. Really, it’s a domino effect of passion and care for what you’re producing.”

Alternative Music “My daughter Mickey is lead graphic designer [two of Ralph’s sons worked on the series too, one as a concept artist, the other in props]. They’re the ones that produced all of that handwritten work on the desk. She’s the one that took on the record shop and made up 80 band names so that we didn’t have to get copyright clearance from real bands. Then she produced records and sleeves that spanned 50, 60 years of their recordings, and all of the graphics on the walls.

“I remember Michael and Neil [Gaiman] getting lost following one band’s history on the wall, looking at their posters and albums desperately trying to find out whether they survived that emo period.”

It’s A Kind Of Magic One of the new shops in Whickber Street for season two was Will Goldstone’s Magic Shop, which is full of as many Easter eggs as off-the-shelf conjuring tricks, including a Matt Smith Doctor Who-style fez and a toy orang-utan that’s a nod to Discworld’s The Librarian. Ralph says that while the series is full of references to Gaiman, Pratchett and Doctor Who, Michael Sheen never complained about a lack of Masters Of Sex in-jokes. “He’d be the last person to make that sort of comment!”

Ralph also reveals that the magic shop counter was another one of his wife’s purchases, bought at a Glasgow reclamation yard.

The Anansi Boys Connection Ralph reveals that Good Omens season two used the state-of-the-art special effects tech Volume (famous for its use in The Mandalorian to create virtual backdrops) for just one sequence, but he will be using it extensively elsewhere on another Gaiman TV series being made for Prime Video.

“We used Volume on the opening sequence to create the creation of the universe. I was designing Anansi Boys in duality with this project, which seems an outrageously suicidal thing to do. But it was fantastic and Anansi Boys was all on Volume. So I designed for Volume on one show and not Volume on the other. The complexities and the psychology of both is different.”

[keyotosprompts]

sweet nothing ₊˚⊹♡

domestic prompts

⇴ person a being mad at person b, so person b gives them some alone time. only to find person a trying to drag them back to bed bc they miss person b’s presence.

⇴ ^ "i thought you wanted some space?" "i don't need space, i need you" (died)

⇴ going over to family dinner with either person a/b and their sibling/younger cousin is IN LOVE with their partner. like they follow them everywhere and get mad when you guys act like a couple.

⇴ "are you jealous?" "of a child? no way." and person a SMIRKS.

⇴ person a wakes up earlier than the other, but person b is latching on so tightly and their sleeping face is just so cute that person a just falls back asleep anyway.

⇴ that thing when you guys are in bed and your legs wrap around each other. but you're also so close that your head is resting on their bicep and you're caged in their body.

⇴ grocery shopping with their partner. "we do not need those." "but they're so good!!"

⇴ target shopping with their partner. there's something very domestic and sweet about just hanging out in target for an hour or two.

⇴ i'll do you one better: IKEA SHOPPING WITH YOUR PARTNER. the furniture shopping banter. "does this match our living room or do you think it's too much?" followed by "well if we get that coffee table we'll have to get that rug." holding hands throughout IKEA while looking for home decorations.

⇴ person a is blasting music in the shower and person b is singing to it outside the bathroom. person b is so used to it by now and they know all of person a's favorite songs by heart.

⇴ staying beside the other when one of them is doing something. person a is working relentlessly hard on this one task. person b is just sitting there next to them on the couch/bed holding their hand.

⇴ "do you think this looks reasonable or should i change it up a bit?" "maybe switch that up a bit babe" [followed by a kiss on the hand for moral support]

⇴ cooking a meal together in the kitchen with fun music in the back, with occasional messes on the other person's face. person a smears flour on person b's face and person b flicks water on person a's face.

⇴ reading a book together and person b is providing commentary while person a keeps shushing them. person b continues the commentary, because deep down person a enjoys their voice.

⇴ ^ "shh. it just got good." "which is why i have to gasp and voice my opinion!"

⇴ watching tiktoks while the other person is around. (is this niche?)

⇴ having a routine together. like, person a & b are brushing teeth together while person b wraps their arms around person a and leaning into the nape of their neck (they are tired and they want to go back to sleep with a).

⇴ ^ bonus points if person b is extra groggy and still has their sexy morning voice. "i think i'm already missing you," person b says while their head is literally resting on person a's neck. "you're literally right here with me."

⇴ OR alternatively... person a & b are both doing their skincare together, except person b's skincare routine is entirely based off of person a and person a was their "dermatologist"

⇴ sleeping in the same bed, except person a is a blanket hogger and person b is sick of it. so, as a solution, person b literally just holds person a so close to their body so that the blanket isn't stolen in the middle of the night.

⇴ trying to figure out how to defrost a car (i struggled my first time and i would have really enjoyed for someone to HELP)

[4kozy]

daniela as ur monster gf hcs

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daniela is a werewolf, which means there’s hair everywhere. and i do mean everywhere.

were-dani is louder than normal daniela, if that’s even possible… every scream trails off into a howl, regardless of if the scream is happy or sad. you wear earplugs, but like to remind her that yes, you have neighbors and yes, you would very much not like to be evicted.

were-dani keeps small wolf-like traits even when not completely transformed. she’s got small whiskers, large canines, and long claws. you like to paint her claws purple.

were-dani will sulk to get what she wants, and does it knowing that you’ll cave in 2.3 seconds.

as much as i’d love to say were-dani doesn’t get jealous, she definitely does. daniela is as territorial as it gets, often choosing more extreme measures to show how off-limits you are. ( do you know how bad she had to beat that man to get banned from the waffle house on 10th St? )

on that topic, were-dani marks you. a lot. and it’s not very sexual to her, just pure instinct–second nature. she wants people to know that you belong to somebody, the way she belongs to you. you could be relaxing on the couch together one minute, and the next, her teeth are grazing the back of your neck, hands rubbing your thighs softly to distract you from the fact that it’s gonna hurt! ( you’ve told her it’s okay to bite. she’s very grateful. )

were-dani is super high energy! expect your dates to be very, very, physically intensive. ( this will apply to other things. )

were-dani likes to be with you at all times, and not in the way that gf!franken megs is ( one of her body parts in ur damn pocket…🙄 ) . it’s literally that she’s ALWAYS with you. you end up working from home because of the face she used to make when you got back home late. you hate disappointing her.

she will never ever share this, but you know were-dani likes being pet.

if you’re tired, or not in the mood to do bungee jumping for the fourth time that week, were-dani is not opposed to taking small hikes as an alternative. she likes to talk, so you choose to listen to her instead of your music, even if you’ve heard the story so many times before.

you don’t allow were-dani to go to the gym anymore. she broke the vertical row somehow… ( it cost a fortune to replace. you don’t say this because it’ll make her feel worse. )

were-dani fucking despises cats. even more, she despises werecats. it takes a prayer, a soft pat to her back, and a quick turn in the opposite direction to MAYBE avoid another issue out in public. ( during the new moon and waning phases, this doesn’t happen at all. )

were-dani’s more extreme behavior only happens during the waxing phases and full moon. she can’t explain it to you, but does understand why you like to go out more when it’s not taking place.

sometimes were-dani gets scared that you’ll leave because she can’t control herself sometimes. you have to remind her it’s part of her curse, and that you don’t blame her for anything. ( you won’t say it because she doesn’t like to hear it, but you genuinely love every part of her. even the curse. )

during your first full moon together, were-dani almost ripped you apart, like some of your poor furniture. somehow, she stopped herself just before, letting her terrified girlfriend pet her as if nothing happened before you passed out. you’ve got deep scars on your back from the incident, and if it weren’t for your neighbors, megan and her girlfriend, you’re pretty sure you would’ve died. daniela never remembers her transformations, so even when she begs you to tell her what happened, you don’t. ( you know she knows )

ever since that night, turned were-dani is more like a dog than the hulking 9ft tall beast that you first met. you had to buy a much bigger couch–she broke it trying to lay with you. ( you also have to pet her a lot, or she’ll get crabby. )

turned were-dani is even clingier than the normal one, and way more slobbery😞 you find it super gross but put up with it for your poor girlfriend’s sake. you know that no matter how disgusting it gets, she’s in infinitely more pain than you are, and even more considerate of her, before she turns, she chooses to lock herself in the spare room–hoping to keep you out of it. your neighbor, megan, built a steel door for you guys after the first incident, but when daniela smells you, it doesn’t last long. ( megan takes the time out every month to replace it. )

you keep raw meat in your fridge. though were-dani won’t admit it, she does eat it–and likes it a bunch.

were-dani, no matter how ironic it is, can sometimes be unaware ( it’s the human in her ) … but with her heightened senses, always knows when you’re upset. once she gets the idea that you are ( she’s always right ), expect to be taken care of like the royalty she knows you are. NOT that she doesn’t always, but even more when something’s going on. trust, when daniela gets into that mode, there’s no end. ( it’d be overbearing if you didn’t know she was 100% or nothing )

were-dani has a bunch of hair all over her after she turns. you let her have the bathroom for the day so she can take care of it.

and when she’s not turned, were-dani just naturally grows hair like weeds! you give her haircuts every friday, while you two watch a movie together.

were-dani’s favorite hobby is carving, surprisingly. it’s the only one that absorbs all her attention once she starts, so make sure you’ve had all the time you wanted with her beforehand. of course, she’s fucking amazing, so you have a crazy amount of wood pieces everywhere. ( your favorite is the heart. it has both of your initials in it. )

when you and were-dani kiss, it’s very frantic. it’s not soft ever, and it might just be the fact that she’s cursed with a wild animal, or the fact that she’s very in love with you and needs you like the air she breathes.

were-dani is like one of those mascs that can’t tell when someone’s flirting with her or being friendly–you can and she thinks it’s very attractive when you get jealous, even when she laughs at you. don’t bring up her jealous freak outs though, or she’ll be irritating.

were-dani likes try new things all the time, but because of her hypersensitivity she has to be careful. strong smells, bright lights, loud noises ( ironic ), and harsh tastes hurt her. your first date, she was wearing sunglasses, earplugs, and kept covering her nose. you thought it was because you stank, and after a ton of explaining–and a second date–you realized it was the fair itself.

were-dani tends to get upset when she looks at pictures of herself before she was cursed. you never say anything, choosing to give her a hug instead. there’s deep claw marks in her legs and arms, eerily similar to the ones in your back. she doesn’t like to think about it, but deep down she knows she hurt you–if any saliva had gotten into your wounds, you would’ve ended up like her. ( she always apologizes for it when you’re asleep, tracing the scars lightly with the pads of her fingers. she’d apologize when you’re awake but you get mad at her for it. )

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anyway daniela is my WIFE i love her so much 😍ignore the fact that i only made daniela a werewolf because bushes are better than bare… BUT STAY W ME!!l werewolves AND daniela serve charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and freaking talent🙏

[22ayla21]

Hello ❤️👋🏻

I suddenly got the idea of a trio of Amphoreus husbands getting caught up in a mess made by the kids. when their wife see the mess, the husbands and kids get scolded and end up cleaning up the mess they made. I want it to be fluffier ❤️

Family Chaos

Children love mischief, but this time Dad also became a victim and an accomplice.

It all started with an ordinary idea. Mydei just wanted to have some fun with the kids. He was a warrior, a proud heir of Kremnos, but in the presence of his little ones, he turned into an ordinary dad – starting pillow fights, running around the rooms pretending to be a monster, and not even afraid to get his clothes dirty with paint if the situation called for it.

That day, it all began with a simple activity – the children decided to build a "fort" in the living room. And what kind of fort is it without real walls made of pillows, blankets, and overturned chairs? Mydei, of course, supported this idea.

"If it's a fort, then it has to be the most impregnable one!" he declared, helping the children build a huge, shaky structure out of everything they could find.

It turned into real madness. Pillows flew around the room, thumping on the floor. Blankets got caught on the furniture, and the chairs just wouldn't stand straight. At some point, even large trays were used – for "protective gates."

But the real commotion started when the youngest daughter, beaming with delight, suggested adding some color. Literally. She brought out jars of paint and suggested "decorating" the walls of their castle. Mydei, of course, hesitated at first. But when his daughter looked at him with those pleading eyes, it was impossible to resist.

"Okay, just a little."

Those words became fateful.

An hour later, everything around was covered in paint. Pillows, the floor, furniture... even Mydei himself was covered in multicolored spots because the children happily used him as a living canvas. He realized he had gone too far when he saw puddles of red and blue paint spreading across the floor.

"Oh dear..."

That's when the door opened.

"What's going on here?!"

His wife's voice sounded like a thunderclap.

Mydei froze. The children did too.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the ransacked living room. The room resembled a battlefield. Pillows were scattered everywhere, chairs were on their sides, and the furniture... her beloved furniture was smeared with paint.

She slowly looked at him. Then at the children. Then back at him.

Silence fell. And then...

"Clean up. Everything. Immediately."

Mydei mechanically nodded.

"Yes, of course."

He didn't even try to argue.

The children whined, but he quickly leaned towards them and whispered, "If we hurry, we might survive."

They understood it wasn't a joke. The cleanup started instantly.

At first, the children tried to wash the paint off the floor, but it turned out to be harder than they thought. The stains wouldn't come off on the first try, and they kept leaving new marks while trying to remove the old ones.

Mydei was also working – picking up pillows, putting chairs back in place, and scrubbing the furniture, realizing he would be paying for this mess for a long time.

But despite everything, the atmosphere wasn't... that gloomy.

The children giggled, hiding behind the sofa, when Mydei clumsily tried to wipe paint off his hand and then accidentally smeared it on his face. Eventually, even he laughed when his son spilled a bucket of water while trying to mop the floor, and they all ended up in a puddle.

Even their mom, standing aside with a stern look, barely smiled, watching the chaos.

When the living room finally looked like a living room again, Mydei sighed and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.

"It's done. We did it."

The children sighed in relief. He opened one eye and looked at his wife. She glanced at him, then sighed and shook her head.

"You're worse than the children, Mydei." He smirked.

"But you still love me." She rolled her eyes.

"Who said that?"

"I know."

And then she smiled. And he realized he had gotten off easy.

The house was too quiet. Anaxa immediately knew it wasn't a good sign.

Usually, the walls shook with the children's laughter, the rumble of running feet, the clatter of toys on the floor, and the whispers of conspirators plotting another prank. But now – suspicious silence. It could only mean one thing: something had happened.

He slowly moved down the hallway, listening. In the distance, a muffled giggle sounded, followed by the sound of something falling. Anaxa frowned.

When he looked into the living room, his gaze immediately fell upon the scene of chaos.

Pillows were scattered all over the room, books were thrown off the shelves, fresh drawings adorned the wall, and one of the children stood proudly on an overturned chair, like a conqueror of new lands. In the center of this mess, the youngest son, covered in flour from head to toe, and next to him, his daughter, whose hands were covered in paint.

"Dad!" she squealed happily, spotting him.

At that moment, someone grabbed his hand, and before he could react, a barrage of pillows fell on him. Blinking, he looked at the laughing children, who were clearly waiting for his reaction.

"What are you..." he began, but didn't finish. Someone accidentally bumped into a vase. It wobbled, and before Anaxa could catch it, it shattered.

There was a pause.

"Oops," the daughter mumbled guiltily.

