#he and the maker are a balancing force

[nevadas-night-time-novelist]

wip

[just-your-average-tangerine]

Why do people assume that kids can't be passionate about things?

Every time I see a video on instagram of a kid being passionate about something or good at something, the comments are full of people going "😢how sad, just let the kid be a kid😢"

Like, that kid is having the time of their life or is a fucking Oscar worthy actor.

Kids can have hobbies, kids can be good at things, and kids can care about things. And the fact that you don't think so tells me you don't know many kids.

And like, the conversation around kids on social media and the exploitation of kids on social media is a valid discussion to have, but it doesn't mean every kid with a passion is being forced into it.

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 2: Piercings and Puns

“Pleeaaasse?” Johnny whines, pressing his hands together and giving you the biggest, sparkliest puppy dog look you could imagine.

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please! My two o’clock cancelled an’ I’m so bored!” He flops over the counter, arms dangling right above the appointment books. You pointedly ignore the size of his biceps.

“I’m not letting you pierce me just because you’re bored.” You scoff. “Now shoo, Simon’s got an appointment coming in soon.”

“But ye barely have any!” He argues. “All I’m askin’ fer is a wee ear. No’ even a nipple!”

A shocked amalgamation of a bark, laugh, and scoff forces it’s way out of you at that. “It’s still a no!”

Johnny groans, but at least moves away from the counter. Unfortunately, he takes the opportunity to circle around behind you, pinching the cartilage of your ear. “C’mon, ol’ righty’s beggin’ fer a conch.”

The intercom buzzes before you can respond. You swat Johnny away with one hand while pressing the speaker button with the other. “Hello?”

“I’ve go’ an appointment with Ghost.” A man’s voice drifts through. You blink dumbly for half a moment. You still haven’t gotten used to Simon’s social media and booking moniker - he doesn’t like giving his real name out much, apparently.

You buzz him in. Johnny is still hanging around the desk even when you leave to get Simon - making your way down the shirt hall to his studio. The large man stands in front of his stencil maker, back turned to you.

You knock on his door frame quietly. “Your guy’s here.”

“Be out in a moment.” He mumbles, focused on whatever he’s doing. You don’t really know the steps by heart, but you do know that there’s something so special about watching artists perform this repetitive song and dance. This rhythm they know by heart. Skilled hands enacting each step with careful precision.

He’s so hard to read. Big and bulky but calm as the night sea. You want him to like you, but you know badgering him certainly won’t get you there. So, you turn on your heal and head back out. When you return to the front, Johnny’s disappeared back into his room.

You suck your teeth and lean back in the desk chair, rolling your earlobe between your thumb and index finger. It’s not a bad offer, really. You only have two earlobe piercings on each side. Wouldn’t hurt to add a helix… you’ve also wanted to get your thirds done for a while. Work your way up. You glance at the clock. Simon won’t be done with his client for at least an hour or so, and you’ve balanced the registers for the moment. Both Kyle and John are out today, so they won’t need anything.

It wouldn’t hurt… well, not metaphorically.

With a sigh you stand, wandering your way to Johnny’s space. The door’s wide open, and his head snaps up the moment you step close like a sixth sense. “Takin’ me up on my offer, bonnie?”

You roll your eyes. “Guess I am.”

“Whit d’ye want?” Johnny practically skips around his station, pulling out wrapped, sanitized tools and placing them on a rolling tray. He pats the center of the padded table in the middle of the room.

“Uh, been wanting to do my thirds for a while.” You shrug. “If you have time for two.”

“Och, I’ve got all the time in the world fer ye, hen.” Johnny grins, pulling up in front of you and grabbing a marker.

He’s so close as he places the marks on your ears, warm fingers feeling for the best spots. A thumb traces the back of your left ear down just to the beginning of your jaw briefly. Fuck, he smells good. Warm musk with hints of citrus around the edges. The way he tucks your hair back, hands framing your face as he lines up the dots, is so oddly intimate compared to the other times you’ve gotten pierced. He chews at his lip in concentration, pulling at the scar on his chin while turning your head back forth a couple times.

“Think I’ve got it.” He grins and steps back. “Have a look.”

You take the mirror, casually checking but not paying too much attention. You trust him to do right by you. “Looks good.”

“A’right. Now the fun part.” He grins, tearing open the pack of tools and a two new needles.

“Is this fun?” You frown, squirming a little at the size of the needle.

“It’s always fun t’poke a pretty girl.”

You roll your eyes, a growing theme between you two it seems. “Oh, you thought that was real clever, didn’t you? Had that in your pocket a while?”

“Why donnae ye reach in an‘ check?” He murmurs, leaning close to clamp your left ear. You’re half tempted to tell him it’s mean to tease a fat girl like this - but you don’t think he means anything like that by it. He’s just a flirt by nature.

Before you can answer, he shoves the needle through your ear. You stiffen, a strained noise bubbling up out of your throat.

Johnny coos as he slips the earring into your ear. “One doon.”

“Uh-huh.” You sniffle. Not that it hurts badly, just a basic physical reaction. Johnny still gives you an empathetic smile.

The second goes quicker, Johnny locked in on his work. It’s interesting, seeing how intense they get. You Is it odd to wish someone would look at you like that? With that much focus and passion?

“There ye go…good girl.” He murmurs in that deep rumble that would have you squirming if you didn’t still have a needle through your ear. “Doin’ so good f’me...”

“You’re a devil, MacTavish.”

Johnny just chuckles, knowing full well exactly what he’s doing. He steps back to look at the final result after slipping the second stud into your ear. They feel hot - like two small ovens on either side of your head.

“If it weren’t for the piercings I’d think ye were blushing, hen.”

“You’re gonna get yourself slapped one of these days.” You scoff, sliding off the table.

“Wouldnnae be the first time.”

You find yourself rolling your eyes for the millionth time.

You grunt, squatting low in an attempt to pick the last of the parlor trash. It’s not that you mind, trash was part of your duties from the start, but holy shit do these boys put bricks in their bins? You’d think tattoos would make light trash. Especially after the sharps are disposed of separately.

“Solid?” Simon appears in the hall, eyes flicking over you. You still can’t tell how he feels about you. Neutral, you suppose. At least that’s all you can glean from behind his seemingly permanent black surgical mask.

“Ya.” You sigh, letting the bag drop and leaning back to stretch. “Just heavy. Swear y’all aren’t throwing rocks in these just to fuck with me?”

You give him a grin. Simon just cocks an eyebrow - exaggerated by the small piercing lining it. You think, maybe the slight shaking of his shoulder is a laugh. In combination won’t he crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Maybe not.

“‘ere.” Simon grunts, closing the short distance between you quickly before snatching up the bag like it weighs almost nothing.

You stutter, following after him toward the back exit. “You don’t have to-“

“Not a problem.” He grunts, tossing the thing over the side of the bin. He quietly leads you back inside, locking the door behind you “Johnny go’ you already?”

When you frown in confusion he points to his ears.

“Oh! Yeah.” You shrug, leading the way back to front desk to finish up your closing duties. “He’s insistent. I’d wanted them for a while anyway so I figured there’s no harm.”

“Give ‘im an inch...” He sighs, pointing to the black bar bridge piercing at the apex of his nose. “Somehow talked me into this shite.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah? I think it suits you.”

It really does. You can’t see most of his nose form under the mask but the arc of it leading up to bridge is strong, the piercing settling into the space nicely.

Simon breaks the silence. “You about done?”

“Almost. Just gotta check the ATM against the book real quick.” You nod.

He stares down at you for a moment, glancing out the semi-opaque window, now black with the night sky. There aren’t many street lamps on this side of town. You can only see a very faint glow from the one down by the car park.

“I’ll wait.” Simon settles his wide frame into Kyle’s usual chair.

“Oh! No you don’t have to! I’m sure you’re tired-“

“Wouldn’t feel right leavin’ you alone in the dark.” He cuts you off.

“It’s not a far walk-“

He scoffs. “Definitely not leaving you to walk alone.”

You sink your teeth into your lip, debating briefly on arguing. Based on his comfortable lean and crossed arms, it’s probably best to just let him walk you home. He looks so wide like that, veins prominent across his forearms. Fuck, you gotta find a boyfriend or booty call or something in this city. Anything to stop the temptation to stare at your hot coworkers.

It doesn’t take long to finish up your final chores. You turn all but one light off, wiring down from the bright overheads glaring at you all day. You glance over at Simon a few times while locking up the ATM, his covered face lit up by the light of his phone.

He leads you out of the shop once you’re finished, locking the door behind you and trying it a couple times to be sure. “Which way?”

“Uh, down here. It’s only twenty minutes.” You murmur, feeling guilty that you’ve kept him out extra late. You shove your hands in your hoodie pockets as you walk, the only sound on the street made up of your footsteps and some distant cars.

“What falls but never gets hurt?” Simon asks suddenly.

You frown. “Huh?”

“What falls but never gets hurt?”

You squint at him, trying to decipher anything from his face in the low light. You get nothing but a calm, warm gaze resting on you.

His eyes crinkle in the corners again. “Rain.”

“Pffft-“ You choke, caught off guard. “That’s such a lame pun.”

“Oh? I’ve got a better one.” Simon says, a smirk in his tone. “Why’d the mother clam scold her children?”

You chew your lip. God, you’re too literal to be clever enough for stupid puns and riddles. It doesn’t help that your head is spinning from this brick shithouse, incredibly attractive and intimidating man spitting popsicle puns at you.

“They were being shellfish.”

“Oh fuck off!” You shove at his arm playfully without thinking. He gives, let’s you push him slightly before you stiffen. “S-sorry! I don’t-“

“Nothin’ to apologize for.” The corners of his eyes crinkle deeper. Yeah, definitely a smile. You answer it with one of your own.