Anaxa slowly ran his hand over his face, realizing the scale of the catastrophe. This was bad. Very bad.

And at that moment, his wife appeared in the doorway.

She froze, slowly surveying the room. Her gaze slid over the scattered books, overturned chairs, stained walls, shards of the vase, and finally, to the youngest son, who looked like he had just been rolled in flour.

Anaxa read everything in her eyes: fatigue, surprise, and the silent question – how? How could they turn the house into a battlefield in just a couple of hours?

But before she could say anything, the children started chattering, interrupting each other. One claimed they just wanted to decorate the room, another said the paint fell accidentally, and the third assured that it wasn't him at all.

Anaxa and his wife exchanged glances.

She sighed, pressing her lips together, as if deciding whether to give a lecture.

"Clean up," she finally said.

Anaxa mentally exhaled. He had expected something worse.

The children groaned in protest, but his wife had already turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving them to deal with the consequences.

"Well," Anaxa sighed, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's get to work."

At first, the cleanup was slow. The children grumbled, lazily picked up books, reluctantly scrubbed paint off the walls, and kept trying to resume the pillow fight. But gradually, it turned into a game: they competed to see who could clean up faster, who could stack more pillows, who could collect more books. Even the youngest son, still covered in flour, ran around with a rag, "cleaning."

Anaxa couldn't help but smile, watching their efforts.

When his wife returned, the room was already shining with order.

She appraised the room and nodded.

"Not bad," she admitted.

Anaxa theatrically wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead, and the children proudly puffed out their chests.

His wife shook her head, but, to everyone's surprise, she came over and ruffled the youngest son's hair.

"Next time, just ask if you want to decorate something, okay?" she said with a soft smile. The children nodded in unison.

Anaxa grinned. He knew that in this house full of noise, fun, and mischief, there would always be room for order. After all, the most important thing here is love.

The house fell into silence – a strange, unsettling silence, quite uncharacteristic of an ordinary day. But inside, there was real pandemonium.

The living room looked like a battlefield after a fierce fight. Blankets, pillows, soft toys – all of it was scattered on the floor, creating bizarre structures resembling fortresses. Paper flags adorned the walls, and in the middle of this chaos stood a man, looking around in confusion.

The culprits of this mess sat nearby – his children, who had already realized they had gone too far, but still hoped they could somehow get away with it. Their eyes sparkled with fun, but there was a slight anxiety behind it – what would Mom say when she saw this mess?

"Okay," he muttered to himself, surveying the aftermath of the game. "We'll clean it up."

But before he could do anything, the living room door swung open, and his wife appeared on the threshold.

She froze. She surveyed the room. Slowly, she looked at her husband, then at the children, then back at her husband.

He felt a chill inside.

There was a dead silence.

The children sat like statues, afraid to breathe. The husband even took a step back, as if trying to disappear into thin air.

"And how..." she slowly inhaled. "How did this happen?"

Her husband's guilty gaze darted around the room in search of an excuse, but besides the mess that prevailed everywhere, he found nothing that could save him.

"Um... we got a little carried away with the game?"

His wife closed her eyes, clearly holding back her emotions.

"'A little'?" she repeated, stretching out the words as if tasting them. He realized there was no chance of rescue.

"Okay!" he sighed, turning to the children. "We need to clean all this up, otherwise..."

"Otherwise Mom will make us live in boxes on the street?" one of the children asked timidly. Mom's eyes flashed.

"Not that harsh, but I'll consider it."

It worked. The mess, which seemed so harmless during the game, suddenly became a serious problem.

Work began.

The fortresses began to be dismantled into pieces, blankets returned to beds, toys – to boxes. The eldest son tried to find the culprit of the spilled juice, the youngest daughter ran around with a vacuum cleaner she could barely hold.

And the father? He stood in the middle of this hustle and bustle, holding a huge stack of pillows and blankets, trying in vain to figure out where to put them.

"I don't even remember where this was lying," he admitted, looking helplessly at his wife.

She just sighed, but a smile flickered at the corners of her lips.

"Give it here."

The work took longer than everyone expected. But at some point, the cleanup turned into a game – the children started laughing, throwing soft toys at each other, the husband played along, tossing pillows and pretending to accidentally fall into a blanket trap.

His wife watched them, trying to hide her smile. Yes, it was a nightmare in terms of order. But seeing them so happy... It was worth all the effort.

When everything was finally cleaned up, they collapsed onto the sofa – tired but satisfied.

Phainon turned to his wife, hoping for praise.

"Well? Everything's clean, right?"

She looked at him, slowly surveying the room.

"Almost," she replied, pointing to a lone pillow in the corner. He sighed heavily, got up, picked up the pillow, and with mock weariness, threw it onto the sofa.

"That's it, now for sure!"

His wife chuckled and covered the youngest daughter, who was already nodding off, with a blanket.

"Okay, I'll forgive you this time," she said, and then added with a sly look, "But next time, you clean up without my reminders."

The father and children exchanged glances.

"We'll see," he muttered, grinning.

And although this day was tiring, there was something truly warm and homely about it – fun, chaos, teamwork, and the family warmth that made even the biggest messes a trifle.

[joshslater]

Emergency Model

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

"Excuse me, what's your shoe size?"

Bewildered I looked around to find the man who asked the random question, like out of that old episode of Monty Python. Off to the side, almost behind me, was a thirty-ish man in polo shirt, jeans, and glasses with plastic rims that looked purposefully selected to make him look like a film director or architect. He looked unsure or stressed. "Eight, eight and a half. Who's asking?"

Immediately he brightened up. "Hello. I'm Ben Atkinson, " he said and extended his hand. "We're making a photo shoot of the supplemental collection of sporting clothes," he continued without waiting for me to shake it. "It's all for the online shop, so simple stuff. White background, a few poses." Tentatively I shook his hand. "Pretty fast rotation of models. Unfortunately one of them has called in sick. You have the right look, but more importantly the right build and size."

"Uhum," I answered, sensing where this was going. It was a Saturday morning, and I was on my way to meet up with some friends at Wayland's Deli.

"This is quite sudden, but we are on a tight deadline. If you're willing to model for us I'll give you twice the normal rate."

"Ok," I said, not waiting to hear what the normal rate was. I'm sure Stuart would not stop giving me grief about it for the rest of the year, but I would technically be a photo model which wouldn't be a negative in Sarah's eyes. Turned out that it would also be double my monthly earnings as well, so maybe I could shut Stuart up as well.

We entered the building, which apparently was an office space that had been taken over for the day for the shoot. There were racks of clothes everywhere, lots of people with iPads tracking what item was where, who should wear it, and in what conference room they should shoot it. It was bustling with activity. After some exchange of information with Ben, and signing papers, I was handed over to a conference room turned makeup and styling studio. Most of the furniture was stacked in one corner and the floor was covered by transparent plastic that had been rolled out. To one side was a table with lots of makeup tools and bottles and stuff I wouldn't know how to use, except maybe the hand mirror and the scissors, and even that I'm not confident with. A pair of strong LED lamps on stands lit a chair placed at the center of the plastic. 

"I'm Julia, pleased to meet you. So you are the last one," said the stylist, carefully surveying me and in particular my face and hair. "We're short on time, so we have to work quickly. Are you ok with a buzz cut and tight fade?" Not what I would have chosen, but it's starting to get warm outside and it's only hair. I'd be back to my current length after the summer. "Sure."

She seated me in the chair and began the work with a corded trimmer, and soon a flurry of detail work with smaller trimmers and some of her tools from the table. Probably took her about ten minutes for the haircut. Then some time with a straight razor blade and a tweezer to pluck and shave all over my face and then arms. I told her that this was all new to me, having literally just been picked from the street. She reassured me that there wasn't much to it. Just be no-nonsense about it. Take whatever the stylist decides, change clothes quickly, do the poses the photographer asks for, and repeat.

"All done," she said and handed me the hand mirror as if I had any say in this. I looked so different than just moments before. The hair was shorter than I've ever had it, with a razor sharp fringe line. The fade on the sides was basically just an inch tall from the head and down the temple, then skin tight down, and presumably the same around the back of the head as well. The total amount of hair I was left with could fit a shot glass. "If you go down the corridor to the break room there is a shower in the bathroom there. Ask Andy outside to let you in. Take a quick rinse to get rid of stray hairs, change into these, put your stuff in one of the plastic boxes there, and come back to me for a final touch-up." She handed me a pair of white briefs and white socks. I hesitated a bit, and she was quick to jump ahead of my thoughts. "Everyone around here are used to see gorgeous bodies without clothes. Act as if it is normal, because to us it is. You can't be self-conscious. Oh, and Andy is the only one with a key, so your valuables are safe." Another boy showed up at the door saying he needed a new application. I told Julia thanks and went to look for Andy.

Andy unlocked the door to the office lunch room for me and I did as Julia had told me. I stripped naked and put everyting, clothes, wallet, phone, keys, shoes, into one of the plastic boxes, wrote my name on it with a whiteboard marker and placed it next to all the other boxes. Eight boxes in total. I went into the bathroom, took a 90 seconds shower, and dried myself off with one of the towels from the pile. I put on the briefs and socks, had Julia apply her things to me, and within ten minutes I was dressed in Nike shoes, joggers, and a fleece hoodie, being ordered by a photographer who didn't have time to introduce himself to look left, turn around, put my hands in my pockets, pull up the hood, sit down on the floor, and on and on. Then out change, and back with the next item.

It was going non-stop since they were behind on my stuff, so I had barely time to talk to anyone. There wasn't any proper lunch break either, just a protein bar together with two of the other models, Mark and Andrew. At first they thought it was funny that I had just been snatched off the street for the shoot, but when I told them how much more money I got they were like "fuck you, go back to work". Well the break was over anyway, so I don't know how serious they were.

It continued with item after item, until I realized I was the only model left. The others had taken off without saying goodbye, not that we had any relation. People were moving things out of the office, and when I asked about the hurry they said there was a firm deadline when they had to be out so the cleaning crew could put everything back to a working office again. I could feel the pressure as it was my item changes that held up everyone. I swapped into a pair of MRKNTN underwear that probably was like half a size too small but decided to just power through with the shoot. As soon as the last photo had been taken, they started to dismantle the light rigs. As I walked back to the lunch room I could see that most of the clothes racks were gone. The makeup room was back to looking like a conference room. I couldn't find Andy anywhere though, and the lunch room with my stuff was still locked. I wanted my stuff for sure, but more importantly I wanted to get out of the underwear that kept squeezing and chafing. I couldn't go more than 30 seconds without having my hands down the joggers to adjust them.

Ben wasn't anywhere to be seen either. I asked one of the remaining people and he said they had all left, working on getting all the stuff back and preparing the "delivery pipeline" for the photos. Probably Andy had checked off everyone from his list, and it was printed before I was recruited. "Just keep the clothes you have on and you can come back here Monday and pick up your stuff," he said.

Fuck.

No point in hanging around any longer. Everyone wanted to leave as soon as possible, so I just left and headed towards the bus stop. It was getting late and with no phone on me I couldn't call home and say what was going on.

Fuck.

I didn't have anything to pay the bus fare with. I could perhaps go back to the office building and see if I could catch anyone exiting, use their phone, and call for someone to pick me up. But there was no telling if and when I would get hold of anyone. Just walking back there would make me miss the next bus, so that would set me back at least an hour. I could just as well ask someone else to use their phone. Or perhaps ask them to cover the bus fare.

That's when I saw them, a little bit further down the street, past the bus stop. Six boys huddled at the corner, talking and messing around as if no one else was around. One had a bike. All of them dressed in the kind of clothes I had spent all day modeling in, track suits, hoodies, trainers. All of them were smoking. I figured I'd have as good a chance with them as with anyone else now, looking the way I looked.

As I was getting closer one of them alerted the others and they had some kind of conversation about me. "Hello, excuse me. Could I borrow money for the bus fare from any of you?" There was a second of silence before a mixed snicker erupted, and one of them answered "No, bruv. I don't think so."

I don't know why, but for some reason I was mortified by how I had been dismissed. I could feel my face turning red, so I quickly turned away from them to make my way back to the bus stop, without any plan of what to do next.

"Oi, bruv!" I heard from behind me. Looking back at them I could see three boys had gotten up and were heading my way. "Callum's grafting down at the barber's for some extra quid and need someone to practice on. What if he can do some practice while we cover the fare and take you home safely? Fair, innit?"

"I barely have any hair," I said and let my hand touch my fresh skin fade, almost shocking myself with how radically different it felt.

"Won't be much of a nick then, bruv."

He was right. There wasn't much he could ruin. I had only a few millimeters of hair so in the worst case scenario I could shave completely and it would be back within the week.

"Good lad. A deal innit."

"Yes," I said, unsure if it was expected. The guy who had spoken and Callum flanked me while the third lad walked behind me, enveloping me with the scent of smoke and body spray. After a silent moment the guy spoke again, introducing himself as Iwan and the third guy as Rob, and asked where I lived. I gave him the bus stop, Hillside Garden North, about 18 minutes ride. Would have been busy during the week, but at weekends there wouldn't be many on the bus.

We didn't have to wait long for the bus to arrive, but instead of entering by the driver they all bunched up again with me in the middle and entered through the exit doors as a single unit. Then they quickly moved to the back of the bus and pushed me into a seat next to Callum, facing Iwan and Rob in the furthest back seat. I half expected the driver to say something over the speakers, but there was barely a delay, if any, before the bus was moving as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I looked at Iwan with perhaps a bit of surprise and he just shrugged as if to say "what did you expect? That the driver would confront us?"

Then he nodded at Callum next to me, backpack in his lap, who answered "Aye" and got up. He placed the bag on the seat and positioned himself right in front of me, one leg on either side of mine, his knees hitting the edge of the seat, and his left hand grabbing the rail behind me. It felt both imposing and intimate. He opened the backpack and rummaged around with his right hand until he found a small trimmer in a zip-lock bag.

He opened it with both hands and threw the plastic bag into the backpack. Then he looked out and waited for the bus to drive on straight and even road before he turned the trimmer on. Then slowly he moved it in an arched line from my temple and along the side of my head until he reached the neck. Then he studied for a few seconds before he made a few additional buzzes along the same line.

"Not bad, innit?" he said while shifting his body so Iwan and Rob could see. "Fucking mint, mate," Iwan answered.

Then he turned on the trimmer again and unexpectedly extended the line by buzzing my eyebrow for a few seconds. I hadn't even considered my eyebrows. Callum reached into his backpack again to put the trimmer in the zip-lock, but without moving his feet so his body pressed even closer to me. While I couldn't see much, I could certainly feel his body spray filling my nostrils while I felt my eyebrows with my fingers. I guess there would be a lot to explain to mother anyway, so this would just be yet another detail.

I could just see it for a fraction of a second. It looked like a small glue gun in off-white plastic. Then before I could realize what it was it was pressed against my ear, it made a snapping sound, and I felt a sharp pain. "What the!" I said, more in surprise than pain.

"18G piercing. Hurts more, heals slower, but much better," Callum offered, as if it was the type of piercing that was in question, not that he had done it at all. He reloaded the piercing gun and I struggled with what to do. Just take it like the first one? Why should I? But then one piercing was the real threshold. Once you pass that, two is if anything better than one. This would soon be over anyway.