[l1tw1ck]

top!amab male character x bottom!ftm reader

800 Words | Kinktober

think of whoever (endeavor, william afton, zhongli, etc)

Terminology Used: pussy, cunt, t-cock, slick

CW: Non-Con, Boss/Employee, Creampie, Daddy Kink

Your boss, the CEO of the most well known company in the country, decided that he needed a new assistant. An assistant that fits a special criteria. You applied and got hired on the spot, you barely even spoke. You were too excited to realize how bad that was. It was fine for the first few days and then he started making comments and staring at you for a bit too long. The job pays really well so you've been ignoring it and hoping he'd keep his hands off you. It was wishful thinking.

Your boss pushes himself against you, placing his hands on your hips while you make him coffee. He has his own private break room and decided to use that to take advantage of you. He leans into your neck and takes a deep breath in. "You smell nice."

You let out a shaky breath, trying to build up the confidence to tell him off. "With all due respect sir, I'm not very comfortable with this." You sound the opposite of confident. He ignores you and sucks on your neck while unbuckling your pants. "Please, sir..."

He groans. "Shh, it's okay." He touches you through your underwear, getting you aroused against your own will. Your breathing turns shallow as he spreads your legs slightly more apart so that his hand can comfortably slip into your boxers, thick fingers sliding into your entrance.

You grip the edge of the table for balance, your head hanging low as he fingers you. Your fear of his reaction stops you from telling him to stop. He could hurt you if he wanted to. You let out shallow breaths, staring at the coffee maker that just finished pouring his drink. If you could manage to grab it without hesitating, you could spill it on him. It might spill on you too but it’d be worth a shot.

He pulls his fingers out and the small feeling of relief you feel is quickly ripped away with the sound of his belt unbuckling and dropping to the floor. He pulls down your underwear, quickly escalating the situation and filling you with more fear and discomfort. You hold your breath, feeling his length in between your legs. "Sir..." You breathe out, anticipating his next move and planning your own.

He lubes up his cock with your slick and prods his tip against your entrance. Your boss groans into your ear as he forces himself inside your cunt. "Yes...so warm." He murmurs. You hiss as his fat length stretches you open. His fingers were not nearly enough to prepare you for his cock.

He doesn't give you any time to adjust, already starting to fuck you at a rough pace. You grip the table harder than before, moans involuntarily slipping out of your mouth. You lost your chance. You’d just burn your own hands if you tried now.

He lets out a dragged out groan. "You feel so damn good—" He moans your name. "You’re taking my cock so well, baby."

"Please–" You gasp. "Mr—!"

“It's Daddy.” He runs his hand up your body, from your pelvis to your jaw. You feel yourself twitch from the unfamiliar touches. He gently grips your jaw. “Say it.”

“Da— Daddy-” You choke out.

He lets out a deep groan of pleasure. “Good boy.” He leans into your ear, his heavy breaths and groans becoming easier to hear. “Your pussy’s so tight, so warm…you're perfect.”

“It hurts-” You let out another involuntarily breathy moan. “Too fast-”

“I’m sorry, baby, but I can't slow down. You feel too fucking good.” He kisses your cheek. “You can take it.”

You shut your eyes, knowing this’ll be a common occurrence from now on. Even if you managed to escape he’d try again and thanks to the contract you signed, you can't quit yet. Not like quitting would save you anyway. He’d find a way to keep you in his grasp. He lets go of your jaw and brings his hand down to your crotch, lovingly stroking your t-cock. You shiver in pleasure as your legs start to give in thanks to that. “I can't– I can't–”

“Yes you can. You're doing so good.” He gets even more aroused by the sound of your voice. He aims at your g-spot, earning a loud gasp from you. “Right there..” He hits it again. Your cunt flexes around his length. He fucks you through your orgasm, somehow going even faster. “You're so good for me...”

“Too much– Please, it's- fuck~”

He ignores you and chases his own orgasm. “Gonna come right in your tight fucking pussy…” He moans. “Make you mine..”

He seems to like the idea of claiming you. Considering how good you feel right now despite everything, he might be able to fulfill that fantasy. And surprisingly, him coming inside you is the least problematic thing that's happening right now. Thankfully for you, he won't have much luck getting you pregnant.

He slows down, filling you up with his cum. He doesn't pull out though. Not even as he softens inside you. He doesn't want to leave your warmth, not yet.

[doe-eyed-fool]

Fear Of The Known

Lucifer x Fem!Angel!Reader

|Chapter One|

Warning: Angst, No Comfort

Y/n was a young woman, destined to work close with the higher ups of Heaven, due to the gift she was given. God chose her to be the angel who would prophesy the future.

The symbol of a bright shining star on her forehead acted as a third eye. It would be what aids her as she looks into the future. And for the longest time, the future seemed bright.

Although, the future was not just one straight line. There were many pathways that could be opened by the smallest of acts.

But from how well everything was managed in Heaven, the best future possible, seemed as if the only real future ahead.

No worries, no danger, nothing to disrupt the heavenly balance. Yes, it was all smooth sailing ahead.

Y/n loved her job, and found great joy in telling others of the wonderful future that lies ahead for everyone. However, there would come a day, where the future was changed for the worst.

And it all started with one man...

Lucifer was one of God's favorite angels. He was bright, creative, brilliant. Though, he was a bit of a trouble maker, and would often drag his brothers into joining his mischievous acts.

Well, perhaps mischief wasn't the best way to describe it. Curiosity, was a better way of putting it. But even then, that curiosity would lead him to trouble.

It was a good thing God was so forgiving of Lucifer.

Even Y/n couldn't stay mad at him whenever he got her involved, asking her to use her future vision to see how his actions would effect something or someone.

And every time she'd say-

"My power is not to be abused, Lucifer."

As disappointed as he always was whenever she refused to indulge him, he'd never force her to do something she didn't want to. But boy, was he persistent.

Eventually, his curiosity rubbed off on Y/n. And she took a small peak into Lucifer's future. As she suspected, Lucifer would live happily and sharing his creativity with all of Heaven to enjoy.

Yes. Another wonderful future for all.

But then, another path was opened to her eyes. What she saw, concerned her.

Heaven was in chaos, and Lucifer was at the center of it all.

Y/n didn't dare look any further than that. And she would not say a word about this to Lucifer either. She had a feeling it would have negatively affected him.

However, she couldn't keep this to herself. She needed to tell God about the future she saw. It was the first time she had ever seen Heaven so...frazzled.

As if something terrible were about to happen.

The suspense of not knowing ate at her. If she were to tell God of such a future, she would need to know exactly why and how it would happen. And so, she looked again.

There Lucifer was again. He looked so angry, but so sad at the same time. And there was someone else with him. A tall and beautiful woman with long blonde hair. Lucifer held an arm out protectively in front of her as he yelled something.

He looked injured. Blood stained his beautiful face, as well as his robes. Even his wings were damaged.

Ahead of Lucifer was Michael. Sword in hand, the blade pointing towards Lucifer. He looked a bit roughed up as well. Had they been fighting? Why would they ever fight?

Chains were thrown around Lucifer and the woman he was with, and then, there was a vision of Lucifer and that same woman inside of Heaven's courtroom. Words were being yelled back and forth from Lucifer and the head Seraphim, Sera.

But Joel would have the final word.

There was a look of panic on Lucifer's face. The chains that bind him disappeared and the ground beneath them gave in. With quick thinking, Lucifer held onto that woman tightly, shielding her with his wings.

And just like that, the both fell.

Y/n gasped sharply as the vision faded.

"Lucifer...Lucifer falls from Heaven."

Y/n kept that terrible vision to herself for many years to come. The only reason she refused to tell anyone, is because she couldn't see any possible reason for Lucifer to fall from Heaven.

Lucifer would never do anything to put Heaven at risk, let alone cause for Michael to draw his sword at him.

There was no way Lucifer would do such a thing.

Y/n gazed out, watching Lucifer from a far. He was speaking to God, looking as carefree as usual. It was then he noticed her, he waved his hand. Y/n smiled weakly and waves back.

Lucifer excused himself from God and made his way over to her. "Hey Y/n, I've been meaning to talk to you."

"Oh? About what?" She asks curiously. Lucifer looks around before taking Y/n's hand and leading her away somewhere more private. Once Lucifer was sure they were alone, he excitedly shared the news to her.

"So, we all know that Heaven is great and will continue to be great for like, the rest of forever, right? But what if it could be even better?" Y/n looks a little confused. "What do you mean?" She asks.

"I've been thinking of some ideas to really give Heaven some...sparkle!" Lucifer says with jazz hands. "I wanted you to be the first to hear about it before I bring it up at the meeting first thing tomorrow morning."

Y/n couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. Whatever he had planned, he sure seemed passionate about it. And so, Y/n listen to him explain his ideas.

Everything he spoke about all sounded so wonderful, magnificent even. And just the way he talked about it, Y/n could see his eyes light up with every word that left him. Passionate didn't even begin to describe it. These weren't just ideas.

These were his dreams.

"I really have a feeling this will change Heaven forever! What do you think?" Asked Lucifer after he finished.

"Lucifer, I think you should do it. Clearly this is something you really want, and I can tell it means a lot to you. I wish you luck." Y/n tells him. Lucifer smiles brightly before hugging her tight.

"Thank you, Y/n!"

"Of course, Lucifer. I can't wait to hear what they have to say."

The two parted, and Lucifer suddenly had a mischievous look on his face. "You know, you could always tell me what they'll say."

"Lucifer." Y/n says sternly.

Lucifer sighs dramatically. "I know, I know. But I just can't wait!" Y/n giggles. "Well, just try and wait a little longer. They're going to love it."

"I sure hope so." Said Lucifer with a small smile.

Curiosity could be a very dangerous thing indeed. The vision Y/n had to Lucifer's future, or at least one of them, should have been enough to keep her from looking too long of what fate has to offer. And yet, something compelled her to look again.

The once bright future ahead, had changed.

It wasn't another pathway, but the one that was most guaranteed.

And it was horrible...

Lucifer will fall from Heaven, but not before he shares his ideas with the angels. Not before he meets with Lilith, and the two create sin and unleash it onto the world that the angels worked so hard to protect.