He was just as quick with the second one as the first one. "These need to stay in 30 days, you hear me?" he said, still standing essentially on top of me. "Yes, I understand," I said with a sinking feeling of all the implications. He put the gun back into the bag and went searching for something again. Finally he pulled out some sort of pliers, then held my earlobe with one hand while doing something with the pliers with the other. "Making sure they don't fall off," he explained before sitting down again on his seat. I could see Iwan and Rob again, and booth looked pleased. Iwan looked absolutely chuffed. "Fucking proper, innit" he said and pat me hard on the shoulder. "Fucking proper."

After than Iwan opened up and started to ask me all kinds of questions, starting with my name, which I realized I hadn't given him when he presented everyone. I was soon giving the highlights of the day as a photo model until we arrived my stop. To my surprise everyone got off with me. "Said we would take you home safe." We continued to chat all the way home and it turned out me Iwan and Rob had the same taste in electronic music while Callum was more of a rock guy.

"Ok, this is my stop," I said once we reached my house. "Meet us Monday, same time and place," Iwan said. "What?" "You owe us £2 for the bus, bruv." "But..." "You going back on our deal?" "No, I'll come by." "And wear the same clothes. Underwear too." "No! I have classes." "You'll figure it out, bruv." Callum opened his backpack again and tossed something to Iwan. "And use this," he said and handed over a can of Lynx Jungle body spray. "What if I don't? What if I don't do any of that?" "Where you live isn't a secret, innit? See you Monday, bruv."

[sugardollcurse]

hi girlie! i love your writing and i wanted to know if you could write some headcanons for the beatles having cute pillow/tickle fights with their partner?

they’re just so cheeky and playful i can totally see them doing adorable stuff like that <3

𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘/𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ hi love!! omg this is the cutest request.. absolutely... HOPE YOU LIKE!!

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“Oh, you wanna start somethin’? You sure, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't play fair.”

Don't be fooled by the quote. He usually starts it, obviously.

Throws a pillow at you while you’re reading or lying down, pretending it “fell off the couch.”

You call him out. He grins. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He absolutely tickles first without warning.

Like grabs your knee out of nowhere and laughs when you jolt and nearly fall off the bed.

If you fight back (and you do), he’ll act betrayed.

“How dare you. I’m delicate.”

Has this maniacal, delighted cackle when you get him in a bad spot, like if you manage to get under his arms or sides.

“You little-!” squealing but like, lennon-style: gruff and annoyed but also genuinely losing it.

It turns into a wrestle.

Every time.

He pins you and you squirm and he’s laughing through his teeth but trying to stay composed.

Afterward, he’ll lay dramatically on the floor like he’s been “mortally wounded” and reach for you. “Kiss me farewell, I’m not long for this world.”

Lives for these moments, because you make him laugh without needing to say anything clever.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“C’mon, love, no fair hittin’ me when m’back’s turned!”

Paul’s the most playful out of the four.

Pillow fights happen everywhere. The bed. The tour bus. Hotel rooms.

Will literally start a tickle war just to make you laugh. “You’ve got the cutest laugh, y’know that?”

He’s a sucker for when you get serious, grabbing a pillow, narrowing your eyes, all that.

You’ll be mid-fight and he’ll suddenly scoop you up like you weigh nothing and just drop you onto the bed while giggling uncontrollably.

He is ticklish.

Very.

Under his ribs and around his neck. If you find out, he’s doomed.

“No no no-no! I’m serious, that’s ILLEGAL!”

Tries to pretend he’s got the upper hand but loses instantly when you surprise him.

Loves the aftermath just as much, messy hair, both of you breathless and curled up in a pile of pillows.

Will 100% nuzzle you and go, “Let’s call it a truce... until tomorrow, anyway.”

Sometimes he makes the excuse that it’s “exercise,” then uses it as a reason to tackle you again five minutes later.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“I’m not doin’ anything. You’re the one flailin’ round like a goose.”

George doesn’t start the pillow fight.

He plots it.

You tease him earlier in the day, make a snide little comment, and then it comes back to haunt you at 10p.m.

One look in his eyes and you know: oh no.

Smacks you with a pillow once and runs. It’s on.

He’s sneaky, hides behind furniture, pops up and goes “Boo!” with a flying pillow.

When it escalates to tickling, he gets this wicked grin.

He knows exactly where to go to make you yelp.

You get him back and he lets out this startled squawk.

Tries to be smooth about it but ends up giggling like a schoolboy when you chase him around the room.

Gets this low, breathless laugh when he’s actually tickled, it’s very real.

George is the type to instigate under the guise of complete innocence.

You’ll walk past him and he’ll just bap the back of your leg with a pillow and keep strumming his guitar like nothing happened.

“What? That wasn’t me. Must’ve been the wind.”

He’s a pinner. Uses his longer limbs to trap you in place.

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“You hit me in the eye! That’s assault! I’m callin’ the coppers.”

He won’t start the pillow fight, but the second you bop him with a pillow?

“Oh, that’s it. I was bein’ nice.”

Throws one back, then laughs like a little kid when it hits your head and you freeze in mock betrayal.

He screeches if you tickle him. It’s not subtle.

Not particularly fast, so he tries to distract you with jokes and accents.

“Oh no, m’lord, spare me the indignity-!”

You end up collapsing on top of him and he just holds you there, arms around your back, chuckling into your shoulder.

He starts tickle fights more than anyone, especially if you’re trying to be serious. He’ll wiggle his fingers and go, “Are you mad? You look mad. Let’s fix that.”

You’ll be halfway through folding laundry when he pounces. Or in the middle of brushing your teeth. Nowhere is safe.

He laughs so much it becomes contagious.

He loses all pillow fights. Will loudly accuse you of cheating every time.

Ends with him laying across your lap, still breathless, grinning up at you. “Next time I’m bringing reinforcements.”

He never does.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[levvthan]

We need more Dad Heisenberg i love how you wrote him!!

Now this is probably just me but i at least see Karl being a dad to a older son and younger daughter. And I would love to request the cute moments Heisenberg has with them, mostly asking how would be experiencing all their firsts, like first words and first steps, you get the idea. But just funny fluffy headcanons.

oh my gosh i absolutely love this dynamic idea! thank you for requesting!

dad! heisenberg headcannons (pt. 2) - heisenberg x f! reader

♡ milestones

he swears that he's going to make their first words something cool like boom, fuck or bitch

"Can you say bitch? Say bitch for daddy."

son's actual first word? "Dog" ... Karl was actually quite offended

daughters first word? "BOOM!" (he may of let her press the detonator button once or twice)

when his son takes his first steps, Karl gets so excited that he mistakably cheers too loud and scares the living shit out of him

"Karl you idiot! You made him trip!" ... "No, no, come on - try again! OH SHIT LOOK AT HIM GO!"

with his daughter, he's far more careful with his voice (you had to remind him to keep it down this time)

that is until she practically sprints across the room to him

he's so overjoyed he picks her up and spins her around in the air

"My girl! Look, she did it!" ... "Karl - Don't drop her goddammit!"

his son would be a lot like him, and it really shows during his first tantrum

he is fascinated with his dads hammer, constantly trying to hold and touch it

whenever you or Karl would take it away he'd go into full-blown meltdown mode

"My boy, you quite literally can't even lift it." ... "Karl - how many times? I told you to keep it out of his sight!"

*louder screaming as Karl puts it on a shelf*

with his daughter, her tantrums are silent... but deadly

she ends up going teary eyed, comparable to a sad puppy, which makes Karl feel incredibly guilty

"Don't give me that look." *eyes intensify* "... OK, fine. You win."

♡ time with his son

Karl would insist on his son following in his footsteps in being an engineer

he'd teach his son how to use tools properly, but his son immediately just wants to whack things with them

"No, we use them to fix things, we don't - HEY!" *son bonks him on the head with a spanner*

as his son grows older, they'd spend hours on projects together in Karl's workshop... building questionable contraptions

when you call them for dinner, you'd have to practically force them both to take a shower

*sat around the table* they both reek of oil, Karl has ash smeared on his face, whilst your son looks like he's been subjected to multiple explosions

the two of them wrestle a lot, usually ending in one of them jumping off a piece furniture in order to tackle the other... much to your disapproval

"Darling, do we really need a coffee table? We can just build a new one."

♡ time with his daughter

Karl's daughter would follow him everywhere, practically his shadow

Workshop? She's there. Outside? Right behind him. Personal space? What's that?

"Pumpkin, why don't you go hang with your mom or brother instead?" (secretly, he doesn't want her to leave)

she loves trying to scare him, cackling like a little goblin right after

however, Karl's scarily immune to jump scares, so he often has to pretend

"RAHHHH!" *his daughter jumps out a corner* "JESUS! - goddammit! You scared me!"

his daughter would also be obsessed with his hair, she'd constantly ask to braid or style it for him

"You're going to look so pretty daddy." ... "Great."

if she'd braided it, he'd often forget to take them out, you'd see him and almost choke

she would also pester him to play dolls, even though he was terrible at it and 'made everything boy-ish' (her own words)

"Hello, I am - uh - Mr... Metal-Man World Destroyer. I am here to DESTROY the castle! Mwhahaha! " ... "NO daddy! He's a knight!"

his son would walk past her room, snickering, earning a death glare from Karl

[slaymitchabernathy]

House of Balloons

| “...you're in my world now, you can stay, you can stay. but you belong to me, ooh, you belong to me...this is a happy house, we're happy here in a happy house, oh this is fun, fun, fun, fun...” |

| tw: noncon |

Livia Snow, is from what Soarynn has concluded, the worst person in the world. Which is a hard thing to be in a world like this.

It’s not like Soarynn wants any part of this, or in Livia’s opinion, any part of her husband. Soarynn has barely seen the man since she arrived at her household and that was three days ago.

She spends the majority of her day with Livia, tending to her every need and silently waiting by her side when she’s not waiting on her hand and foot. Right now she’s quietly sitting in the corner of one of their many sitting rooms, staring at her lap while the Capitol ladies have tea.

Some of them brought their Handmaids with them, others left theirs at home. They speak about them like they're handbags, "Oh, I left mine at home today." Soarynn knew that men viewed women as objects, but she never thought that she could literally become one.

“It’s just so hard to get used to them,” one woman says, glancing over at Soarynn’s direction, “I mean, we’re just expected to be okay with this! And the Aunts have been no help either, suggesting that I stand idly by while my husband has sex with this stranger.”

Livia huffs in agreement, she does a lot of that from Soarynn has noticed. Huffing, sighing, scoffing.

This woman is never happy.

“Well, I for one will not be taking part in the bedding ceremony,” she informs her friends and Soarynn quickly glances at their shocked expressions.

“But, but the Aunts said that it was benefi-“

“I don’t care what the Aunts say, or the government, or my husband for that matter,” Livia cuts her friend off with a haughty tone, “I want no part in any of this until my baby is here.”

Soarynn doesn’t know whether she should be glad Livia won’t be witnessing the loss of her virginity or scared. She has obviously lost hers but Soarynn thought she might be a guiding hand in the process.

Apparently not.

The ladies whisper about the bedding ceremony some more, most of them are put off by it, envious of their Handmaids, and nervous about their husbands and how they’ll react to being with a new woman.

It turns out that not all of the Capitol ladies are entirely on board with the Handmaid Program.

Soarynn looks across the room at the other corner where another Handmaid is sitting, her head lowered, her hands clasped in her lap.

Soarynn wonders what District she’s from, if she’s from Twelve, where she’s been assigned.

She’s been doing her best to learn about the people in the Capitol, learn the names, the landmarks. Well, mostly the names since she has yet to leave the Mansion. Livia mentioned going out the other day but nothing has come of it yet.

Soarynn won’t be the one to ask about it either.

But she’s learned lots of names, lots of important names if they keep getting brought up. Creed, Persephone, Heavensbee, Festus, Plinth, Snow.

Words on paper but much more in real life.

“Soarynn, bring me some more tea,” Livia calls from the sofa.

Soarynn nods, silently rising from her chair so she can pour some more tea for the Lady of the House. There are Avoxes to do that for Livia. In fact, she has a whole staff to tend to her every need but she seems hellbent on making Soarynn do all the tasks for her.

She’s sure it’s nothing personal.

Soarynn carefully lifts the teapot, pouring more hot tea into a fancy-looking teacup. Before coming to the Capitol, she had never seen such fancy silverware before. Now it’s everywhere. The Mansion is filled with beautiful things. Paintings, furniture, decorations, glassware, even instruments.

This house is swimming in decadence.

She might just drown in it if she's not careful enough.

She caught a glimpse of a piano in the front room. She wonders which one of them plays. If she had to place her bets, it would be on President Snow. Livia does not seem to be musically inclined in the slightest.

“Here you are Mrs. Snow,” she says, offering up the cup to the Lady of the House. She’s met with several judgmental looks despite keeping her gaze lowered. These women are curious about her and where she’s come from. Livia has informed them about her District of origin no doubt, anything to pit them against her.

I’m a woman too, she wants to tell them, I was taken from my home and am being held here against my will. Her husband is going to rape me soon and I’m going to be forced to carry his child.

But it doesn’t matter. These women want something, someone to blame and because they can’t take their anger out on their husbands, they’ll settle for their Handmaids.

There is a common denominator in every issue Panem has ever faced.

Men.

Until everyone comes to that conclusion, Soarynn will be stuck in this hell, serving tea for the woman who hates her.

꧁ ꧂

"Tonight you'll conduct the bedding ceremony, should you misbehave, you'll be executed."

Soarynn only pauses her task for a moment before recovering and continuing to fold her laundry. Livia had delivered it to her room by dropping the basket on the floor along with a nasty look on her face. If Soarynn had to guess, she just came from her husband's study.

They must have discussed when the bedding ceremony would take place.

"Yes, Mrs. Snow."

Soarynn thought that Livia might leave once she delivered the laundry and the message but apparently, she's staying. She sits in that chair tucked away in the corner, watching Soarynn with a sharp gaze. Soarynn diligently folds her dresses, all red, all the same.

The Handmaid uniform is simple. It's a dark red and for the most part, very unflattering. It doesn't do anyone any favors when it comes to shape but that's most likely the point. There's a cape she can wear over the dress if it's cold outside. Her shoes are black, easy to slip on and off. Aunt Eudora says that if she's good then she might get to wear some shoes with a heel.

What a wonderful prospect.

"Do you say anything else or are you programmed to say the same three things over and over again?" Soarynn looks up from her spot on the floor. She chose to sit on the rug, if she had known that Livia would be staying, she would've gone to the bed.

"Yes, Mrs. Snow," she starts, quickly catching herself, "I mean, yes, I do say more than the same three things."

Livia could be very pretty if she tried. Not that she's ugly, but she's not what Soarynn would consider to be beautiful like Lucy Gray or Dorothea. This woman has all the money in the world and she can't buy an ounce of happiness or beauty.

"Well, I think you should continue to keep your mouth shut, no one cares about what you have to say."

Soarynn bites her tongue so she doesn't talk back.

"Leave the basket outside once you're done."

Livia briskly walks past her, leaving the door open and Soarynn listens to the sound of her receding footsteps. They lock her bedroom door every night, or well, President Snow locks it every night before he goes up to his bedroom.