Y/n could not allow this future come to pass. She could not allow Lucifer to be casted into eternal damnation. Not if there was something she could do about it.

She knew had to warn Lucifer. But telling him of the future she saw might have crushed him and his dreams. And she didn't want to be the reason he stopped dreaming.

But nonetheless, she still had to do something to stop that future from occurring.

Y/n caught Lucifer the morning he was to call for that meeting.

"Lucifer, may I have a word with you?" She asks. Lucifer smiles. "Sure, but be quick, I have to get going soon."

Y/n tried to appear as calm as she could. "I know you're very excited about this meeting, Lucifer."

"I'm more than excited!" Lucifer says cheerfully. "If I can convince everyone to get on board with my plan, Heaven and Earth as we know it will change forever!"

Y/n winces. "That's what I wanted to talk you about." Lucifer looked confused, but listened anyway. "You know how the Seraphims can be. They're so...strict, you know?"

Lucifer sighs. "Yeah, talk about a bunch of sticks in the mud." He smirks. Y/n laughs awkwardly. "Yes well...Maybe you should cancel this meeting. Or! A-At least, postpone it?"

Lucifer only grows more confused by this, but he shrugs with a carefree grin. "Y/n, trust me. I can get on their good sides. You know how charming and loveable I am. There's nothing to worry about." He says before starting off.

Panic started to rise in Y/n. This wasn't good. Lucifer could not go to that meeting. If he does, Heaven will soon be thrown into total chaos.

"I'll let you know how it goes, ok?" Lucifer unfolds his wings to take flight.

Y/n grabs his wrist, stopping him. "You can't!"

Lucifer gives her a bewildered look. "Y/n?"

"You can't go to that meeting Lucifer!"

Lucifer furrows his brows. "Why have you had a sudden change of heart? Yesterday you were just as excited for this as I was. I thought you liked my ideas."

"I-I do! It's just..." Y/n trailed off, unable to think of anything to say. "Y/n." Y/n looked at Lucifer, his expression now one of concern. "Did you see something? Does something go wrong?"

"Lucifer...You just can't go." Y/n says weakly. "They won't understand. I just...I just don't want you to be hurt by what they might say."

Lucifer took Y/n's hand. "Was that really what you saw? They won't listen?" He asks. Y/n nods her head, tears in her eyes. She hated this. She hated having to be the one that tells him this.

But it had to be said. Lucifer might have been hurt by this, but at least he'd still be here in Heaven.

"Then...It looks like I'll have to change their minds!"

Y/n's heart sank. "You're still going? Why? I just told you they-"

"I know. But Y/n, I can't let this opportunity pass. I believe in my dream, I know it can work. I'll just have to really knock their socks off! And make a outstanding impression!" Lucifer says determinedly.

"Lucifer..."

"It'll work, trust me. Those Seraphims won't know what hit them!"

"Lucifer."

"You can even come with me! They're bound to listen if I have someone else who believes in me!"

"Lucifer I can't!" Y/n says firmly. "I saw the future that lies ahead, I know what the outcome will be! It's certain that they will not listen to you! It doesn't matter what you say or do, it won't work Lucifer!"

Lucifer was slightly taken back by your words. Y/n's heart snapped in two at the look on his face. One of sadness, betrayal...

It had to be said.

"I'm sorry Lucifer." Y/n sighs. "Please, please don't go. Just-"

"No."

"Lucifer!"

"I'm going to that meeting, Y/n. I'm going to tell them what I have planned. Because I believe in my dream. I just thought you would too..." Lucifer lets go of her hand before taking flight.

"Lucifer! Wait!" Y/n called after him. Lucifer ignored her as he grew further and further out of sight. "Lucifer!" Tears began to drip down her cheeks.

Y/n had failed to change that horrible future. Lucifer would fall from Heaven, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"I'm sorry..."

[dragonagecompanions]

hello, this is my first request :) unsure if your still taking requests but I was wondering how the companions (maybe romanced maybe not) would react to finding out the Inquisitor has a dead kid? I think the only way the party would find out is in the fade via the fear demon, and then maybe the advisors find out on their own ┐⁠(⁠ ⁠∵⁠ ⁠)⁠┌

idk but I would be truly honored to see you answer this request, and even if not than thank you for reading over it <33

- 🍡

WARNINGS For CHILD LOSS YOI HAVE BEEN WARNED

Cassandra: When the fear demon, gleeful in it’s telling of their leader’s loss, reveals the truth the Seeker is…well, there are no words. Forcibly she is reminded of how they swayed, pale and weeping, when she had said there were no other survivors. Guilt churns low and deep at her own words, a year and more gone now, throwing that fact in their face as accusation. Throwing such a loss in their face and then demanding answers.

Throwing a calling at their feet and demanding leadership, never knowing what a loss they struggled through.

She fights all the harder for them, as if every enemy batted away from them is attempted absolution. Cassandra Pentaghast thought she understood grief in all its facets, but what does the loss of older brother and parents- expected losses if come too soon- stand before the loss of a child? Maker, how do they still breathe through it?

When they are free of the fade, she approaches only to offer apology. If they wish to speak of their loss she will listen, but only then. She has forced enough from them.

Varric: Shit. Just…shit. Here he is, going on for months about how this story is bad for heroes and how the Inquisitor is the main character and blathering on, and never saw it. Never saw the aching grief, because it was never shown. The only example he has, or is at least intimately familiar with, is Leandra Hawk and his own mother.

And as the Inquisitor had never fallen into drink or taken to blaming whoever was closest to them for things outside of anyone’s control there had been no sign for Varric to catch on to. And it makes him feel…almost dirty. Stained with his own intentions, blithely going on while their leader had lost their kid.

He doesn’t bring it up to them, doesn’t know how, but Skyhold’s resident author is absolutely the own who tells Josephine as soon as they tumble out of the fade. That raven missive is a short and brutal telling, far from his normal goings on, and his guilt is manifold in it.

Solas: The Dread Wolf is not so unattached from the world as to not consider the losses suffered at the conclave, but for the most part -when he did turn his mind to them- they were mostly academic. A balance of power, and the loss of so many leaders among both chantry and mages a destabilizing force for his future efforts. Numbers laid cooly on a chart, beads on an abacus. The fortunes of war laid bare.

But more than one parent lost a child in that terrible moment, and siblings mourned. Children bereft, friends torn asunder, lovers left to weep alone for their loves. Listening to the fear demon enumerate the inquisitor’s loss magnifies the enormity of what happened, and though he will undoubtedly be the source of much worse for a moment the Dread Wolf cannot breathe.

It passes, of course, and when they leave the fade the rift mage dies his best not to carry those emotions out with him. This world is not to blame for his actions, for the destruction of his world, but he must restore it and so they must bear the cost. It is not fair to them, and it will be long months until he can be east about his plans.

In the interim, he dares to approach the inquisitor only once about their loss. He is there as a listening ear in the silence of his rotunda if they wish to speak of their sorrow. Or if they wish only a silent companion, he will direct the kindest spirits he can find to guard their dreams and remain at their side as long as he can.

Blackwall: Maker forbid. For a moment Skyhold’s would be warden is swamped by the images of Callier’s children, dead under tiny shrouds beside the ruined carriage at his command. Too many children fall victim to the machinations of their elders and with none to protect them from the fall out, but for all that most of Blackwall’s experience has been from the other side.

Being confronted with the parent who had lost a child, confronted with the knowledge that they had told none of them and had suffered under the burden alone was staggering. Damn it, they had all laid burdens at the Inquisitor’s feet and expected answers, demanded decisions and leadership in a word gone mad— and none had known what they had lost.

He doesn’t know what to say or how to act and instead channels everything into the fight to flee the fade. Rainier would be too much the coward to speak to their leader in the aftermath, but Blackwall- older and hopefully wiser from his own griefs- will offer quiet condolences and whatever aid he can. If they need to speak of it be will listen. And if not there is soft wood and chisel enough to grind out any feelings if that is what they need.

Vivienne: Children had never been in her destiny. As a mage, even one so elevated as to be all but free of the constraints of the circle, motherhood was forbidden to her. Any child of her womb would be sacrificed to the Chantry, given to a family deemed ‘more worthy’ to raise it.

And as a mistress, no matter how deeply the love between them bloomed, Bastian could never have given her such a blessing. He had children— an illegitimate child, and a mage child at that, would have been too great a weapon against him.

And so she had put it out of her mind, never allowed herself to consider or imagine what a son might look like, how a daughter might smile. To think of it would be a loss too great to contemplate—or so she had thought. Met with the active loss and overwhelming grief that their leader must feel, Madame de Fer is suddenly glad not to know how such a burden might rest on her soul.

Could she be so calm a leader as the Inquisitor, while bleeding out inside? Vivienne does not know, and that…well, terrifies her in a way little has. But she is not called iron for nothing, and so when all is calm again she will go the Herald and ask simply and plainly what she might do for them. If the answer is nothing she will abide by it. And if there is something that might in any way assuage their grief then she will ensure they have it.

Dorian: Well, that at least explains the Inquisitor’s uncharacteristically violent outburst, when Halward Pavus had made his way to Ferelden. Upon hearing the possible consequences of the blood magic ritual the Inquisitor had laid into the Magister, flaying with words when they could not use violence. Even the Pavus paterfamilias had seemed shaken by the diatribe, and Dorian had felt championed.

He is not so shallow as to feel betrayed by the knowledge of what terrible grief must have driven such an impassioned defamation of character, but can instead only ache for his friend’s loss. They must have been a wonderful parent, and in a quiet time later will gather his courage to tell them so.

Sera: It doesn’t really register in the moment, so great is her own fear of the Fade and it’s denizens, but later it will simply break the Red Jenny’s heart. Their leader lost a true little one, and still managed to bring themselves to protect the rest of the little people no matter their age.

Like Blackwall she will either offer distraction or uncharacteristic silence in comfort, baked goods an offering that feels too…personal for such a gaping loss. But her admiration for them grows exponentially.