Livia wants nothing to do with her.

The only reason she knows that it's him and not her is because his footsteps sound much more heavier than Livia's. And he always lets out a tired sigh while turning the lock.

What he doesn't know is that Soarynn sits right by the door with her back pressed against the wall.

Sometimes she doesn't know why she does what she does.

꧁ ꧂

Coriolanus POV

"Seven Handmaids have been detained since their arrival three days ago."

Coriolanus withholds a sigh at the news he's given. There's a saying that no news is good news, but right now, he's only getting bad news. The Handmaids have been in the Capitol for three days now and they're already causing trouble. It's been an adjustment for everyone, he knew it would be, it's been hard for him as well.

Not that Soarynn has been difficult, on the contrary, she's been nothing but obedient, not saying a word unless spoken to. It's Livia who's been posing a problem for all of them, making this transition much more difficult. When she's not screaming at him, she's dragging Soarynn around, doing everything in her power to make the girl miserable.

Soarynn takes it like she should, not complaining one bit. Still, it's not helping any of the underlying tension in his household, so in an attempt to dissolve some of it, he's decided that they'll do the bedding ceremony tonight.

He just has to tell Livia.

"What are their offenses?" He asks, pinching the bridge of his nose to prevent a growing headache he can already feel forming. At twenty-six, he often feels like he's sixty-six, expected to be wise beyond his years in all aspects of his job.

"One was caught trying to escape, two were caught trying to steal from their households, and the last three were caught outside of their quarters after curfew, and they resisted when the Man of the House tried to escort them back to their quarters."

Why must these women be so difficult?

He shoots Quintus a look, this was his idea after all but the majority of any issue will fall on Coriolanus. He always takes the brunt of the heat. Quintus shakes his head, "So shameful, after all we've given them they're already set on ruining this great opportunity."

Many of the men in his study nod, "How should we proceed sir?"

Coriolanus drums his fingers on his desk, it's only been three days and already they're having issues. He can only imagine what will happen later down the road once the Handmaids are taking part in the bedding ceremony.

Resentment will shoot through the roof.

"Execute them, bring in new ones for those households, we'll have a public hanging, send a message to the others."

"Very good sir."

They've hung a few Handmaids already due to them causing disruptions at the holding centers, making sure to discourage any of the others from trying to fight back.

This will be a good spectacle.

"How many Handmaids have been bedded already?" He asks, looking at no one in particular for an answer. He's met with an uncomfortable silence, some of these men have a Handmaid of their own. Perhaps their lack of trying makes them feel emasculated.

He gives a small smirk, "No shame in not doing it yet, not even I've been able to sink my teeth into my Handmaid yet." That seems to do the trick in relaxing everyone. A few men chuckle while letting out a relieved sigh, "I believe about fifty Handmaids have been bedded sir," one of them answers.

His eyebrows shoot up, that's much more than he expected, by the end of the month every Handmaid should have gone through the bedding ceremony.

No exceptions.

"Well, after tonight, it'll be fifty-one," he tells them proudly. If Soarynn is the same in the bedroom as she is everywhere else, this will go off without a hitch. There's a knock at the doors, loud and persistent which means it must belong to Livia.

"Come in," he calls, sitting back in his chair.

Sure enough, Livia walks in as if she's the most important person in the room, paying his advisors no mind with her chin held high. "I came to see if you'd be joining me for dinner. Or will it be another late night of handling your Handmaids?" Her snarky tone causes his nostrils to flare, how this woman can so blatantly disrespect him in front of his employees is beyond him.

She ought to be put back in her place.

"Actually, tonight I will be handling my Handmaid," he informs her, "we'll be completing the bedding ceremony."

Her snarky attitude quickly dissipates when hearing that news. She might have hoped that he'd be repulsed at the thought of sleeping with another woman besides his wife, but it's hardly an issue where he's concerned. Coriolanus had been in the market for someone younger for a long time, someone who could keep her mouth shut and her legs spread.

Now he has her, and he even has the key to her room.

"I see, well I'll have to let her know, help her get prepared with the bedding garme-"

"You're not invited," he cuts her off coldly, clasping his hands, "I've decided that your presence will not be required tonight, or any night for that matter. It is after all, between me and her, since you know, she can actually carry a child."

If looks could kill, he'd be a dead man.

Livia is seething with anger, with rage.

He's seen his wife angry before but this is a new level. If there weren't ten men in this room, he's sure she would have lept across the desk to stab him with a letter opener by now.

"It's a new world Liv," he tacks on the nickname just because she hates it so much, "with new rules and new roles. As my wife, you're supposed to support me, encourage me to do things on my own for the good of the family. Which includes fucking our Handmaid all night, so don't fret, I'll have the Avoxes prepare one of the guest rooms for you to sleep in tonight."

Someone covers up their laugh with a cough, it's not every day you see the President humiliate the First Lady but he's so past caring by now. He was right about one thing, it's a new world, and in this world, Snow lands on top.

꧁ ꧂

Soarynn POV

The outfit Soarynn has to wear for tonight almost feels sacrificial.

It's a sheer, white nightgown, every Handmaid will wear it on their first night with the Man of the House. They've been trained for this, for the bedding ceremony. It's more important for Handmaids like her, for virgins who will be expected to bleed on said nightgown, signifying that they forever belong to the man who took their purity.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Soarynn stares at her reflection in the mirror, she looks like herself but she hasn't felt like it in a very long time. One of the Avoxes had dropped off the garment after dinner was brought to her. Soarynn rarely eats with President Snow and Livia, both are busy and don't have time for her.

It's not like she says much to either of them, to begin with.

But this will be the first time she's alone with him.

With President Snow.

She attempts to make herself look as presentable as possible. She's not going for sexy, or even beautiful. She's a Handmaid, a walking womb, no one cares about how she looks while she lies there and gets defiled. But appearances matter, Aunt Eudora has said that to her girls countless times.

Her hair is normally pulled back in a bun as it's the standard protocol, but for tonight, she lets it fall around her shoulders and brushes it out. She's never cut her hair so it reaches her waist, stopping right above the small of her back. There was a time when she'd lie in the meadow and Jett would braid flowers into her hair while the birds sang above them.

Soarynn presses her hand to her mouth, muffling her sobs so no one hears her. It's not anyone would, like anyone cares about her. She braces herself against the small sink, finally letting it all out. She's so alone, so terrified in this strange place.

Her breaths turn to gasps to hyperventilating.

She's so focused on her tears that she doesn't hear Livia come into her room until she grabs her by the hair, yanking her backward. Soarynn lets out a cry, dropping the hairbrush as she's pulled back.

"Get yourself together," Livia hisses through clenched teeth, "it's bad enough you're his whore, but crying? No one feels sorry for you, do you understand me?"

When Soarynn doesn't immediately respond, she's shoved to the ground, the tile bites at her knees.

"I can make your life here very difficult," Livia threatens, looking down at Soarynn with no sympathy in her eyes. "Coriolanus might be my husband, he might be the Man of the House, but I am the one you answer to. And I promise that I will do everything in my power to make sure that you're miserable at all hours of the day."

"I don't even know you," Soarynn whispers, wishing she just kept her mouth shut but it's hard. She expects Livia to slap her but instead, she just smirks, "I know that you are nothing but a lowly, poor-bred, District whore who is going to bring my baby into this world for me and once you do," Livia leans down, "I'll make sure that you're gone for good."

Livia stands back up, wiping her hands on her skirt, "Now, my husband is upstairs in our bedroom, he expects you to behave yourself as do I. Do not keep him waiting."

She doesn't wait for a response, just walks out of the bathroom, leaving Soarynn on the floor. Soarynn quickly wipes her tears away, she can't have the President seeing her like this. If Livia is telling the truth about getting rid of her after the baby comes, then she's going to have to make sure it doesn't come for a very long time.

She's heard the President say the same phrase a couple of times since her arrival, 'Snow lands on top.' He says it like it's a promise, like he has to land on top no matter what the cost.

But as Soarynn pushes herself to her feet, she stares back at the mirror, deciding that this time, Soarynn will land on top.

꧁ ꧂

It's a long, confusing walk to the President's bedroom.

Soarynn almost gets lost on the second floor of the President's Mansion, a place she has not yet been permitted to see. It's as lavish as the rest of the house and she feels out of place up here too. She passes many, many doors before she starts to worry that she might be lost.

And wouldn't that be a terrible way to start tonight? Being late?

She's starting to lose hope when out of the shadows, an Avox comes into view. Soarynn nearly jumps out of her skin, still getting used to their silent prescence. They bring her meals, but obviously, they don't say much. It could be worse, she tells herself, you could lose your tongue.

She's also on her way to lose her virginity, so maybe there's no real winning scenario here.

The Avox gives her a small nod and points at the last set of doors at the end of the hallway. Soarynn perks up, that's the bedroom. "Oh, thank you," she whispers, giving a tight-lipped smile. She has no idea what the servants think of her or her situation, but she feels no need to be unnecessarily rude for no reason, not in a world like this.

She silently pads down the hallway until she's standing right in front of the double doors that will lead to her being defiled. Perhaps if she just blocks him out, it won't be so bad. She's suddenly very glad that Livia won't be here for this, it would only add to the humiliation.

Soarynn raises her fist, gently knocks on the wooden door, and waits with her head lowered as a sign of respect.

Aunt Eudora spoke to the girls about what it would be like, how there would be pain, how it was imperative that they lie there for at least five minutes to make sure not a drop was wasted. Soarynn wishes she didn't eat dinner because she might just throw up right now.

Aunt Eudora is supposed to visit tomorrow. She’s supposed to “check on how things are going.” Which is a fancy way of saying that she’s going to make sure Soarynn is no longer a virgin and ignoring her duties as a Handmaid.

The doors finally open and she’s staring down at his shiny black leather shoes. Soarynn has only seen President Snow in passing since she had dinner with him and his wife on the night of her arrival.

He moves through the house as if he has a million things weighing on his mind, hardly casting her a glance. She’s grateful for it, to not be the center of his attention.

“I see you found your way up here.”

“Yes, President Snow.”

He sighs, the same sigh she hears every night when he locks her bedroom door. “Come in then, no need to waste any more time.” Soarynn silently obeys him, shivering when he presses his hand to the small of her waist, guiding her into the room before he shuts the doors.

Soarynn looks around the President’s bedroom and finds it to be everything she expected. Ornate, lush, lavish, perfectly decorated without a thing out of place.

The sheets on his bed are white.

They will soon be red.

“What happened to your knees?”

Oh. She forgot about her knees which are now bruised.

If he wanted to, he could accuse her of being with another man, getting down on her knees to pleasure him even though it would be impossible. The only other men in the Mansion are Peacekeepers, who can be replaced as easily as she can.

And despite how terrible of a person President Snow is for letting all of this happen, for doing this to her, he doesn’t seem like an unreasonable man.

“I fell,” she lies.

Lying is bad. Lying can get you punished. Whipped, stung by a cattle prod, or forced to go without food for days. All of these things Soarynn has witnessed at other Handmaid’s expense.

Lucy Gray went through all of it. Starved, whipped, stung, beaten. They never broke her spirit though.

Soarynn doesn’t know if she had one to begin with.

“My wife can be a rather difficult creature to get along with,” he says, calling her out on her lie, “she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of having Handmaids come to Panem.”

“Neither was I,” Soarynn replies, clamping her mouth shut once she realizes what she’s said, what she’s done.

When he doesn’t say anything, Soarynn dares to look up at him, her heart almost breaks out of her chest when instead of a scowl, she sees a smirk residing on his handsome face.

“You’ve been so well-behaved, I knew there had to be a fiery side somewhere inside of you.”

Soarynn is at a loss for words.

"No matter," he shakes his head, "you're here for one thing and one thing only." Soarynn can feel her throat closing up, she's known that this was coming for a long, long time but now that it's happening, she doesn't know how she's going to go through with it.

if Livia were a good wife and followed the rules, she'd hold Soarynn down while her husband assaulted her. Soarynn will have to be brave and indifferent tonight, forcing herself to lie there and take it.

President Snow walks over to a small table pressed against the wall, Soarynn can see what looks like a jewelry box, and a small dish for other tiny things. Every night since she got here, she's held the marble Jett got for her in her hand before putting it back in her trunk. She's allowed to have it, but she's still scared that they might take it away.

Soarynn wonders if President Snow likes small things.

He takes off his cufflinks, tossing them onto the dish before he begins to work on his tie. President Snow is still dressed for work. She thought he might already be undressed when she arrived, but he's a proper man who does things properly.

"Your Aunt will be coming to visit tomorrow, I'm sure you'll give her a flawless report." That's an order if she's ever heard one.

"Yes, President Snow."

Technically, a Handmaid can be removed from a household in cases of abuse or mistreatment. But Soarynn knows how this will go for all of them, how this system will treat them. If it's a system and it's in Panem, then she already knows that it's not in her favor.

Aside from Livia's outbursts, she's been treated rather well for someone who was taken from her home and forced to join an essential breeding program.

He leaves his necktie on the table, looking at her from over his shoulder, "You've never been with a man before?" Soarynn meekly shakes her head, while Jett was certainly friendly, there was never a kiss, only the occasional hug.

He smirks, "Then you'll be in for quite the experience, virgins are always the tightest, squirming around with nowhere to go." It's like he wants her to throw up.

"Aunt Eudora has thoroughly prepared me for the bedding ceremony," she tells him, her voice wavering. He scoffs a laugh, turning back to face her, "Telling you what to expect means nothing, the Handmaids mean nothing."

Then why do you need us so badly? She wants to ask him.

He slowly walks over to her and Soarynn instinctively takes a step back, then another, and another until the back of her knees hits the bed. Oh goodness. He looms over her, so tall with broad shoulders. Soarynn can't help but look up at him, he's very handsome, even if he's the worst man in the world he's so handsome.

He's also seven years older than her.

President Snow stares down at her with such a critical gaze, she almost wants to look away. His eyes are such a bright blue, nearly blinding yet calming at the same time, like the ocean. She's going to drown in his eyes and not in a romantic way.

Soarynn thinks back to what Livia said about getting rid of her after the baby comes. If she wants to survive, she has to pick a side. Soarynn had hoped that Livia would be on her side since she's also a woman, but it's been made very clear that Livia views herself as above Soarynn and the rest of the Handmaids.

Which is a shame, because she's still a woman, she'll always be seen as less than.

So she's forced to pick his side, which might be more dangerous than she anticipated. President Snow is the most powerful man in the world, and right now, he wants one thing: a child.

Probably a boy from what she's gathered, an heir to carry on his legacy for him. If she can give him that, then she might stand a chance at a better life. Aunt Eudora mentioned it once or twice, how Handmaids who gave their households babies would be rewarded.

Soarynn parts her lips, unsure of what to say, Aunt Eudora never mentioned the small talk aspect of the bedding ceremony. But if she wants to play her cards right, play this game right, then she should probably play the damsel in distress.

"I'm nervous," she whispers, not even needing to feign a look of fear because she's terrified right now. Soarynn thought he might offer her some kind words, but instead, his lips curl into a most venomous smile, like he's a snake.

"You should be."

President Snow wastes no time in grabbing a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back to the point of pain. Soarynn gasps when she feels his lips on the tender skin of her neck, this is not what Aunt Eudora prepared her for.