The Iron Bull: Public, corporate grief is rare among the Qun. Not forbidden, exactly, but when everyone is given a role it also implies that every person is inherently replaceable in that role. As Koslun said, the tide rises and falls and things must work forward toward peace.

But the death of a child is different. Whether disease or violence or simple accident, losing an imereki is a tragedy. The Tamassran mourns, the others in their care mourn, and all those in the sphere of the lost one are permitted some little allowance for the loss. Things cannot grind to a halt- this is why parents are separated from children, to ensure the deep emotional bonds that are anathema to the Qun- but there is not simple acceptance without acknowledgement of the loss.

Not even that was given to the Inquisitor. It’s east to see the shock of the others even through his own fear, and the knowledge infuriates Bull enough to get him through the Fade. Their leader lost a child, and no one was there for them. Instead piled on the whole world and its imminent loss on their shoulders. It’s disgraceful.

Later, when Adamant is pacified and they return to Skyhold, he will pull them aside. It will be painful and it will be slow, and whether they need alcohol or pain or even the clinical breakdown that bondage and sex can only give-with their explicit consent- he will help them bleed the pain and begin the grieving process.

Cole: The pain was too big for him to help, the threads caught up in pain and joy and guilt and anger and terrible despair. He didn’t even have the words to describe it to others, and so had kept silent.

If they need him later he will help, but this loss is too big for a spirit unsure of how to act.

Cullen: Maker’s breathe. How could they…why did they not…Damn it, how could he not realize?! He had all but thrust the entire inquisition on a parent who had been robbed the chance to even bury their child, let alone mourn them.

Varric’s report rocks him to the core, and the commander in truth does not know what to do. If the rest of the inner circle has it well in hand he will simply work to make sure their leader has less in their plate. If they wish to discuss it with them, he is there and if not…

He hardly has the words anyway.

Josephine: She weeps over the missive, when it arrives. Their inquisitor has been hiding the worst of loses from them, putting on such a brave face to do so much. Like Cullen she works to make sure they have less to do when they return, but does pull them aside briefly to awkwardly hug them and ask if they want a memorial somewhere private in Skyhold.

Leliana: She knew. She knew from only a few days after, when her spies brought her everything there was on the Herald. And even The Nightingales Heart could ache for such a loss, but Leliana took her queues from the Herald and simply never discussed it. That does not change now— she will follow their lead.

Mod Fereldone

[jreads]

They were both panting, coated in a light sheen of sweat. He had a wooden staff to her throat, feeling the rise and fall of her breaths, her heartbeat reverberating through his arms, his chest. Over the weeks, she had been improving: movements getting quicker, blows turning more lethal, gaze more rapidly assessing. It was mesmerizing to watch Osha move. Like him, she had that mix of Jedi training as well, and it refined each step. She was violently calculating, unlike Mae’s rage-fueled offensive barrages. She was perfect. And beautiful.

“You’re distracted,” she huffed in his grasp, before twisting and bringing her ankle behind his own, knocking him off balance for just a moment…

But it was long enough. She pushed out with the force and he faltered. The impact of his back meeting rough rock face was enough to knock the breath from him. 

She didn’t miss a beat, leveling the point of her staff just under his chin. Qimir could tell she was trying to hide a smile of defiance. 

Osha tossed her hair over one shoulder. “That didn’t even feel like a fair win. I could tell your mind was elsewhere.” 

The sun on this planet had darkened her skin and it seemed to glow now. Her body was more toned and corded with muscle, and her lips seemed… impossibly fuller?

“Qimir?” she raised a brow.

Maker, the way she said his name. 

Bad idea. Fantastic idea.

He had her up against the rock in a second, wrists pinned at her side, staff forgotten at their feet. She was still heaving.

“Push me away,” he commanded, preparing to fight against the familiar weight of her force push. But it never came.

“I said push..." he tightened his grip for emphasis.

"me..." and pressed his weight further into her.

"Away.” She was looking at him with some new expression, hooded, dark, thrilling, dangerous. And when she angled her head, he knew he was done for. 

He tried to step back then, to put some distance between them, to dampen that red hot shot of lightning now spiderwebbing through his chest. Too late.

He couldn’t move.

The force was an unbreakable barrier against his back. Thrumming. So powerful. She was trapping him.

“Osha.” It was barely a whisper. She looked like she was lost, like she couldn’t even hear him. But she was close, so impossible close…

She leaned forward first, eyes fluttering closed. At the barest brush of her lips on his they both knew there was no coming back from this.

And it was a mess. Tongues and teeth and he could swear he tasted blood. She was a livewire, hands fisting in his hair, against his robes. It was like she wanted to tear him apart, and maybe she did, and honestly, in that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. 

i'm so normal about them can you tell? more to come, watch this space <3

[brawlingdiscontent]

TV is ultimately a visual medium and it often relies on visual metaphor to convey complex ideas to viewers. Black Sails and Interview with the Vampire both use the form of painting to further their thematic explorations of meaning-making via narrative. What I mean, essentially, by this fancy language is that the shows use painting to explore how the stories we tell ourselves and others shape our experiences of reality (and reality itself). 

Spoilers for Black Sails season 1 (mild), both seasons of Interview with the Vampire below.

My first target is Black Sails’ iconic “Fruit, fruit; tits, tits” scene in season 1, episode 2. Below its surface-level general hilarity, it taps into some of the show’s key themes. In the scene, we see a pirate captain and an appraiser looking at two paintings with identical subjects but painted at vastly different skill levels. One is ‘unmistakably’ a ‘masterwork’ by the painter Adriaen Hanneman. The other is an amateur knockoff. The appraiser says, “To suggest that the value of one has any bearing on the other simply strains the very bounds of reason.” However the captain starts the scene off by highlighting their similarities, pointing back and forth between the two paintings (if you haven’t seen it, try to imagine these lines in a thick Scottish accent):  “Fruit, fruit; tits, tits; plant, plant – it’s the fucking same.”

This exchange reveals that value is constructed, not inherent. To accept the claim that the Hanneman painting is worth more than the knockoff requires one to buy into a pre-existing value system regarding what makes for “good” art. The local pirate’s refusal of this system signals the potential of Nassau to generate collective meaning outside of the central authorizing force of England (here represented by the appraiser). The question at hand in this short scene—who ultimately decides and how do they define the relative worth of the paintings?—is what Black Sails is asking on a grand scale. In this brief exchange we find the central conflict of the show which sees Black Sails' characters battle England and each other for control of the narratives that shape their existence. 

In contrast to Black Sails’ look at grand narrative, Interview with the Vampire explores narrative on a smaller, more personal scale. While Black Sails is primarily about struggle, marginalization, and how narratives sway the balance of power, Interview with the Vampire ponders the role that narrative plays in defining the highs and lows of a meaningless existence. The show considers how the stories that give us meaning are generated (particularly via memory) and where they may be flawed. Most obviously/prominently are the many narratives that Louis constructs (and that Daniel challenges) through the titular interview, but the theme pops up in a number of other places, from Claudia’s diaries, to the coven’s ritualistic stagings of what it means to be a vampire—and this is particularly evident in season 2. 

Armand struggles with an absent self-narrative. Lacking a strong concept of who he is, he instead relies on others’ understandings of him, and the show uses painting to help convey this. When Armand takes Louis to see the portrait of him commissioned by his maker, he asks: “Who am I, Louis? Am I my history I have endured? Am I the job I do not want? I do not know anymore. No one has painted me in 400 years,” revealing how deeply he depends on external narratives for his own meaning-making processes.

Painting and its analogue photography are also significant to Louis’ grappling with meaning-making both inside and outside the context of the interview. One way the show makes this connection is through a subtle use of set design. Louis has strewn the walls of the Paris apartment with paintings and photographs—portraits, specifically—that can be read to represent various selves he’s trying on in a cluttered meaning-making process while he’s “out here finding [him]self.” Louis jokes to Armand that the portraits “hide the cracks in the walls,” but they arguably metaphorically hide the cracks in Louis’ sense of self. 

The writers/set designers also use painting to signal Louis’ missing memory. In the 1973 scenes in 2.5 (the big ‘missing memory’ episode), above the coffin in Louis’ townhouse are empty spaces on the wall where paintings once hung. They visually echo Louis’ reference to, “Pieces of myself, missing. I knew who I was without those pieces,” later in the episode. 

The ‘Bacon triptych’ is another key point. Armand keeps Louis in the dark about the status of the painting hanging in their living room. When he announces that he’s found a buyer, Louis says, “I didn’t know we made it available.” Later when Rashid comes in to notify them that the buyer’s lawyer is ready for the teleconference, Louis asks ‘Lawyer?’ and Armand responds, “It’s about the painting, the Bacon triptych.” Louis’ ignorance here maps onto his ignorance about his missing memories, and signals Armand’s control of the narrative. Meanwhile questions about the painting’s authenticity that arise in the call with the buyer’s lawyer subtly foreshadow later questions about the authenticity of Louis’ memories of the first interview—as do the act of Louis’ photographs being replaced with Fred Stein’s in Louis and Armand's album.

Louis and Armand’s disagreement about what to put on the wall to replace the triptych signals a breakdown in their collective meaning-making as a couple, which culminates when Louis slams Armand into the empty space, cracking the wall in the process. 

For pretty much all of his and Armand’s relationship, Louis has sought meaning through external value in a way that is distinct from but not dissimilar to Armand—through his bankable skills rather than his relationships with others, the more objective benchmarks defined by capital and financial value. The paintings and other objects he collects are not necessarily about his own enjoyment of them, but about what will generate the greatest profit (as we see in the 2.6 scene when he barges into Armand’s office with a new purchase).

After the removal of the triptych, the blank spot on the wall represents the space for Louis to write his own, individual narrative one not tied to Lestat or Armand, or a cold figuration of external value. The blank wall at first represents loss and the absence of meaning—which seems to terrify Louis at the start of the season when he’s talking about dreams—but in having the courage to face his pain and loss and move forward, Louis is able to replace it with a painting that’s meaningful to him, and arguably more important, Paul’s portrait and Claudia’s dress, which map his loves and his grief, writing their meaning and their memory forever into his narrative.