Soarynn closes her eyes, unfamiliar with the strange sensation of a man's lips on her neck. These aren't gentle kisses, no, they're aggressive, harsh kisses that will undoubtedly leave bruises on her neck for the next week or so.

Livia will love that.

When he pulls away, her eyes flutter open, staring back up at him and for a moment, she understands why Livia doesn't want to share. It must be the hormones talking, she should hate this man right now.

His stare is impenetrable and impossible to read but they flick down to her lips and he leans down. Soarynn braces herself for the kiss, closing her eyes.

Her lips part and he shoves his thumb into her mouth. 

She freezes. 

This wasn’t part of the training, none of this was. All those months of Aunt Eudora droning on and on about how to please a man, how to be good for a man. 

She never mentioned this. 

Soarynn thought she knew what to expect, she thought it would be done by the books. He’d bed her, she’d bleed, they’d make a child. 

Simple. 

Not simple. 

Coriolanus Snow does not play by the book. He ignores the rules because he’s the one who makes them. 

She can see it now in his bright blue eyes, how allured he is by her, something new, something shiny. Another trophy to put on his shelf and claim as his. 

She should be quiet. 

Submissive. 

That’s what she should be. 

But what does he want? 

She thought an heir but it seems to be an afterthought right now with her in this sheer white dress, fully available to him.

This is all a game to him, it’s fun, it’s new, it’s fresh and sexy and even though Soarynn is terrified, she knows what she has to do, who she has to be. 

A mistress. 

And while she cannot be it, for she is only a Handmaid, she can certainly play it. 

She wraps her lips around his thumb and his eyes darken, flickering with something sadistic and evil inside of them. 

If Soarynn had to guess, he does not do this with his wife. He doesn’t even like his wife. She doesn’t even like him. 

She may be young but it seems like a pointless marriage for both parties. Perhaps there’s something more important that she can’t see or understand. She is, after all, a Handmaid. 

Not here to think, she reminds herself, here to serve. 

And serve she shall. Soarynn continues sucking on his thumb, maintaining eye contact the entire time which is the right thing to do based on the groan he lets out. He pulls the digit out of her mouth and shoves her onto the bed. Soarynn lies there, with her hair sprawled out around her head like a golden halo.

The angel and the devil.

He crawls on top of her, hastily unbuttoning his shirt and Soarynn can't help but take in his physique. She expected him to be more...soft. But he's hard and toned with a sculpted abdomen. maybe this is a blessing in disguise. It must be better than being a Handmaid for someone who doesn't care about keeping trim.

Coriolanus Snow is a sight for sore eyes.

"You're surprised," he notes, tossing his shirt onto the floor. Soarynn blinks up at the very perceptive man, he notices everything.

"I am," she agrees. She's also surprised that he's getting this naked with her. Men are never expected to fully unclothe. But this is a game and he's going to want to play it the right way.

Soarynn can play it too.

She dares to rest a hand on his bare shoulder, he feels so strong, "I suppose I'm luckier than the other girls," she says breathlessly, it's not hard with her heart racing. President Snow chuckles, shaking his head, "There are some men here that I would also be glad to avoid."

This man might be the most puzzling person she's ever met. He's entirely aware of the gravity of this situation, of the Handmaid Program, and how horrible it is, and yet, he continues it.

You have to be a very evil person to act this way.

Soarynn ought to be careful around him, playing with fire can often lead to getting burned.

Soarynn surprises him by pulling on his shoulder, closing the distance between them, "Then I'm so lucky to be yours," she purrs. Whatever he wants from her, he just got it based off of the look in his eyes. Entirely possessive.

"Spread your legs," he instructs.

Soarynn swallows, she almost forgot why she came up here in the first place. She does as she's told, spreading her legs for the Man of the House, the man who's about to defile her no matter how much she acts like she wants it.

His hand goes to unbuckle his belt, thick and heavy. He could hit her with it, tie her hands, shove it between her teeth.

He could kill her.

But he just tosses it on the floor too. Next comes his pants, and Soarynn can feel the tension between them. She chooses to look up at the ceiling, noting how there are carvings here as well. Does every room in the Capitol have intricate carvings on the ceiling? Hers doesn't.

She hears him unzip, the some rustling.

Perhaps it's only the important rooms that have these carvings.

His hand slides under her dress, groping her breasts, pinching her nipples.

Does his study have these carvings as well?

His large, cold, hand slides down her stomach, stopping right above her most intimate area. "I wonder how tight of a fit it'll be," he muses with a dark chuckle. "Lift up your dress, I want to see you bleed all over me."

Whatever he wants.

Soarynn pulls the fabric up to her breasts, the dress has to stay on whether he likes it or not for tonight.

She feels his fingers between her folds, rubbing up and down. Soarynn has never touched herself down there, but now she's grown numb to men poking and prodding her. Before she came to the Capitol, they used lasers to remove any hair down there. Something about being clean for the men in the Capitol.

His finger bumps against a sensitive spot and she jumps, pulled out of the dissociative bubble she put herself in. "Like that?" He teases, pressing harder against the sensitive nub. Soarynn whimpers, she knows she doesn't want it, but her body has a mind of its own.

His other hand comes to rest on her stomach, holding her down while he plays with her like a toy. Soarynn does her best to keep still, only her legs shake from the stimulation. Thankfully, he's more focused on his own pleasure right now because his fingers disappear and are soon replaced by something much bigger and more daunting.

His cock.

He slaps the tip against her entrance, Soarynn sneaks a look and pales at the sight of it. He's going to tear her apart.

Soarynn doesn't know what else she needs to do right now except lie there and take it, so she does just that, holding still while he slowly slides into her cunt. Her eyes squeeze shut at the painful stretch, it feels as if he's ripping her walls apart. She grits her teeth and fists her dress so tightly between her fingers.

She thought he might take things slowly but instead he, snaps his hips forward, burying himself inside of her.

Soarynn cries out, arching her back from the pain.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

Soarynn lies there in a daze, anything he says to her goes in one ear and out the other as he begins to pound into her at such a harsh, forceful pace. Like he wants to break her in half.

The bedding ceremony is supposed to be slow the first time, sacred.

Nothing about being raped is sacred.

A tear rolls down her cheek while he continues his pace, clearly determined to reach his own peak at a swift pace. His other hand comes to rest on the side of her face, wiping away the tear, "Crying? Surely it can't be that bad," he taunts.

Soarynn sniffles, surprised at her own restraint and ability to keep still despite the burning intrusion between her legs. "It's fine," she croaks out. His thumb finds its way back into her mouth, giving her something else to focus on besides his cock breaking back into her cunt over and over again.

She has to mind her teeth so she doesn't bite his thumb off because she's blinded by the pain.

Aunt Eudora is a liar, she said it would be a swift pinch.

This is a hard punch.

"So tight," he pants, picking up the speed in which he fucks her, "so young and pure, all mine aren't you?" He pulls his thumb out of her mouth, a string of spit is attached to it and he wipes it off on her cheek.

"Yes," she gasps, a foreign feeling inside of her beginning to build, "I'm yours President Snow."

He groans, loud and low, "Say that again."

Soarynn is so fucking out of it, she doesn't even know exactly what he wants her to repeat.

"I'm yours President Snow," she says again, adding a more sultry tone.

He shakes his head, thrusts beginning to stutter, "Just the last part," he orders.

Oh.

"President Snow," she gasps, a wire inside of her is pulled taut.

"Again," he barks out, his cock pulses inside of her cunt.

"President Snow," she moans, her walls flutter around his cock.

They both cum at the same time, unheard of in the Handmaid Program since a man's pleasure is always a top priority. But she cums right alongside him, crying out in pain that her body mistakes for pleasure.

He buries himself deep inside of her, making sure not to waste a drop of what could potentially become his future heir. Soarynn pants, her legs are trembling, the adrenaline is wearing off and the pain is ebbing in.

"So good," he praises, grabbing her waist with both hands, "my little whore."

Ouch.

Soarynn bats her lashes up at him, despite the pain and emptiness she feels within her, she must play her part. "I'm yours," she whispers, smiling when he presses his thumb hard against her hipbone, "President Snow," she adds.

"I knew you'd be a sweet little secret," he says, rubbing his thumb over the same spot, "the virgins always are." Soarynn decides that it's now or never to get to know him a little better, to get on his side, "Does your wife call you President Snow?"

He laughs. He fucking laughs like she just told the funniest joke in the world.

"I usually hope my wife doesn't talk at all," he tells her plainly.

Soarynn pushes herself up onto her elbows, the sexy mistress must stay vigilant, "Then it's a good thing I'm here now." She could get in so much trouble for this. For speaking without permission, for speaking ill of his wife, for doing any of this really.

He grins, giving her waist a squeeze, "Let's see if you've served your one true purpose."

Ah, yes, getting pregnant.

He pulls out slowly, almost at an agonizing pace and Soarynn can't peel her eyes away. She feels empty once he's pulled out, and sore, very, very sore. His cock is big, long, and girthy, no wonder it hurt so much. She can see a mixture of their cum, along with traces of blood.

His stare is fixed entirely between her legs, she must've bled a lot.

"Stay here," he instructs, leaving her with no room to argue.

So Soarynn lies there, legs spread, bleeding, defiled.

Forever his.

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and she's quick to blink them away. She can cry later, in the privacy of her own room. She hears the shower turn on, of course, he'd want to shower.

She doesn't know how long she lies there, maybe minutes, maybe hours.

Eventually, she hears him come back into the room, fresh and squeaky clean after raping her.

From her view on the bed, it looks like he's holding in his hand, something like, like a camera.

"This will be a night to remember for you," he tells her, leaning forward with the camera in hand. Soarynn closes her eyes when she hears the 'click' of him taking a photo of her bleeding all over his bed, aimed directly at her spread legs.

Your face isn't even in it, she tells herself.

"Crawl up to here," he points to the top of the bed. Soarynn can only do as she's told. It hurts to sit up fully, but now she can see the blood that's stained her dress and the sheets.

There's a lot of it.

Soarynn rolls onto her hands and knees, crawling up to the pillows where he's now sitting, a piece of paper in his hands. When she gets closer, she can see that it's the photo he just took of her, still developing from the looks of it.

"You have a camera?" She asks, ignoring the pain that shoots throughout her entire body. He nods, setting the photo down on the nightstand, "It's rather old-fashioned." She still finds it interesting, Soarynn has never owned a camera, never saw one in Twelve.

"Can I take a picture?"

It's a bold question, so bold that he gives her a sharp look, "What would you take a picture of?"

His words cut deep, he's right, she's a Handmaid, she's a nobody with no prospects.

She also needs to play the part.

"Of you," she mumbles, pretending to look embarrassed which isn't difficult. His stern expression slightly melts, Livia must not take a lot of pictures of him. "Just one," he decides.

Soarynn smiles, it's not as hard to pretend to be excited about getting to use the camera. He hands it over to her and shows her which button to press. "Why won't you lay down, and I can take it from above?"

He shockingly complies, lying down on his bed, resting his head on a pillow. Soarynn straddles him, ignoring how sensitive she is down there, and how her dress has a red stain on it.

She brings the camera up to her eye and does her best to line up the shot. He stares up at her, in charge even when he's under her. Soarynn decides to level the playing field and take a risk by laying her hand on his chest, clearly her hand, not Livia's.

She snaps the picture before he can say anything, a flash goes off, his eyes widen. "I hope it's not blurry," she says, sliding off of him, watching the photograph come out of the camera. President Snow takes it out, holding it between his thumb and index finger, "Either way you can keep it." Soartynn furrows her brows, perhaps she misread the situation, "Livia would lose her mind if she found this," he explains, "she's not too fond of you if you can't tell."

Soarynn could continue this conversation, tell him how abusive his wife has been to her, but she can see in his eyes that he's exhausted. From today and from his marriage. So instead, she holds the camera out to him, "Take one of me?"

He breaks into a boyish grin, clearly thrilled at the idea of taking these secret photos that his wife will never discover. He has Soarynn lie down where he was just laying. But he has her take off her dress, baring her breasts and the rest of her naked body to him.

Soarynn poses for the camera to the best of her ability never having taken a photo of herself before. He takes quite a few, holding her breast in one, shoving his thumb into her mouth in another.

It's such a twisted web she's gotten herself tangled in.

Thrilling yet terrifying, such a delicate line she's walking.

He eventually tires from the photos, lying back down beside her. If he weren't her captor, this might feel romantic, and domestic. Their shoulders touch and Soarynn listens to his breaths, they're slowing down, he's falling asleep, or trying not to.

"Tell me about Twelve," he finally says, breaking the silence.

"I thought you knew everything about Twelve."

"I don't know about you."

He has a point. What he knows about Twelve is what he's been told by the Mayor and Peacekeepers, not a local miner.

So she starts talking, and she talks for a long time.

And he listens.

꧁ ꧂

An hour must have passed since Soarynn told him a little bit about herself and her life in Twelve. Her eyes are just beginning to drift closed when his voice brings her back to life.

“I suppose you know your way back,” he says nonchalantly, sitting up which leads her to sit up as well. Soarynn cards a hand through her hair, tangled and messy. 

For someone who just lost her virginity, she looks like she had a grand old time. 

If only that were the case. 

She knows that once she returns to her room, then she can properly cry. Until then, she must play her part, she must play the alluring mistress. The girl who thinks he’s the most important person in the world because he is. 

Coriolanus Snow is so important and yet he’s absolutely miserable in his marriage. 

He’s not even wearing his wedding ring right now. 

And that's when it hits her. She knows exactly what he wants. 

Power. 

He has none in his marriage. 

Having power over Soarynn means something to him, even if it’s not a lot, it’s still something. Which also means that she has power if she can give it to him. 

At least, that’s what she tells herself. 

Livia certainly doesn’t have power. Even if she’s Capitol-born, she’s still a woman and Soarynn knows enough to know that women have no power in Panem. 

Capitol, District, Handmaid. All just words men have created to divide them further. 

“I’m not staying the night?” 

Coriolanus laughs, he laughs and throws his head back. For a moment he doesn’t look like an evil dictator, but a handsome young man who just took her to bed. 

“Livia would skin you alive. Besides, it’s not protocol. I can’t bend the rules for anyone, not even my own Handmaid.” 

Ah, there it is. Back to where they started, or well, acting like they’re back to where they started. The dynamic might shift in the bedroom, but outside of these four walls, she’s only the Handmaid, silent and mindless. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” She asks, pretending to be hopeful. Seeing anyone but Livia is a win in her book but seeing him means another chance to dig towards her freedom, or something besides what this is right now. 

Coriolanus shakes his head, staring down at the sheets that are now slightly stained with her blood, “I’ll be gone for most of the day. You’ll keep Livia company.” 

Soarynn does her best to look excited. “Perhaps one night she could join us,” she offers, remembering what Aunt Eudora said. “A child cannot grow in your womb if it’s aware of what’s going on outside of it. Family turmoil is a one-way ticket to a miscarriage girls.” 

These people are terrible people and Soarynn knows that should anything happen to a baby inside of her, they’d offer her little to no comfort or support. 

They’d pin the whole thing on her. 

“I don’t think she will,” he answers, his voice laced with exhaustion and it’s not from raping her. 

That’s what he did. 