Thank you for reading!

[kybercrystals94]

Come Back (part 4)

Read here on Ao3!

Rated: T | Words: 2436

<<Previous Chapter | Next Chapter>>

KANDRIA

“I will answer your questions to the best of my capabilities,” Tech says, a strength in his voice that wasn’t there before. 

You don’t have to worry about me, kid, us clones are more resilient than we look, Jaunt had told her while he lay on the cobblestone street, a smile on his lips even as blood trickled from one side and Kandria frantically tried to wipe it away with her sleeve. 

Tech continues, “However, I am more valuable than you realize. Information can be misconstrued and outdated; therefore, I can offer you something greater in exchange for your assistance making contact with my brothers.” 

Kandria’s heart thuds violently in her chest, and blood throbs in her ears. She tries to keep her breathing steady, her feet firmly planted, but she is trembling.

Uncle Garo walks forward and shoves Kandria roughly aside; however, she is ready for the impact, moving with the force of the push to sidestep and keep her balance. She turns and just catches Tech’s eyes shift to her briefly, before focusing on her uncle. 

“You are in no position to bargain with me, clone,” Uncle Garo sneers. He pulls his blaster from his holster. “I could shoot you right now and be done with you.” 

Kandria bites the inside of her cheek to keep from protesting. Something in Tech’s voice tells her that she needs to trust that he knows what he’s doing, that he understood her whispered warning. She prays to Maker he does. 

“You are correct,” Tech tells Uncle Garo. “You could shoot me; however, that would not be in your best interest. I can build you equipment.” 

Uncle Garo lowers the blaster. “What kind of equipment?” 

“With the proper materials, I could construct almost anything you might be in need of,” Tech tells him. “I am an engineer by design, and my mental capacities have been enhanced. I have memorized hundreds of schematics in my lifetime.” 

The fist around Kandria’s lungs loosens when Uncle Garo reholsters his blaster. “Is that so?” 

“But I will need your word that I can make contact with my brothers.”  

“We do not have a transmitter,” Uncle Garo tells Tech. 

Tech nods. “I thought as much. I will build that as well. I will be sure that it has the capability of secure encryption.” 

Uncle Garo is silent, and Kandria knows he is trying to decide if he should take Tech at his word or not. Finally, he nods before turning sharply and leaving the storeroom. 

It is as close to an agreement as Tech will get, although Uncle Garo will never keep his word on such a thing. But Tech has bought himself time, plenty of time, to heal. Kandria can help him escape later. She will not think about the consequences. The consequences don’t matter. She can save him. She will save him.

Kandria releases a shaky breath of frail relief. 

TECH

After proving his usefulness, Garo allowed the girl to use the correct dosages of medications. It has made him sleep for long hours, surfacing consciousness only long enough to drink water and the nearly flavorless but warm broth he is offered before sinking again into dark, dreamless depths. 

This time, when he comes to, he finds his mind more alert than it has been since he made the decision to sever the connection between the railcars. Although he thinks he might be able to manage on his own, the girl insists on helping him sit up, and offers him the mug of broth to hold in his own hands. She then sits on the edge of the cot. 

“Can you really do all the things you told Uncle Garo?” she asks him.

“I can,” Tech tells her. 

Kandria tips her head. “And you’re an enhanced clone?”

“That is also true.” 

“Are there other enhanced clones?” 

The girl seems genuinely curious, pale eyes watching him intently. He is not accustomed to natborns being particularly interested in clones or their development outside of vague fascination. Then again, Clone Force 99 rarely worked directly with civilians for any substantial length of time to allow such questions to appear organically. Perhaps this is a common line of conversation.

“Few survived,” Tech tells her. “My brothers and sister are enhanced in different ways.” 

“What kind of ways?” 

He did not anticipate the subject of his siblings creating a sharp twist of emotional discomfort under his broken ribs. While he has every intention of finding them again and relocating Kandria to Pabu, there are variables outside of his control. Clone Force 99’s perfect record has ended spectacularly, starting with the loss of Crosshair to the Empire. Failure is as likely as success. 

He may find his family again. 

He may not. 

He may save Kandria from the man she calls uncle. 

He may not. 

He may die, either from an unforeseen complication of his injuries, or a blaster bolt between his eyes if Garo should have a change of heart. 

Do you ever cry, Tech? Omega asked him in another lifetime. 

“Hunter has heightened senses and is able to detect electromagnetic fields. This makes his sense of direction far more accurate than any map you might have,” Tech says, answering Kandria rather than Omega. “Crosshair…” he hesitates a moment before pressing on, “Crosshair’s mutation is that his vision and marksmanship capabilities have been enhanced. I have yet to witness a shot he does not have the ability to make. Wrecker possesses superhuman strength and is larger than the average clone. We once watched him wrestle a young rancor until he wore the creature out, as an example.” 

The girl laughs. It in no way sounds like Omega, but it is painfully reminiscent. The emotion in his chest twists again, and were it made of flesh, it would surely be bleeding. 

“He fought a rancor?” Kandria asks incredulously, still smiling, oblivious to Tech’s invisible wounds. 

Tech blinks. “A young one,” he reiterates. 

“Why?” 

“That,” Tech says, “is a long and complicated story.”

“We have time,” Kandria tells him with a grin. 

And Tech cannot argue with that logic. 

KANDRIA

Her father used to tell her stories about when he was a ship medic, traveling the galaxy. Granted, most of his stories centered around an injury or illness of some kind, but Kandria didn’t mind. You’d be surprised how much trouble a crew can get into, he’d tell her. Some of the stories were secondhand from his patients, excuses and explanations for the ailments they’d bring to the med bay. Lies, most of them. I felt like a detective trying to root out the truth in all the malarkey. And it was funny that he said that, because Kandria was almost positive that he embellished his own stories liberally, even if it was just to make her smile or laugh. 

Tech does not tell stories like her father did, and she does not have to worry about any sort of malarkey. 

“...we were criminally underpaid for the job,” Tech tells her as he finishes his account of the rancor incident. 

Kandria shrugs one shoulder. “But at least you got a good story out of it. My dad always said that as long as you have a story to tell or a lesson you learned, no experience is wasted.” 

“Hmmm.” Tech regards her thoughtfully for a moment. “Your father…where is he?” 

If Kandria has learned one thing about Tech in the little time she’s known him, he is well spoken but blunt. Painfully honest; however, it is a fair question. And she brought her father up in the first place. “He died,” she says, keeping her voice as even as she can. The admission still feels as fresh as the day she told Jaunt the news. “During one of the Separatist attacks on my home planet.” 

There had been chatter about Separatists in the area; but there was always chatter. After all, they were close to a major trade route and were under Republic protection. And yet, her father had told her to stay home that day, to keep the door locked. It had made her so angry, and like a small child, she’d pouted and didn’t tell him goodbye. She can still feel the warmth of his palm on top of her head as he told her he loved her, that he’d come straight home after his shift. I love you, sweetheart. I won’t get caught up in conversation with Mister Roolek today, I promise. She hadn’t wanted his promise. She’d wanted her way. And it had cost her any final happy memory with him. 

“Is that when you came to be with your uncle?” Tech asks. 

Kandria shakes her head. That is a part of her history she is not willing to tell. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “Are you finished with your broth?” she asks, shifting the subject away from raw, stinging memories.

“Yes, thank you,” he says, and lets her take it from his hands. 

Kandria turns to leave. 

“I apologize if my questions were insensitive,” Tech says behind her, briefly stopping her retreat. “I did not mean to cause you any sort of emotional discomfort.” 

And she knows he means it, which somehow makes her emotional discomfort worse and better in the same aching heartbeat. No one has cared about her for a long time. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to have the real thing and not just threadbare memories of those now out of reach. 

“I’m fine,” she tells him, and leaves the room before she starts to cry. 

<<>><<>>

“You look a little young to work here, kid.” 

Kandria startles and looks up from her data pad to find a clone staring down at her from the other side of the counter. Flustered, she begins rambling, “Oh. I don’t. I’m just sitting here reading while I wait for my dad. He’s finishing his rounds.” 

“Ah, I see,” the clone says. He takes off his helmet. “So, your dad’s a doctor? Would his name happen to be Doctor Terrand?” 

Kandria nods. 

“Fantastic, just the man I wanted to see. I have a delivery of medications for him.” 

“Oh.” Kandria didn’t know that soldiers made deliveries. 

The clone looks past her at the door leading to the main ward. “You said he’s just finishing his rounds?” 

“Yes, sir. But I can go get him if you’d like.” 

“I’d appreciate it, kid,” the trooper says with a grin. “And you can just call me Jaunt. ‘Sir’ makes me sound more important than I am.”

Kandria smiles politely as she slips down from her chair. “I’ll go find my dad,” she tells him, hugging her data pad to her chest, before she whirls around and flees the front office for the sanctuary of the clinic.

One of the night nurses catches her the moment she gets through the door. “You know better than to run,” she scolds. 

“There’s a clone trooper here with a delivery for my dad,” Kandria tells her. 

The nurse frowns. “No excuses. Walk.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Kandria sighs. 

Her father’s clinic is small, specializing in long-term elder and end of life care. As Kandria walks past open doors, some of the patients call out greetings, and she makes sure to smile and wave back. As she suspects, her father is in Mister Roolek’s room. She stands in the doorway, patiently waiting for a lull in the animated conversation between her father and the Rodian. 

Mister Roolek’s dark eyes fall on her almost immediately. “Little Star! Apologies, I have kept your father longer than I should.” 

“It’s okay,” Kandria says, stepping into the room. 

“Did you need something, sweetheart?” her father asks. 

“There is a trooper here that says he has a delivery for you,” Kandria says. 

“Oh,” her father says, turning back to Mister Roolek, “You’ll have to excuse me, Siero.”

“Of course, of course,” Mister Roolek says, waving one long fingered hand. “Go do your work, Doctor. Our conversation will keep until tomorrow.” 