He. Raped. Her. 

And she’s sitting next to him as if nothing has happened. 

“Well, goodnight President Snow,” she says, “thank you for tonight, I’ve learned a great deal.” 

He grins, a boyish grin that makes her heart flutter for merely a second before it goes back to normal, “You’ll crave it more and more,” he promises her, “we’ll be seeing more of each other, anything for the heir.”

His heir.

At the end of the day, that’s what he’s after. Not love or power. 

A future. A legacy. An heir. 

“Anything for the heir,” she repeats mindlessly while slipping out of the bed. Her legs shake and she’s sore all over but she makes her way out of the President’s bedroom and into the hallway. 

Nothing but a Handmaid.

꧁ ꧂

Coriolanus POV

Coriolanus sits in the aftermath of what most occurred. He reeks of sex. And he likes it. 

He never knew that there could be such a thrill in taking one’s virginity. 

When it came to taking Livia’s, he was expected to be kind and gentle and he’d neither of those things. But with Soarynn, he could be his true self. 

She certainly wasn’t. 

Timid, yes. Scared, absolutely. But he saw that switch go off in that pretty little head of hers, how quickly she played into his little fantasy. 

She’s more clever than she’s given credit for. She’s also a good time so he’ll let her play out her own little fantasy for now, let her think he cares, that he’s different than the rest. 

He’s not left to linger with his thoughts for long though. Livia bursts through the doors with a haughty pace, already flooding the room with her misery and goodness knows that it loves company. 

“Already fucked your little whore? Did she bleed all over you like you imagined in your dreams?” Livia's tone is so bratty that he genuinely thinks about backhanding her just for the fun of it. 

Instead, he remains calm and collected. You can’t beat fire with fire. 

He’s tried that already and they both got burned. 

“Of course she did,” he answers, pulling the covers back over his lap, showing the dried blood for her to see, “I had her get on top.” 

It’s remarkable how fast Livia’s face falls. Countless times she’s tried to be on top but he’s never gone for it. 

He likes being in control too much. And a little white lie never hurt anybody, Soarynn will never be on top, and Livia, will be none the wiser.

It’s a good thing Soarynn is here now. Livia will constantly be comparing herself to Soarynn, comparing how he interacts with the two of them. 

And Soarynn will do the same with Livia. 

While Livia will envy Soarynn’s youth, her ability to produce children and be with him intimately, Soarynn will envy Livia’s freedom and her ability to call Coriolanus her own, to flaunt that diamond ring on her finger. 

He’s pitting fire against fire. 

He wonders who will get burned first. 

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

| Part 2. |

{ Part 3. }

| taglist: @lovelylove268 @kickmybark @iswearicanfixhim @wonderlandbound111 @melodyoflovee @thevoicesinmyprettylittlehead @erensrealgf @evilmenarehot @cervvsq @snowgirl12 @matcha-muses @anisangeldust |

[verysium]

please write something about blue lock as cat dads, like we have cat and its batshit insane <3

my cat was furiously scratching at my bedroom door this morning, so i'm taking that as a sign to write this. here you go anon:

rin owns a void. black fur with bluish green eyes and sharp little fangs. rin adopted him as an emotional support animal after sae left for spain. his name is kuro (黑) which means "black" in japanese because the itoshis are just unoriginal with all pet names. sometimes the cat camouflages with the furniture, but rin knows its habits too well to accidentally sit on him. they have an almost telepathic bond. kuro follows a very strict routine. feeding times are 7 in the morning before rin's football practice and 6 in the evening during dinner. he is calm and quiet most of the time but hisses whenever there are birds in the window. very shy around strangers. will curl his tail around rin's leg and peek out from time to time but does not have the courage to actually approach. sometimes if rin has free time, he takes kuro out to the park and lets him chase after the butterflies. kuro is also very intelligent. knows how to unlock doors, fetch the newspaper, and clean up after using the potty. sometimes spaces out when rin watches his horror movies at night. will blink at the screen owlishly. he's not very skittish when it comes to jumpscares. he just doesn't understand what's going on in the film. his favorite time of the year is during the holidays when rin goes back to kamakura to visit his parents. mama itoshi always sneaks kuro an extra fish bone.

oliver has a cat with heterochromia. his name is björn which is swedish for bear because he is a massive maine coon. flirts with all the tabby cats in his neighborhood and purrs loudly to show off. incredibly fluffy but sheds a lot. very strong physically. one time he moved oliver's entire closet because he did not like how it was blocking his cat door. secretly the leader of a cat gang, but oliver doesn't know. pretty chill most of the time and enjoys large family gatherings. multilingual because he can respond to commands in swedish, japanese, and german. he also knows a little bit of danish. oliver taught him a few tricks as a kitten. he can twirl around, roll over, and give high-fives. despite his large size, björk is very flexible and light on his feet. one time he got into the cookie jar on the top pantry shelf, and oliver's mom had to shoo him out.

shidou has an orange cat named ryu (竜) which is an alternative form of the kanji for "dragon" (龍). it is also adapted from the first character in his name "ryusei." his cat looks exactly like how mcdonald's sprite tastes. very spicy. does not sleep at night. his business hours are from three in the morning to whenever he passes out. drifts like a literal race car and makes vrooming sound effects. ryu took one whiff of catnip as a kitten and has never been the same since. all of his toys are shredded. prefers taking the head off first. you will find cotton stuffing everywhere. he destroyed the brand new cat bed shidou got for him, so now he's been downgraded to a cardboard box. ryu is prohibited from all open windows especially the ones with pull-down blinds because he once saw a squirrel and went absolutely feral. only eats raw meat and refuses to even touch dried kibble. sits beside shidou whenever he orders yukhoe from the local korean restaurant. feasts on all the scraps.

barou has a tuxedo cat. her name is mimi, and she is the sweetest cat in existence. claws are always trimmed. licks herself clean. unusually calm at the vet and groomer and is one of the few cats who actually enjoys baths. sometimes helps barou with cleaning by catching all the dust bunnies. his apartment is also insect-free thanks to her. she is, in fact, a baddie. the tomcat next door has tried to get her attention for over a year now, but she refuses to be swayed. he gave her a dead rat once, but mimi swatted it away before telling him he better start paying some bills and look somewhat hygienic before she even looked his way. the only man in her life is barou, and it will stay that way. mimi is also a polydactyl cat, so it looks like she's wearing white mittens. sometimes barou comes home from practice exhausted and collapses face first into bed, and mimi will crawl onto his back to knead his muscles for him.

nagi has a scottish fold. she has white fur and brown eyes, hence her name yuki which is japanese for "snow." she is very similar to nagi. lazy and sleeps all day. their favorite activity together is sunbathing. eats a lot but somehow still manages to stay in shape. she often sits upright like a human and kneads the fur on her tummy. as a kitten, she mirrored nagi's actions, so he got her a mini video game controller. it doesn't actually work, but she gets to press on the buttons whenever nagi is gaming. makes her feel very involved. scientists have also classified her as a liquid. she can get herself through every nook and cranny. even the two millimeter crack under the bedroom door. her favorite place in the house is her bed. has two fluffy blankets and a teddy bear. during winter, she moves her bed closer to the heater. has unofficial beef with choki because she tried to eat him once. ended up with spines in her mouth and never touched a houseplant after that. choki still has a giant missing chunk from where his arm was bitten off.

reo has a persian cat. her royal title is kana-hime because she is a spoiled princess. she has silky fur that smells like perennial roses. has an entire room to herself and a private chef. reo has like 3134736845 pictures of her on his phone. she is even included in the holiday cards and family portrait above the fireplace mantel. her collar is made of sterling silver with a diamond in the nameplate. very coquette. pink bows are her favorite. sensitive paws so reo customized a pair of small fur booties for her. clingy and has attachment issues (just like her owner.) sometimes goes on playdates with yuki. said playdates involve yuki just sitting there while kana-hime gives her a full body grooming session and makeover.

sae owns a siamese. light blue eyes and a dark patch of fur on her face and paws. she does not have a name because sae never formally adopted her. one morning he had gone to practice and returned to a mother and her kittens on his fire escape. sae did not keep the kittens, but unfortunately the mother was very persistent, so he let her stay. despite originally being a stray, she is very clean. always licking herself and sae's hands. not very picky but has a preference for seafood, specifically surume. very productive during the day. rearranges her bed and water bowl. scratches her post five to six times. takes a daily stroll on the rooftops of madrid. she doesn't have a collar, but somehow always manages to return safely to sae's window. has an almost sixth sense when it comes to his emotions. if she senses he is tired, she will hop onto his lap and force him to lay down and give her pets. if she sees that he is stressed, she rubs her head under his chin to calm him down. probably the only emotional attachment sae has had ever since he left japan.

kaiser has a norwegian forest cat. it has golden fur, dark stripes, and blue eyes. has a little mane around his neck, so he resembles a small lion. his name is klaus. basically a mini kaiser. preens in front of the mirror every morning alongside michael. prances around as if he owns the entire establishment. bullies other cats but is scared shitless in the presence of dogs (even chihuahuas). has a little habit of gently biting kaiser's finger. not enough to draw blood but enough to leave a little imprint from his fangs. it's his way of showing love. nuzzles against kaiser's neck tattoo when he picks klaus up. a very needy baby at night. cannot sleep well in any place that is not michael's bed. needs to be tucked in like a child with his stuffed animals and blankets. ends up sleeping on kaiser's face by the time the morning rolls around. has perfect loafs, as in 11/10 if it was a competition. side-eyes ness whenever he comes to visit. extremely judgmental to the point kaiser suspects klaus must have been a human in his past life. knows how to pose for photos and even tilts his head to capture a good angle.

[fryktheciller]

Cooler

charlie dalton x gn!reader

summary: a summer evening at dalton's place

notes: hi!! this is the first ff i actually finished writing and im dying inside at the thought of posting it. english isnt my first language and im posting this at 2 am, after a poor revision, idk what to say expect spelling mistakes and sentences that dont make sense and raskolnikov-like blurb cause im him hes me and ok i really need to close this paragraph.

Days fly by with Dalton. His parents, two goddamn toffs, sure had great taste, both in furniture and especially in friends. God bless that day his parents decided to become best friends with yours.

Can't say the same about their son, Charlie, a professional dickhead, from the day you knew each other until the day he'd close his eyes and become cold. Sure, he's hot and pretty and oh so charming; sometimes he can also be kind and gentle, but he's got something that’s scary magnetic, and addictive, or at least you think so. That something’s everywhere: in the way he moves his hands while he's explaining the last shitplan he’s come up with while smoking on the balcony; the way he rolls up his shirt, thinking it will help doing a math test, knowing damn well he's going to pass by a stroke of pure luck; or the way he plays the most outrageous melody on his sax, still making it somehow so good and passionate. Also (did I mention it?) he's quite literally the definition of gorgeous—the definition of kalokagathia, except it’s all looks and no agathia. The whole thing’s like: I could love him. And you, oh so desperately!, do. 

The sun’s setting, it’s humid, and the air’s filled with the scent of flowers and the smoke of Charlie’s cigarette. 

–Want one?- He hands you his torn-out red Marlboro packet and his lighter.

You take one and light it up, sitting on the balcony’s hot tiles. 

–Got no dates this summer?

He shrugs, smiling and blowing smoke into your face.

–Got asked out a couple of times before school was over. It's that I'm not interested, don't really know why.

You drag from your cigarette and blow the smoke out, then lightly tap it to get rid of excess ash. 

–Milord, if you may forgive the vulgar language I’m about to use, us peasants call it being in love, or having an interest in someone. Again, sorry for using such vulgar and disgraceful language.

He laughs, and you laugh along with him.

He puts out the cigarette on the tiles, and shrugs again. 

–I don't know.

–It’s not that you don't know; you'd like not to know. Falling in love with someone must be such a sin in the Charlie Dalton religion.

He laughs mechanically, somehow. He hesitates, smiles, and, once again, shrugs. 

–Generally I try to avoid these statements, but now I can't help but embrace them. I've given up.

You laugh, and he follows you—heartily, even. 

–But you?

–Me?

He gestures vaguely with his hand, and you find yourself staring at it with lust, almost. 

–Laid those pretty eyes on someone?

You shrug.

–Nothing much.

–What does that even mean? It's either yes or no. You said it. 

–Didn’t say it. I implied it

–Smartass.

–You’re just jealous of my linguistic capacities.

–Sure I am. Now is it some new incestuos-alien-being who doesn’t even know what a woman is, or is it someone worthy of your admiration?

 –He’s…definitely worth my attention. I think. But I have no hopes. I count on nothing. The thing is: do you really have such low consideration for my romantic interests?

You raise an eyebrow at him, almost mischievously. 

–Not at all. I remember all of those creatures you swore to your mother you loved. And, oh god!, you might expect to find someone pretty on a list that's basically a decade long, but no! Each and one of them is outrageous-looking and with absolutely no social skills. Sometimes, I’ll be honest, I really wondered if you were joking, and for some time I even believed that. But what a realization it was when I understood you found those things pretty.

You both laugh again, and you visualize and remember all those “people” you liked and that you now look at with disgust and apathy.

You’re folded over your stomach, tears of laughter streaming down your face, your tummy hurts, and you can't breathe; he's no different, lying down on the floor, arms wrapped around his stomach, wet lines at the corners of his face, and misty eyes; almost like he was thinking about the same thing as you.

As soon as you thought it was over, anything like a weird look was enough to get you both to start laughing.

–Good god,– you whisper, wiping off the tears with your fingers.

–I think I have never laughed so much at something I said. 

A smile is enough as a response; anything else would kill you.

–By the way, he’s really pretty.

He raises an eyebrow, almost trying to contradict you. 

You smile at him, as if trying to get him started on a debate.

–Description?– he asks, understanding your intentions.

–No, for god’s sake. 

–Not even a hint? A tiny little hint?

–Nothing, absolutely nothing. 

How would you describe this person anyway? “A brunette and dark-eyed boy who plays the saxophone and is a dickhead for a living”? It’s ridiculously explicit. 

–How ‘bout you? It's not that I care, but, you know...

He laughs in response.

–No, you’d tell them.

–Why would I do that? I most likely have no clue who that is.

He shakes his head. 

–Do I know them, at least?

He shrugs and hesitates.

 –Pretty much, yes.

Your head hurts; your stomach is practically in your throat; and you spat your heart long ago. You hope to God that he doesn't come up with a “it’s you” thing because you would faint on the spot. 

–Oh, but it’s your turn now,– he says, nudging you with his elbow.

–Do you know him? ...uhh yes, I suppose so. 

–Great.

–Yeah.

Silence falls between you. You tilt your head and look at the sky, intense, dark, and somehow transparent and clear, like it is only in summer; the air is now fresher, and a soft breeze rises, contrasting with the boiling heat of the tiles. Everything’s humid, full of the scent of flowers, from both florid and almost empty plants, frogs croaking, and fireflies, opposing the equally intense beaming, but perhaps less faint, of the stars. 

Your head still hurts; you can see but you can't really see; you still have the laughter from before in your tummy, and thinking about it still makes you chuckle. 

He seems to ignore you. He lit up another cigarette. “What’s he thinking about?” you think, looking at the sun-colored and bustling flame from the lighter, then at the less intense and steadier one on the tobacco. 

“Must be so unhealthy for him to smoke like this,” you think, and you find yourself pitying him, "ridiculous," is your comment. It is indeed ridiculous to pity someone who rejects deeply and obstinately the concept of that feeling. 

You want to hold him against your chest or on your shoulder, smell the scent of his skin, and keep him close, even if that means dying from the heat. You stare at his profile—that huge yet so perfect nose; that big hand, well-kept like only a musician can do; then the cigarette, already half-burnt; and his lips, chapped and dry. You look at them with lust once again, but not lust lust, something more tender and sweeter, rather than sinful, even though the sin part doesn't really bother you. 

“Tell him, c'mon, tell him,” a little voice in your head was screaming. Of course you’re not going to tell him, or maybe yes? What would happen if you did? You'd lose a friendship that's scary long; that’s what would happen. And what would you do without him? Could you make it? Of course not. You don't remember what it feels like not to have him by your side. Plus, he wouldn't forget: who the hell would forget the love confession from their best friend anyway?

“C'mon, tell him, tell him!” You swear you hear that tiny voice screaming at the top of its lungs.

No, you won't tell him; you'll bring your feelings to the grave with you. 

He put out the cigarette, still in silence. 

“C'mon!! Carpe diem, for fuck’s sake!” What does that even mean? Can I kill a man because I thought “carpe diem" ? That doesn't make any fucking sense. And when did you really start to love him? Months ago? Days ago? Years ago? It could have been yesterday; you’d swear you’ve been loving him for years. 

You start to embrace the idea of telling him. “How would I even put up the whole sentence?” You can't do anything but tell him. Let's be honest; it feels like lying to him, and would you want someone else to tell him rather than you?

–Char

He turns at you with a questioning gaze on his face. Your heart's beating so fast that you feel your arteries are going to explode.

–Can’t beat around the bush much longer, you know. That person…

You pale, feeling the blood pump hard in your temples, and you start to wonder if those were really your last words.

–Cool.

He doesn't feel the same way; it's clear. 

–It's even cooler because I really like you too.

You smile and start to chuckle; it feels like fresh air after holding your breath for too long. He responds with a soft laugh, heartily, then wraps an arm around your shoulders and brings your figure next to hiss, kissing your forehead with those chapped and dry lips that feel like a fresh towel you washed without fabric softener. 

–Were you going to confess your sins eventually?– You joke, still smiling.

–Perhaps, yes. Seems like we’re going to be busy earlier than I expected, though. 

He smirks, a flashing Charlie Dalton smirk. You groan, annoyed, in response.

–Fucking disgusting, Charlie.

–Sure, sure. 

–It's too hot to have sex, Charlie. Don't tell me you don't think so.

–You just told me you liked me, and you have already started to protest?

He shakes his head in mock disapproval.

–You’re not going anywhere, like this.

You chuckle.

–Kiss me, and I'll stop whining.

–Could have told me earlier, maybe we could have actually got to have sex,– he laughs, leaning in. 

His lips are on yours; they're soft, gente, and warm, but still rough and dry. 

God, this boy needs chapstick so badly.

[naxalbari1967]

USAmericans only cares about capital not human lives

Let’s just say it straight Americans care more about property than they do about people. Full stop. You can see it everywhere in how they talk how they react what they get angry about what they cry about. The second a window breaks or a car burns or a store gets looted it is panic mode. But let a kid get shot in the street let a whole family get wiped out in a bombing overseas and half the country shrugs. That tells you everything.

Every time there is protest every time someone fights back against injustice what is the first thing you hear. Not wow why are people so desperate. Not damn another person got murdered by the state. No. It is what about the small businesses. What about the broken glass. What about the Target that got looted. That tells you where the priorities are. Not justice. Not human life. Stuff. Walls. Capital.

It is the kind of mindset that comes from centuries of putting property over people. This is the country that literally had humans listed as property. Enslaved people were insured like furniture. Whipped and sold like cattle. Black bodies were commodities from day one. And when slavery ended the same logic stayed. Protect the property at all costs. Police were never there to serve and protect people. They were there to guard capital. To crush strikes. To keep the poor in check. That has not changed.

You can see it in the way people talk about war. Bombing a whole neighborhood overseas is nothing. No tears. No outrage. But someone burns a flag in the US and folks lose their minds. A drone wipes out a wedding in Yemen and the media barely blinks. But spray paint a statue and suddenly it is national crisis mode. Because the symbol the image the property gets more sympathy than the real breathing people under boots.

Even during natural disasters or mass shootings or poverty it is the same. Somebody says we need housing healthcare food clean water and people go how are we going to pay for that. But let a bank cry about lost profits and money pours in. Bailouts for billionaires every time. Food stamps for hungry kids nah too expensive. They will defend a landlord kicking someone out faster than they will defend the person sleeping on the street. Why. Because they worship ownership. They think owning something makes you a better human. If you got a house a car a company you are worth protecting. If you do not you are a burden.

And it is not just the rich. Regular folks buy into it too. That is the scariest part. People who barely have anything still defend the system that crushes them. Because they are sold this lie that one day they might be rich too. So they see someone robbing a store and they get mad not because it hurts them but because they dream of owning that store one day. And deep down they think property is sacred. That breaking a window is worse than breaking a rib. That taking sneakers from a shop is worse than taking a life with a badge. It gets pushed everywhere. Movies news school church. You grow up hearing respect private property like it is the tenth commandment.

Nobody teaches you to respect your neighbors hunger your classmates pain your city’s grief. Just respect the fence. Respect the logo. Respect the cops who beat you for touching the wrong thing. So when riots happen when rebellions spark off when people light up the symbols of this system people lose their damn minds. Not because they are hurt but because they are scared. Scared that the illusion of control is breaking. That the stuff they built their whole identity on might fall. They will call for tanks to protect a Walgreens.

They will cheer when protesters get locked up because how dare they disrespect property. Meanwhile the same politicians bombing kids and stealing land overseas get applause for being strong leaders. They say looting is violence. But they never call it violence when someone dies in a factory making those shoes. They say protestors are thugs. But they never say that about landlords evicting whole families or cops murdering teens in the street. It is all backwards. The people with the most blood on their hands get called civil. The ones fighting to live get called criminals.

America has always been like this. Founded on land theft built with slave labor expanded with genocide. All of it to make a buck. All of it justified with one idea property is worth more than life. And they carry that same logic today. It is not just policy. It is in the culture. In the bones.

So yeah Americans care more about property than people. They will cry for a burnt police car but not for a child shot in their sleep. They will get furious over a looted chain store but silent over a Black man suffocated on camera. Until that flips until people matter more than profit this place will keep repeating the same cycle. Rage. Rebellion. Repression. Reset. But nothing changes.

And the saddest part is some people do see it. They just feel powerless to stop it. So they cling to the fantasy that order and law and property rights will keep them safe. But there is no safety in a system that throws you away the second you cannot pay. There is no future in worshipping things while people starve.

You want justice. Start by giving a damn about people more than buildings. Start by asking why folks are angry not what they broke. Start by seeing property as the symptom not the center. That is the only way anything ever shifts.

Because at the end of the day a broken window is not the tragedy. A broken system is.

[latexb0n3z]

Unrequited Love, Lots Of Blow, and a Visit From Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man

CW; self-harm, sexual mentions, drug use, mental illness yadayadayada.

This was kind of a vent in some weird way. Crashed out earlier and had to write something to cope.

Logan woke up to the sound of something(s) shattering. Again.

“Goddammit, Wade,” he muttered, dragging himself off the couch. It wasn’t even 8 AM, and his roommate was already tearing through the place like a tornado.

Roommate. Logan still wasn’t sure how the hell that had happened. Wade had been crashing at his place “just for a few days” six months ago, and somehow, he’d never left. Logan had considered kicking him out more times than he could count, but something about the mercenary’s manic energy—and the raw, broken humanity underneath it—kept him from following through.

Logan pushed open the door to Wade’s bedroom, which looked like a war zone. Clothes, weapons, and takeout containers were scattered everywhere, and Wade stood in the middle of it, panting, holding the remnants of a lamp in his hand.

“Morning, sunshine,” Logan grunted. “What’s this about?”

Wade didn’t look at him. His face was bare, his scars catching the dim morning light. “It was an ugly lamp anyway.” The more Logan looked, the more was wrong. There was blood, literally everywhere. The bathroom mirror was broken, glass and MORE blood everywhere— the living room was a disheveled mess, a broken bottle of Jack, and a shattered cup like Wade had just grabbed the first thing that was near.

Logan crossed his arms. “You gonna tell me what’s really going on, or should I start charging you for broken furniture?”

Wade flinched, then dropped the lamp base to the floor with a clatter. “What’s the point, huh? You don’t care.”

Logan frowned. “You think I’d let you live here if I didn’t care?”

Wade laughed, sharp and bitter. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Logan. You let me stay because you feel sorry for me. Big, bad Wolverine, taking pity on the ugly stray.” He gestured to himself. “Well, guess what? I don’t need your charity! I’ll leave— and like you said, it’s ‘God’s best joke that I can’t die’ and it’s on all of us!” Even though dying is all he wished he could do.

Logan stepped forward, his voice low and steady. “This about the girl?”

That did it. Wade’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Oh, so you did notice. Good for you, Sherlock.” He took a shaky breath, his words spilling out in a torrent. “Yeah, it’s about her- and everything else- and- and, It’s about how you’ve been all smiles and soft eyes around her. How you go out on these little dates, come home smelling like flowers and happiness or whatever the hell normal people do!”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You jealous?”

Wade barked out a laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. “Oh, I’m so jealous, Logan. Not because I want her or anything—God, no. I’m jealous because she’s… she’s normal. She’s pretty, and soft, and someone you could actually care about.”

His voice cracked, and his hands clenched into fists. “Not like me. Not like this.” He gestured to his scarred face, his mismatched, worn-down body. “You could never like something like me, right, Logan?”

Logan stared at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the room was silent except for Wade’s heavy breathing, his manic pacing, his sniffles.

“You done?” Logan finally asked.

Wade blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said, are you done?” Logan stepped closer, his voice gruff but calm. “Because if you’re waiting for me to tell you you’re wrong, I’m not gonna do it.”

Wade’s face crumpled, but Logan kept going.

“You’re a pain in the ass, Wade. You’re loud, and messy, and half the time, I don’t know whether to strangle you or buy you a drink.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But you’re wrong about one thing. I don’t let you stay here because I feel sorry for you. I let you stay because you’re worth putting up with.”

Wade looked up, his eyes glassy. “You’re just saying that to make me stop crying and breaking things!”

Logan snorted. “Trust me, I’m not the type to say things I don’t mean. And I don’t give a damn what you look like.”

Wade swallowed hard, his hands shaking. “I don’t believe you.”

Logan grabbed him by the shoulders, his grip firm but not unkind. “Then believe this: If I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here. Got it?”

Wade nodded slowly, his breath hitching.

“Good,” Logan said, letting go and stepping back. “Now clean this mess up before I start charging you for rent.”

But Wade didn’t move and inch. He just looked down at the floor, and cried and cried. He just stood there, vulnerable, without any quips or witty comments to defend himself. Logan thought it was a pain in the ass, but he was still himself— empathetic no matter just how much he wanted to just tell the son of a bitch to get out.

“Wade?” He was sort of at a loss for words. Wade having outbursts wasn’t anything new— but just… standing there, crying. That was a sight to behold. His expression dropped,

“You have no idea, Logan.”

“You think you’re special, bub? I’ve been alive for two-hundred fucking years. I saw the invention of machine guns for one. You have no fucking clue what ideas I have, Wade.”

Wade finally looked up at him, his milky, yellowed eyes glazed over.

“Do you think I’m hideous?”

“What? I just said I don’t give a shit what you look like.”

“That wasn’t my question. I didn’t ask if you cared- I asked if I’m hideous.”

Logan gave him a once over. Wade already had the answer made up in his mind regardless of what Logan said.

He didn’t think Wade was hideous, but he wasn’t attracted to him by any means.

“Okay, Wade! Yes, fine, you’re hideous— that’s what you wanna hear right?! Seems like you’ve already made up your damn mind about the answer.”

Wade gave a half smile, and then just turned on his heel and left, slamming the door so hard it made the whole apartment vibrate.

—

And then weeks passed, and Wade never returned. He’d left all his things there, and Logan considered throwing them out after a while. He’d even left his mask on the couch, which Wade never left without.

Annie was her name, the girl. Soft, brown eyes and strawberry blonde hair, and a round face full of freckles. She wore blouses and skirts, and wedges with white little bows on top.

And Logan liked her. Loved her even. Fell for her harder than he’d wanted to. At first their relationship was casual— cute little dates that made Logan feel normal. And the best part— she was a mutant too. It was nothing impressive, mild telekinetic abilities. She could lift small objects from across the room and shut doors without touching them.

She was peaceful, and domestic and a soft body to lay on. He felt safe with her. She’d spend nights at his place since Wade had left- cooked food for him and let him rest his head on her lap while he stroked his head. Things had gotten serious between them in the weeks Wade had been gone.

They had hot, passionate, electrifying sex- made each other laugh so hard they cried and kissed- and then had more sex. Logan would take her against the counter, in the bathroom, on the couch, in the bedroom. Parts of their lives mingled together. Some of his stuff stayed at her place, and parts of her lived at Logan’s. It was unlike anything he’d had in a long long time.

Meanwhile Wade had been doing as much blow as possible and fucking off. Logan wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard from him. Nobody had. He was torturing himself. He knew he couldn’t die, but he could feel pain. One night he’d played Russian roulette with himself off so much coke it would kill a normal human. He savored what intoxication he could get from alcohol for a couple minutes before the joy was killed by his healing factor.

He’d shoot himself in the head, blow his brains out only to come right back with only half the memories. He’d slit his own throat to choke and watch his ever replenishing blood gush out. He’d cut his fingers off one by one after each line, only to watch them grow back after a couple of hours.

He hadn’t showered in weeks, and smelled like death, blood and straight ass. He didn’t change his clothes, didn’t speak to anyone. Just restarted the same routine he did when Vanessa died. Trying to kill himself but never really dying.

Oh how he missed her. He wondered what she would say to him now, what she would think of who he was. He wondered if she’d be horrified seeing him, or if she’d have loved him anyway. He’d escaped the Weapon X program only to find out from Weasel that she’d been shot and robbed while hooking after he’d disappeared.

He’d had a couple years to reconcile with that… only to fall in love with Logan. What a fucking idiot he was, right?

Unrequited— though he knew Logan had considered him… sort of a friend.

Wade knew he was a pain in the ass, and pissed himself off too most of the time.

It didn’t matter though. He was hundreds of miles away from his life now, taking his shit show all the way to New York City, in the good old United States of America.

—

The New York alley smelled like garbage and rain, a mixture Wade found oddly comforting. The dumpster beneath him was cold and sticky in a way he didn’t want to think too hard about, but it didn’t matter. He was home. Or something like it.

He lay flat on his back, arms spread out like he was trying to make a snow angel on the grimy metal surface. His mask was half-pulled up, just enough to let him belt out an off-key rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

“There’s nothing I can dooooo… a total eclipppse of the heaaaart!” he howled, his voice echoing through the narrow alley.