As her father passes by, he pats Kandria’s head. “Thanks, kiddo.” 

Kandria moves to follow after him, but is stopped short by Mister Roolek’s voice. “How’s your new book, Little Star?” 

Kandria turns back and goes to Mister Roolek’s bed, holding up her data pad. “Very good. I’ve almost finished it,” she tells him. “Then I can read it out loud to you if you’d like.”

“I would like that very much,” he says. “You are an excellent narrator.” 

Kandria beams. “Thank you.” 

“You know that your mother was one of my students when I was a teacher?” 

Kandria does know this, has heard it a hundred times; however, as she always does, she shakes her head, letting Mister Roolek tell the story again for what he thinks is the first time. 

“Such a bright student, your mother. Kind and diligent. You are just like her when she was your age.”

“Thank you,” Kandria says. 

Mister Roolek sighs, sinking back into his pillows. “Taken too soon, your mother.”

Kandria nods. While she does not have any of her own memories of her mother, she feels the loss deeply through the voices of those who knew her. It feels strange to miss something she doesn’t remember, but it is there nonetheless, a tender, hollow emptiness. 

“Go catch up with your father, Little Star,” Mister Roolek tells her. 

“I’ll come read to you tomorrow,” Kandria says. “I think I’ll finish the book tonight.” 

He smiles at her. “I look forward to it then.” 

Kandria returns to the lobby just as the trooper is putting his helmet back on. “See ya around, kid,” he says with a nod. 

Her father turns to her. “I’ll go lock this up, then we’ll be ready to go.” 

“Okay, Dad,” Kandria says, watching the clone trooper leave. 

She wonders if she’ll ever see Jaunt again…or how she’d even know since he looks the same as all the others. 

TECH

Kandria takes the distraction of her presence with her, leaving Tech’s hyperactive mind entirely to its own devices. He should be thinking about how to escape, how to bring Kandria with him. He should be thinking of his own survival; however, melancholy claims his thoughts instead. 

Tech misses his data pad. He misses his goggles. He misses the structure of the war, the certainty of success, and the defying of failure. He misses his squad. He misses Hunter’s quiet leadership and Wrecker’s unconventional brilliance. He misses Echo’s hard won wisdom and Omega’s determined optimism. He misses Crosshair and hopes that they still search for him. 

Do you ever cry, Tech? 

And he thinks he might. 

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[satomatto]

. //SOFT PACK | nutrition; NSFW!vers

ch: suguru geto; nanami kento; okkotsu yuta; sukuna ryomen.

cw: cannibalism mentions; daily routine, for the most part; something about Okkotsu's preferences been in the fanbook (I guess), but it's not considered here.

wc: 900

GETŌ SUGURU

Suguru is the kind of person who prefers a diet of healthy food. At least, it's definitely a big part of his menu, and even if you're not one of the health-conscious types, your own diet will surely be much more balanced than it was before.

Usually, he rarely cooks, but if a man sees you standing at the stove, he will approach you and definitely offer his help. He'll do his best to help you in any way he can, whether it's with household chores or the daily grind. Geto likes to see your gratitude, and at the same time, he doesn't like it when you overstretch yourself.

Sometimes they bring you breakfast in bed. With notes left on top - a kind of apology if for one reason or another he can't make it to spend the morning with you, if you've already had time to plan it; or just very cute reminders of today's chores that you shouldn't ignore.

Geto is excellent hand with knife. You can ask him to carve anything, and you can be sure he knows how to do it right. If you hear something along the lines of "sorry, I can't," you can be sure he can, but he doesn't want to. He rarely will refuse you, so he's probably just too tired for that, but on days like this, you just order take-out from a nice cafe nearby.

NANAMIN

As we already know, Nanami is actually a schedule man. You can say goodbye to quick bites and unhealthy snacks while you go. In the morning you will be waited for an appetizing breakfast, for lunch you will get both first and second, and from dinner you can't refuse in principle - it looks too delicious.

He likes his coffee strong and sugar-free. In particular, double espresso or cappuccino, but will not refuse and sweetened latte, if you suddenly want to prepare a drink for him. By the way, he's a great coffee maker. And you're in luck - because you can drink it every day.

He's a stickler for a relatively healthy lifestyle - due to his experience, capabilities and the cost of a whole bunch of health-related services. Treatment is expensive nowadays, and maintaining your condition is not only more profitable, it's easier. No, it doesn't mean he's not ready to spend money on going to clinics, Kento is just a practical man who doesn't like unnecessary movements - it's much easier to prevent a situation than to deal with the consequences.

Speaking of sweets: the man doesn't like them on principle, preferring to have a light salad once instead of munching on an extra bun, which you don't quite agree with him on. After all, he can't force you to give up junk food, but he's not going to just watch you do it. Most likely he will give a lecture about the proper diet of a healthy person and offer to share a salad with him.

You're not going to say no to him, are you?

OKKOTSU YUTA

Oh, this is so hard to deal with. The poor guy just doesn't have time to eat properly - he's really busy and barely knows how to plan his time, almost always rushing off to an emergency task at the first call. At times he hasn't even had time to sit down at a meal in the morning because of a sudden phone ring, just grabbing a random piece off his plate and munching it on his way out.

Throughout the day, he eats mostly snacks or fast food on his own, but you're a different matter. You rarely cross paths, but as soon as the opportunity presents itself, you go to a cafe or diner with a proper menu. He doesn't want you to kill your stomach with ramen, like him, and you want to feed him good food accordingly. And he'd rather have a nice bland dish from there than any fast food.

This guy isn't much of a cook, but he can whip up something good if you have a recipe and detailed instructions on how and what to add. You like the food he makes - he's usually pretty good at it, and when you get the chance, you even do it together.

Yuta loves fish dishes. Whether it's surimi, sashimi, or even odori, seafood is his passion. Not that you share it, but you taste a lot of it with him. Another fun fact is that you can feed him almost anything - he won't complain, even if it's a badly burned bean that's been in an old frying pan, fried in chicken broth. After all, you've worked hard for him - how can he reject your concern when he looks right into your glistening eyes?

RYŌMEN SUKUNA

Let's start with the fact that he's some kind of king, but he's a king and has his own servants. They do the cooking, but he'll also be pleased if you decide to make something for him. His food preferences fluctuate between oily and neutral foods, but mostly what we know is human meat.

That doesn't mean he'll decline a light side dish you've prepared. Just, expect that to please him you'll have to adjust to his demands. Yes, it's hard to cook human meat, but you can make a little effort for him, right?

Just because he has cooks in the kitchen instead of him doesn't mean Sukuna is a bad cook or can't cook at all. He's very good at it. In fact, you once tasted a dish made by him, and it was really damn good. High standards have been set for a reason and woe betide anyone who can't meet them.

The man has food-related kinks. Even the affectionate nicknames sometimes sound like he wants to eat you - from morsel to sweetie, from his lips sounds like an assault (that's what it is) on your body, soul and sweet, empty head.

[sketches4mysw33theart]

The Concoction of Creativity 

Synopsis: You’re trying to teach Mr Willy Wonka how to read with little success, as there are plenty of chocolate-scented distractions stealing his attention. Inspired, you both drop the lesson to allow the creation of a new type of chocolate which, upon making and eating, gives Willy the inspiration to finally understand what you were trying to teach him. 

Word Count: 2.2k 

Warnings: None

“Oh, this just does not make sense,” Willy said exasperatedly, placing the stub of a pencil on the makeshift desk he was sitting behind with a distinct air of abandonment. Drawing a breath, you gave him a small smile, which you hoped came across as encouraging.  

“It’s not that bad, really,” you said. “Look, you have consonants and vowels,” you pointed to the two groups of letters that you had painstakingly copied out onto the blackboard, “and a Y and W, which can act as either or depending on the context. Now, there are 19 consonants and 5 vowels. In speech, the sound of consonant letters involves the blocking of air before it leaves the mouth, whereas vowels involve the opposite.” 

You had your back to him, drawing circles and symbols on the blackboard as you continued talking about certain letters. Without the pressure of your eyes, Willy was almost immediately unengaged, staring at the pencil he had harshly discarded for a moment before picking it up again. Lost beneath your booming voice, he said to himself, “This does look rather tasty.” 

The pencil was now balanced at eye level on his pinkie finger, and he was watching it jitter with his head slightly tilted. “I wonder if... hmm, Middlemist Red Camellia dew with a dash of pencil lead...”  

And, in as little time as it took you to turn around, he had the lead of the pencil between his teeth, gnawing curiously. Before you could exclaim, he took it back out again, and you watched in fascinated disgust as he pushed the minuscule chunk around his mouth for a moment to taste the lead, then swallowed without chewing. 

When you had decided to take over Noodle’s responsibilities of teaching the new arrival to read, you didn't quite know what you were letting yourself in for. The young girl had confided one day while working alongside you in the wash house you were both imprisoned in that the chocolate maker did not know how to read, and she did not know the best way to approach teaching him, so you’d decided to utilize your meagre writing experience and teach him the best you could. However, you were not prepared for the enormous difficulty that this task proposed. Not only could Mr Willy Wonka not read, but he also seemed to have very little motivation to learn how to do so. He did, however, have plenty of motivation and passion for creating chocolate.  

“That’s it, Y/N,” he said with a gleeful smile. “That’s the concoction of creativity.” And he was up from his chair and over to his travel factory, opening up his mini case of wonders in no time at all. He mumbled to himself as he shuffled through vials, dancing fingers hovering over liquids of gold and green and blue, until he seized one with sudden vigour. 

You watched him, shading the amusement you felt with a faux-disgruntled look. You didn’t mind giving up your time to tutor Mr Wonka (you didn't exactly have much else to do in the wash house) nor did you mind his frequent disruptions and outbursts; you were simply content with the opportunity to be ensconced in the sweet, hopeful presence of the chocolate maker.  

Still, with your hands on your hips, you put on your best teacher voice. “And do you, by any chance, have a chocolate that will force you to focus on vowels and consonants?” You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling as you said it, because the look of focus – downturned lips, wide eyes, bursting dimple – had taken over his face.  

“Ah,” Willy looked up from his ongoing creation, two small vials clutched in his hands, with a sheepish expression on his sweet face. “I could do a Ruby Remission – great for forgetting the naughty deeds of truant chocolatiers, among other uses.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh and moved to sit in the chair that he had just vacated. “Spare me, please. But I suppose we can take a break. What's the concoction of creativity?”  

“The dew of the Middlemist Red Camellia, one of the rarest flowers in the world.” He shook the vial he was holding in his left hand, which was half filled with a thick, red-tinged liquid that glimmered in the weak light. “I managed to collect some in China. Just a concentrated drop of it can stimulate the minerals and glucose of the body needed for energy and brain power, but it needs a little kick, a spark of imagination.”  

Now, he gestured to the pencil with his head. “If I can melt the lead of a pencil in acetone,” he said, shaking the second vial of clear liquid, “I think I could have the perfect essence of creativity to give the eater that hope of fantasy.” 

You were awestruck by his dedication, his methods of working, his inventiveness, and watched him joyously labour with rapt attention. He snapped the pencil in half and tipped out the lead into the acetone, telling you as he did so how the acetone would break down the lead into a liquid, ready to be sweetened and poured into the chocolate mix. Putting that to one side, he pulled the cork from the red bottle and lifted it to his nose to inhale deeply before holding it out to you. 

Distracted by the pencil lead bubbling in acetone, you didn’t notice the offer at first, not until Willy said your name with a smile on his face. He couldn’t help but enjoy how much you enjoyed watching him work. You too inhaled the scent, a rich combination of rose bouquets and candyfloss, tinged with a faint Earthy smell of spice. “Wow,” you said, leaning closer for a second whiff. “That smells incredible.” 

He grinned. “And with the lead, it’ll taste it too, I just know it.” He turned back to his mini laboratory to focus on his concoction, but this time at such an angle that you couldn’t watch his nimble fingers at work. Dismayed, you stood up and sidled quietly towards him, leaning somewhat disruptingly over his shoulder. At the feel of your presence, the closeness of your bare skin to that of his arm, the natural, if a bit soapy, scent of you, Willy was rather flattered; the idea that you wanted to be so close to him, to watch him do what he so loved, made him glow.  

However, your sudden closeness caught him somewhat off guard as he was pouring the dew into his machine, and the warmth of you mere inches from his body unconsciously made his fingers tremble, causing him to almost drop the vial. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you mumbled, thinking you’d startled him and taking a hurried step back with a meek expression. 

“No, no, not at all,” he was quick to rectify the unconscious betrayal of his body and sheltered the conversation from an awkward silence by stretching out the vial towards you. “Would you like to pour the rest?”  

“I- yes, I’d love to,” you exclaimed, quickly broaching the space you’d shamefully put between you to gently take the vial from his fingers and stand, this time, beside him. “Where do I -” 

Willy pointed to a built-in glass container housing a thin spiral tube on his side of the case. “Pop it in there, we’ll add the lead and a pinch of stardust nectar extracted from the Luna Petalas plants of the celestial pools in Delphi.” His face fell into a dreamy expression as you watched, and he cast it toward you with an expectant pause that threatened to turn your knees into jelly when you didn’t make a move to start the chocolate creation.  

Startled out of your stupor, you quickly leant in front of him to pour the red liquid into the container, and watched it slowly travel through the spiral tube. So close to your companion's body, you were drawn into his heat and overwhelming scent of sweet chocolate tinged by the harsh soap of the wash house and an unfamiliar earthy smell that seemed to cling on to him desperately. When you stood back up, you couldn’t help but make sure you were close to him. 

He stoppered the vial that you had handed to him, carefully placing the bottle away before picking up the acetone, which was now a light grey. “Now the melted lead.” He handed the vial to you once more and gestured to the glass tube with a wave of his thin fingers. You repeated the actions of leaning across him, overwhelming your senses with his scent, pouring the liquid in, returning to standing, and handing over the vial. 

The machine made a noise, a happy-sounding one, you thought, but you looked to Willy for reassurance. The smile stretched across his face and the twinkle in his eyes, illuminated by the soft lights of his travel factory, assured you it was. Still, in tune with your discomfort, he clapped to calm it before saying, “Perfect, Y/N! Now,” you watched his fingers dance across his numerous bottles again, “a sprinkle of stardust nectar,” he handed you the correct bottle and allowed you to pour it in. “And then we press this button,” he pointed to a square button beside the glass container, “and voila!” 

As soon as you pressed the button, the mini factory burst to life, a conveyor belt beginning to run until there emerged four red chocolates in the shape of the most fantastic autumn leaves. You watched in awe as each perfectly engraved chocolate appeared as though by magic, looking as delectable as you had ever seen any Wonka’s chocolate look. They glimmered generously, reflecting the absorbed faces of yourself and the chocolate maker in hazy, romantic shades. Once the conveyor belt stopped with four perfect chocolates produced, the mini factory fell instantly quiet and silent once more.  

Willy turned to you with a triumphant look on his face. “You just made chocolate, Y/N! Try it, go on.” He plucked one of the leaves from the belt and held it out to you in the centre of his smooth palm. You took it eagerly and popped it into your mouth. Instantly, your taste buds were coated in the sweetest combination of rose, honeyed ambrosia, and wild berries, with a faint metallic taste reminiscent of grapefruit on the cusp of ripeness. You couldn’t resist the groan you let out as you bit into it and swallowed the noisette-like substance within. 

“Oh, Willy, that’s delicious! It’s perfect.” He was going to respond, but you lurched forward and pressed a quick kiss to the smooth roundness of his cheek, which instantly erupted in a flush of crimson. For a moment, he stuttered around the words his mind had yet to string together, then cleared his throat and pressed on. “I, er – wow, thank you.”  

Sparing more of his blushes, you picked up another chocolate from the belt and held it to his lips between your thumb and forefinger. “Your turn.”  

His cheeks still aflame, he opened his smiling mouth and accepted the chocolate onto his tongue. As the taste spread, his eyes closed and he inhaled deeply, his jaw tightening and Adam’s apple bobbing while he chewed and swallowed. It was your turn to blush as he opened his eyes and caught you looking.

But he just smiled. “Oh, that is good. We’ll make a chocolatier out of you yet, Y/N.”  

“Well, I definitely think you’ve got the creative juices flowing. But how are you feeling, Willy? More creative? Ready to work through Shakespeare?” you said teasingly. 

“Hm, absolutely. In just a second,” he responded with a grin, picking up one more chocolate and popping it in his mouth. He swallowed it, stared at the final one with his lips rolled together, and then looked to you where you now stood beside the blackboard with an expression of surprise.  

“Mm, you know, I think I’ve got this whole word thing, Y/N.” You watched him with a hopeful smile as the cogs of his mind continued to whir. “Sure, okay, consonants are like cacao nibs, they bring certain notes and textures to words, so they have rhythm and structure.” His hands were gesticulating wildly, primarily in the direction of the final chocolate, but his eyes focused out of the window as though the answer to reading was just out of reach in the cold London night. “But vowels are more practical, like the grinding of the consonant nibs, refining their texture and making them smoother. So, consonants are the structure, they block air, while vowels are the essence of flavour, releasing air.”  

You were beaming as he finished his unique comparison. “Yes, Willy, you got it!” As though snapped out of a trance, his eyes darted to you, and his face lit up. 

“Really?”   

You nodded enthusiastically, stepping closer to him once more to squeeze his arm as you continued your encouragement. “Spot on, well done! And now I know how best to teach you in the future. But, I think we’ll call it a night for now.” You turned away from him to go about cleaning the blackboard in preparation for hiding it from Scrubbit and Bleacher, should they come looking.  

With your back to him, you could not see the moment of inspiration that flashed in Willy’s eyes, followed by a second of hesitation, rounded off by a steely determination. With lithe steps, he approached you, gently placed a hand on your shoulder and pressed his lips to your cheek before you had a chance to turn around.  

“Thank you for teaching me, Y/N,” he mumbled, biting his bottom lip nervously. “Same time tomorrow?” 

[galactic-rhea]

irt your latest midi-chlorian/mitochondria post - what do you think would happen to him??? :0

See, this is why I shouldn't make that type of posts sleep deprived and away from home in a college field trip in which we were in four different states on a single day.

This is the post anon is referring to

Logically (now that my mind is more clear) the answer should be that he would die, if it's severe enough as how the analog fungicide i mentioned worked lol

See, the fungicide I was rambling around forces the rRNA to malfunction and thus the nucleus stops producing certain proteins needed for the cell. And is just deathly, there are certain fungi that can handle that better, if the application of that fungicide isn't consistent and thus they become resistent, but fungi are impressive organism that can multiply faster and live on incredible conditions, given that they have like, at the very least, three different types of spores (there are ascomycetes that have like 6-7 different spores through their cycle).

But allas, back to my favorite deranged blorbo.

That's stright up a death sentence for anyone, really. But especially for Anakin who has only half of human genetic material and the other half is just the force. With me theory about the midi-chlorians being the mithocondria equivalent, Anakin would be on such a perilous spot between dying on the spot and being basically a pseudo-god, because he has so many midichlorians in his cells that his cells are dying at an extre rate, but he needs the midichlorians to be able to live (and handle) that much power flowing through him due the force. This hypothetical scenario would break this balance to the core, and even if a normal person could survive until reaching an hospital and being given a diagnosis, Anakin could probably drop death on the spot, like I said, is cellular death and growth must be on record time, and this could be helpful with other ailments.

But with the midichlorian failling him and not enough energy because the new midichlorian would be failing as well, there's a chance that The Force would kill him, the equivalent of overheating or when a lightning strikes and you get too much electricity on a single lightbulb.