Somewhere nearby, a rat squeaked in protest.

“You’ve got an audience,” came a voice from above.

Wade froze mid-note, craning his neck back to see a familiar figure hanging upside down by a thin strand of webbing. The bright red-and-blue suit was unmistakable.

“Spidey!” Wade gasped, sitting up so fast he nearly fell off the dumpster. He was hopped up on cocaine, meth, angel dust, anything he’d managed to get his hands on tonight. “My second-favorite insect-themed hero! What brings you to my garbage palace?”

Spider-Man tilted his head, his mask’s lenses narrowing. “You’re laying on a dumpster and singing power ballads. Should I be concerned, or is this just a Tuesday for you?”

“Wednesday, actually,” Wade corrected, wagging a finger. “And I’m celebrating my triumphant return to the Big Apple! Came here with nothing but a bag of cash and a dream. And maybe some mild emotional baggage. But mostly the cash.”

Spider-Man flipped down to the ground, landing lightly. “I’m pretty sure that was illegal cash.”

“What isn’t, these days?” Wade said, waving him off. “Besides, it’s not like I’m hurting anyone. Unless you count your ears.”

Spider-Man crossed his arms. “You’re avoiding the question. Why are you really here, Wade?”

Wade leaned back against the dumpster, sighing dramatically. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a tale as old as time. Boy meets mutant, mutant moves in, mutant gets jealous of said boy’s weirdly functional romantic life and flees to New York to sulk in an alley and reevaluate his choices.”

Spider-Man blinked. “Okay, wow. That’s… more personal than I expected.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the Deadpool Show.” Wade gestured broadly at himself. “We like to keep things raw and unscripted. Keeps the audience engaged.”

Spider-Man crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I know we don’t… vibe exactly, but you seem like you’re going through something. Do you need help?”

Wade laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. “Oh, Spidey, my sweet, built like a gymnast summer child. I’m beyond help. I’m like a car that’s been totaled, set on fire, and then run over by a tank. But thanks for asking.”

“You’re not that bad,” Spider-Man said, though his tone was hesitant.

“Aw, you think I’m redeemable,” Wade said, clutching his chest. “You’re adorable! Like a little web-slinging therapist.”

“Seriously, Wade. You don’t have to do… this,” Spider-Man said, gesturing to the dumpster and the alley. “Whatever’s going on, there’s got to be a better way to deal with it than running away and singing ‘80s ballads in the rain.”

“It wasn’t raining when I got here,” Wade pointed out. “But, fine, I’ll bite. What do you suggest, Dr. Spidey?”

Spider-Man hummed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe talk to the person you’re running from instead of hiding out here. Have an actual conversation.”

Wade snorted. “You think I’m the ‘talking about my feelings’ type? Adorable. Really, top marks for optimism. I already tried- got blood all over the poor guys’ apartment and broke his mirror… Oh- you know Wolverine- Wolvie- Logan? Yeah he’s alive again and I haaaave itttt bad, Spidey.”

Spider-Man sighed. “Wolverine… like? Like… The X-men’s Wolverine? He died! How the hell is he alive again?— wait, don’t tell me he came from a different universe or something.”

Wade tilted his head, clicked his tongue and made finger guns, “Ding Ding Ding! That’s exactly right.” He dropped his hands but remained looking up, studying Spider-Man for a long moment. “You’re way too good for this city, you know that? It’s like watching a Disney protagonist in Gotham.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Spider-Man said dryly.

Wade slid off the dumpster, landing with a flourish. “Fine. You win. I absolutely cannot go back to Canada anytime soon but— I will try to stop doing massive amounts of narcotics and cutting off my limbs are even though they just regrow.”

“You’re really a strange guy, you know that, Wade?”

“Yes— quite intimately actually. Very large part of the reason I’m torturing myself out here in the good old United States of America.”

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. “Quit your sulking, grab my hand.”

Wade raised a… well… what would be his eyebrow if he had any, but said, “Fuck it,” and took his hand.

Suddenly, he was suspended in the air, wind whipping past his ears as they swung through the towering skyline of New York. Wade let out a loud, exaggerated scream. “OH MY FUCK, SPIDEY, THIS IS THE CLOSEST I’VE BEEN TO FLYING SINCE THAT TIME I STRAPPED FIREWORKS TO MY BACKPACK!”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Spider-Man shouted back, his voice barely audible over the rush of the wind.

“BECAUSE I’M AN ICON OF CHAOS!” Wade cackled, twisting his body mid-swing to strike a pose, one hand outstretched dramatically. “LOOK AT ME! I’M PETER PAN BUT WITH MORE TRAUMA!”

Spider-Man groaned. “Do you ever stop talking?!”

“Do you ever stop being an uptight boy scout?” Wade shot back.

Spider-Man didn’t dignify that with an answer, instead twisting midair and flinging a web to the next building. The sudden shift sent Wade swinging wildly, his legs flailing.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” Wade yelled, clutching Spider-Man’s arm like a terrified cat. “Careful there, Spandex Man! Some of us are delicate flowers who bruise easily!”

“You literally can’t die,” Spider-Man said, exasperated.

“Emotionally, Spidey!” Wade quipped. “Emotionally!”

Spider-Man sighed, expertly landing on a rooftop and depositing Wade less-than-gently on the gravel.

Wade sprawled out on his back, catching his breath. “That was either the most fun I’ve ever had, or I’m having a stroke. Maybe both.”

Spider-Man stood over him, hands on his hips. “You’re impossible.”

“Ha! Logan says that too!” Wade sat up, pulling his mask back down. “So, what’s the plan, boss? You didn’t just web-nap me for a heart-to-heart, did you?”

Spider-Man crossed his arms. “I didn’t exactly plan this. But you’re clearly in a mood, and I figured some fresh air might knock some sense into you.”

“Aw,” Wade cooed, “you do care about me! Admit it. I’m growing on you, like a sexy barnacle.”

“Don’t push it.”

Wade leaned back on his hands, glancing out at the city below. The lights of New York twinkled like stars, and for a rare moment, he was quiet.

“…It’s kind of nice up here,” he said after a beat.

Spider-Man sat down beside him, still keeping a cautious distance. “Yeah. It is.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the noise of the city far below fading into the background.

Finally, Wade broke the silence. “You ever feel like you’re just… too much? Like you’re this big, messy disaster that everyone tolerates but no one really wants around?”

Spider-Man glanced at him, surprised by the sudden vulnerability. “I think a lot of people feel like that sometimes., and trust me, you’re definitely a disaster. But… you don’t have to be.”

Wade turned to him, his tone light but his voice just a little too tight. “Wow, Spidey, you’re really laying on the compliments tonight. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.” He said, sarcastically.

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. “Okay, and we’re back to that.” He blushed under his mask, a bit bashful. Everything was an innuendo to Wade somehow.

“Hey,” Wade said, nudging him with his elbow. “Thanks for this. The swing, the chat, the unsolicited life advice… it’s nice to know someone’s got my back, even if you are a dork in pajamas.”

Spider-Man smirked under his mask. “Anytime, Wade. Just… try not to end up sulking on a dumpster again, okay?”

“What a sweetie pie you are, Peter.”

“How the hell do you know my name? It’s not like yours is a secret… but I thought I was doing a good job at this secret identity thing…”

“I’m a mercenary, I know everything even if I don’t want to.”

Peter huffed. “That’s not an answer but… okay, Wade.”

Wade huffed and then tried to push his luck.

“I don’t suppose your kindness extends past swinging… like- a place to-“

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh come onnnnn! I thought you were all about being helpful.”

“Hey- I’m all for giving a little support but how do I know you won’t just break my stuff too?”

“One night?”

Peter bit his bottom lip under his mask in thought.

“Ugh, you’re such an ass. Give you an inch and it turns into a mile.”

Wade just stared at him, expecting.

“Fine! One night and then you’re back to whatever you have been doing.”

[a-hazbin-reader]

I was wondering how does the rest of the hotel handles Alastor and Y/n's kiddos? Also, is lucifier now their godfather ? I love a headcannon of how cute the kids are and how they are in the hotel. Also maybe their personalities too ?

It is 100% a team effort to handle twin babies, let alone twin babies that spawned from Alastor

He totally takes advantage of his authority and uses Husk as a free babysitter

Husk puts up a big front over not wanting to be on baby duty but secretly loves getting to snuggle the twins

They're just so innocent and adorable, he can't help it, even when they pull on his whiskers or yank his wings

And Niffty cleans up after the twins all the time, sometimes she's literally tearing her hair our because how can babies be so messy?!

Poor girl just follows after them 24/7 and cleans as she goes, they always manage to make some sort of mess

Broken windows, furniture stuffing everywhere, the wood railings chewed and spat out-

Vaggie is always coming to the twin's rescue whenever their parents aren't around

They're about to fall off a table? Vaggie is diving down to catch them. One is about to bite the other? Vaggie snatches the sibling away and takes the brunt of the bite

She pretends like the twins are just a nuisance to her, but when they're calm, she secretly loves cuddling and reading to them

Charlie is always vying for the twin's attention, which is so funny because they always bypass her for Vaggie

So she's always trying to bribe them with toys and treats, anything to make just one of the babies look her way

And they do eventually once they remember she gives good snacks and plays fun games with them

Angel is always being used as an impromptu jungle gym due to his quick reflexes and multiple arms

He's just so soft and pretty looking the twins can't help but want to climb all over him

The entire time Angel is trying not to cuss out of fear of dropping them but he will eventually end up teaching them their first curse word

"Fuck."

"OH FUCK-I MEAN SHIT-I MEAN-FUCK DON'T SAY THAT!"

I like to imagine the boy is very sensitive and snuggly, very attached to his mom and dad

You can always find him hugging himself to one of his parent's chests, content to just be in their arms

While the girl is brave and excitable, she's often the first to warm up to new people

She likes to copy the adults around her and likes it when they all laugh and coo at her afterwards

Both twins are unintentionally very chaotic but that's nothing new for babies, especially babies who take after Alastor

They're very comfortable at the hotel and understand it as their home and the people in it are their safe people

Lucifer deemed himself their godfather because he's part of the reason the twins are even there

If Y/N encouraged it then not even Alastor can deny that Lucifer is their godfather

Lucifer actually handles the twins the best because he's been through it all before with Charlie

So he knows all sorts of tricks to get them to behave and the twins are just completely enamored with him

It's the baby talk and all the toy ducks, they can't get enough of that shit

The twins love their parents so much though and look for them when they're not around

They cling to Alastor a lot and will refuse to let go of him, they love listening to his voice

They light up when they see a radio and will try to babble/talk to it because they associate it with Alastor 📻

The babies still love to cuddle their mom and are soothed just by her scent. If they're missing her, then they get into her clothes

They like it when people scratch their deer ears, their little tails go crazy and they make cute bleating noises

Alastor denies that they get it from him

They don't like TV because they know Alastor doesn't like TV and go to great lengths to turn it off by any means possible

Like chewing on the cords or straight up knocking it over, it's teefers on sight whenever they see Vox

I indulged a little too much in this...

[hehehereliesmysanity]

Matchmakers

(1k words)

"That is the most stupid idea you have ever had." Simon yells, but lowers his voice when he realizes that the dogs look scared after the little argument he and Wille are having for some time.

Everything is settled, they broke up. Simon moved out of the apartment and there was only one problem. Who is gonna keep the dogs?

Wille suggests that they each get one dog and Simon almost laughs at the stupidity and that there are three of them is not even the point. Is he out of his mind? They adopted the little puppies when they were so little and they are inseparable. So that is out of the question. Wille then suggests flipping a coin about who is going to get them. What? He is not making any sense these days. Then after the same arguments back and forth, Simon keeps the dogs and leaves the apartment he has spent the last five years of his life. He takes one last look at the rooms nd leaves. For good.

He got himself a little place. It's not fully furnitured yet but he will have to make do. Willes' apartment belonged to his brother so Simon had to move out. In his mind, on a very small corner of it, he knows that Wille would be the one to leave, not wanting to inconvenience Simon, if the circumstances were different. He was always thoughtful and considerate like that and he slipped away from Simon's hands. It is all his fault.

He has a slightly uncomfortable bed he bought from Ikea in a rush. The dogs loves to sleep with Wille and Simon, no, that is not a thing anymore. They are not used to this environment. It must feel like very strange and unfamiliar and scary to them. He tries for one week but then the dogs are restless and don't like the new place at all. After Simon took their home away from them, it was no surprise. So he makes up his mind.

He rings the bell of the house where he once had the keys of. He would meet Wille at the door with a kiss but this time Wille only smiles at him with sad eyes. He looks down at their dogs and gives an understanding smile. He must have missed them too. He gets down on his knees and gives them a little pet, the dogs start to lick his hands and face and Wille starts laughing with his whole body, giggling over and over. Maybe that's the right thing. They need to stay at home. Their real home where he spent almost their whole lives. Simon feels like he needs to stay home too but that ship has already sailed.

He leaves again to go back to his empty apartment. He doesn't know what he did wrong, everything was going so well between them. But he knows. Wille deserves someone much better than him.

A couple of hours later, Wille calls him and Simon's heart skips a beat. He still loves him. So that should be expected.

Wille tells him that Olle’s favorite toy is missing and he is not happy about it. Simon hangs up disappointed, seeing the reason why Wille even called him in the first place. He looks for the squeaky toy everywhere in the house and finds it under the sofa. At least someone is gonna be happy. He puts on his coat and goes to Wille's apartment.

Wille opens the door with the familiar but strange smile on his face. He looks at the toy happily and invites Simon in after seeing the dogs' enthusiasm over seeing him. Could dogs be children of divorce too? But that was the problem. They never got married. Simon got scared and said nothing when Wille proposed to him and one thing led to another and here they are.

The dogs take him to the bedroom, pointing at the bed. That became a routine for them. Every day, after Simon and Wille went to sleep, they would crawl up on the edge of the bed and nap for a couple of hours. Maybe that's what they want. Wille told him they were restless since Simon dropped them earlier. The dog pats the edge of the pet, making literal puppy eyes at him and after Simon makes eye contact with Wille who just nods his head in approval, he lies on the bed, propping his head against the headboard and Wille doing the same after he gets his own puppy eyes, with the dogs sitting beside them, getting pats and all the love pouring out of them.

They talk about everything and nothing. It feels like another Friday night. The familiarity and the love in Wille's eyes but it is not. It can't be. Wille couldn't possibly be in love with him after a rejection like that. Simon feels his eyes getting heavy too. He didn't have a good week at all. He also had problems with sleeping on his new bed but he knows that's hardly Ikea’s fault. It is entirely something else. Or someone else. He missed Wille so much that being in the presence of him made him so safe and happy that he slowly drifted to sleep.

Simon wakes up in the middle of the night and then he takes his surroundings and the weight beside his body. Warm and lively. He must have fallen asleep while talking to Wille. He always thought Wille’s voice was like a peaceful lullaby.

Their bodies are entangled and Simon can feel Wille's heartbeat against his ear, hugging him from the side. The loud and insisten thumping sound makes him even more nervous. Fuck, maybe it is his own heartbeat. He tries to slowly peel himself away from him but Wille stops him with a hand on his arm.

"Stay."

"I need to---"

"Simon," Wille breathes, "stay forever."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."