HOWEVER, to make this interesting and because let's be real, this is fricking Star Wars and this is fricking Anakin I-Survived-More-Deathly-Accidents-Than-I-Can-Count-Skywalker, let's pretend this midichlorian killer chemical isn't as effective as the analog fungicide I was talking about, it doesn't affect ALL of the midichlorians, but just a few to get our good-and then evil-and then good again-boy.

Whump makers take note, please:

It would depend, honestly, but generally speaking, it would mean he's out of all that supply of energy he uses the keep going. He would get something akin to chronic fatigue, momentarily he's all righty, and then of all sudden lifting a pencil is too much.

Being so strong in the force, but without the biological resources to handle it, he would like, pass out after using the force. Meditating could be the equivalent to ask him if he wants to go into comma. If he already felt cold, he's about to start shaking just by going out, this boy has not enough glycogen storage.

But that's the best of the diagnosis, the worst ones are if this affects the neuronal and nervous system cells. I mentioned briefly that an excess of ATP was linked to autism, ADHD, ocd, and other neurogivergencies, and even neurodegenerative diseases and dementia.

Well, the lack of ATP can do this as well, so there's that.

To name some few, very general ones:

-Epilepsy and seizures

-Vision loss, audition loss or auditory hallucinations.

-Disorientation

-Muscular pain.

-Headaches.

-Problems with reflexes like swallowing or breathing.

-Vomits.

-Accelerated (even more, in Anakin's case) cellular death.

-Loss of hair and muscular mass.

Given that in this second scenario, the midichlorians-killer hypothetical chemical isn't as effective and wouldn't case an inmediate death, then Anakin's fast healing qualitys would actually be super duper helpful then, it would be great to compare his healthy cells with the sick ones. In this case, I bet a doctor would be more than eager to take a sample of Anakin's stem cells.

He would be a great lab rat for both the hypothetic evil mad scientist, AND for the eager doctors looking for a treatement and cure, and since this is a chemical and we're on a far far away galaxy, I'm pretty sure the cure would be not-too-hard to find.

Oh gosh I didn't expect to write this much, sorry for that anon, but I hope this satisfied you curiosity? ^^;

[pseudonymphomania]

"Shout Your Heart Out", the narrative compulsion of unrequited yearning, and the things that stick with me

How to do DiaLuci correctly: in the NB "Creating Records" WW, Diavolo takes many pictures of Lucifer as keepsakes, to Lucifer's resignation, until Lucifer takes the phone from him. Diavolo is a very extra person. He does things to their furthest extent and is a very goofy character despite his propensity for sound judgement in other matters. Lucifer taking the phone from him reestablishes Lucifer's agency. After a heart-to-heart, the skit culminates in Lucifer taking a selfie with Diavolo of his own volition, not because he is forced to, but because he cares for Diavolo as a friend. Lucifer gives Diavolo his phone back and taps him on the chest over his heart. The scene is a balanced reflection of the care these two have for each other in their different ways. The denouement [the final part of a narrative in which the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved] is delicious, heartwarming, interpretable, logically sound.

How to do DiaLuci incorrectly: in "Shout Your Heart Out", Diavolo practices for weeks yelling about all the things he likes about Lucifer. His words leave little to be interpreted. He gets MC involved for no narratively compelling reason and despite having that quality time together, there is nothing much that sells even a friendship with MC aside from circumstantial presence. When it comes time for the event, Diavolo tells the world how much Lucifer means to him and how attractive he is (this is a romantic trope). Then the brothers stand there awkwardly commenting on this, including the object of the prince's affections, Lucifer, who says, paraphrased, "I don't care". Then, finally, after Diavolo confesses his love for Lucifer, he pulls MC on the stage and confesses to them and kisses them. (Denouement: ???)

I already made comments on someone else's post about my feelings regarding the card and despite an entire day passing and a real life to live and bills to pay, I couldn't get this out of my head.

I think I know why.

As much as I play this game to get the DiaLuci crumbs, this card left me feeling really hollow and sad. Canonically, Diavolo and Lucifer are best friends. This is exemplified by their first meeting (OG "Glory Days" Lucifer UR), their continued meetings as representatives from their respective realms (NB: Seven Apples" Diavolo UR), Diavolo's support to aid fallen Lucifer who asked him for help (Story Canon both games), their mutual regard as Devildom leaders (Role of Prince and Whip respectively in respective chapters), their affection for each other in general (little things like Lucifer offering to take half of the consequences in the past Christmas event because he couldnt let Diavolo take it on himself). This is explicit and textual. In this card, having Lucifer not give even a little bit of a shit is anti-character development.

The implicit is where the fans live; an interpretation of a written text is subject to the whims and tastes and biases of the perceiver. It is my pleasure to interpret them as a romantic relationship, a beautiful friendship, among everything they are and could be for each other. But.

But... to explicitly, in no uncertain terms, have Diavolo stop just shy of saying I Love You to Lucifer ("Shout Your Heart Out") and have the reaction to that be status quo indifference, then have Diavolo get washed by the narrative to remember the MC exists is some astronomically bad storytelling. Lucifer is a major poster-boy. Metaphysically, it's not possible to have him reciprocate because its an otome and he's a big money-maker (This is where the fans ignore the meta of the game and run with the interpretation of the text because it doesnt matter if something is canon or not in the grand scheme of things; DiaMC fans exist, LuciMC fans exist, Dialuci-polycule-sandwich fans exist, DiaLuci fans exist, ANTI-all-of-the-above exists).

Now, this card makes it explicitly textual that Diavolo is in a constant state of yearning (sad). This card makes MC the rebound (in a dating sim??). This card doesnt even have Lucifer react to the DiaMC kiss when Lucifer is supposed to be into MC. He's just there (Asmo got more screen time!). This is tragic for everyone involved. In a game about "romance", this card is an absolute travesty, and because of that I spent all day thinking about it like it was something of consequence in my busy life.

By comparing the two scenarios above, there is a very strong lesson here about the strength of a beautifully crafted narrative, so I am amiss as to why this card exists if not to commit to the ideas as written. (This is rhetorical; I know why)

Note: this is not an either-or situation. The DiaLuci and DiaMC plots CAN be done at the same time in one card, but it takes skill and a commitment to the kind of storytelling that is very hard to do with corporate and stakeholder meddling, deadlines, interprofessional and jurisdictional impudence, misunderstandings of market demographics and consumer behaviors, funneled into what is essentially a 4-koma Devilgram.

Am I still a hardcore DiaLuci shipper? Yes. Obviously. My personal denouement [headcanon] is that the love is requited. But poison can still smell delicious to a mouse before it kills it. *sighhhhh... saves the screenshot of Diavolo admiring Lucifer's attractiveness reluctantly* I just care about the value of a good story a little bit more because both DiaLuci and DiaMC were done so dirty here. 😭

Conclusion: the real winners are the cherry pickers who are able to make do with what little exists for them. The portentous winds say that I will become one.

Thank you for reading this and I hope you all have a wonderful day! 🥰

Edit: My opinion has been slightly changed because of a comment on my Reddit post by user Clarasiir. I appreciate that and I'm happy to have experienced a real life Hegelian Dialectic.

Edit 2: A kind reprise. The aftermath of the Devilgram.

[therealdisneyfan2319]

Latte Love | Wanda Maximoff

Summary: When a new coffee shop opens up across the street from your bakery, you enter into a rivalry with its new owner

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Male Reader

Warnings: Smut (minors DNI), language, mentions of major character death, house fire, mentions of alcohol

Word Count: 7.3K

Masterlist

A/N: This was a request from @aloneodi​.  The prompt was pretty straightforward: enemies to overs with lots of angst and smut.  Enjoy ;)

For the past two months the construction across the street from your bakery had driven you insane.  The constant sawing and hammering was grinding your gears.  You weren’t sure what was coming in the old storefront.  It had been vacant as long as you could remember.  You were in elementary school when Mr. Neely retired and the building now sat in a state of dilapidated disrepair: the front awning was threadbare, the windows were partially boarded up, and graffiti was spray painted over the brick storefront.  Inside the empty cases gathered dust and cobwebs.  It was a bit of a pleasant surprise when you came to work one day to see a ‘SOLD’ sign taped to the front door. 

“Maybe we should blast some music, give them a taste of their own medicine,” Natasha suggested with a smirk.  Natasha Romanoff was your right hand woman when it came to running the bakery.  Not only was she an accounting whiz and could balance the books in her sleep, she also made a mean creme brûlée.  

“I just don’t understand why it’s taken them so long to remodel.  It’s construction, not rocket science.  What’s going in there anyway?”

“It’s a coffee shop.  I met the owner when I went to the wholesaler the other day,” Sam explained as he dumped another batch of bagels into the bucket.  A slightly intimidating Air Force veteran with the heart of a teddy bear, Sam was your resident bagel maker and donut fryer.  People came from all corners of the state for his famous brownie batter donuts and egg everything bagels,

“So literally the exact same as us?”  You could hardly believe what you were hearing.  The Rolling Scones had quickly established itself as Westview’s premiere (and only) bakery.  Why did someone else need to open up right across the street?

“Hold up, it’s not exactly the same thing.  We’re a bakery that serves coffee and they’re a coffee shop that serves baked goods.  Totally different.”

You shot Sam a glance that immediately made him do an about face and head back to his boiling batch of bagels.  Flour covered fingers ran through your hair as you leaned up against the back counter thinking about all the negative ways this new shop was going to impact yours.

“What are we gonna do, Nat?  I can’t lose this place.”

“Y/N, relax.  It’s just another business.  We’re not going to go out of business just because there’s a new place in town.  If anything they’re the ones who should be worried.  They have to compete with Sam’s bagels.” 

“We could just burn it down!” Peter, the teenager who washed dishes after school and on weekends, added.  “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about them!”

“He’s got a point,” Sam added as the door jingled open.

“Peter!  Arson isn’t the answer here!” Nat rolled her eyes, heading to the back to work on handling the latest invoices.

“But it is a solution,” you teased.  Natasha groaned as she kicked the back room door open.  “Can I help you?” you asked, turning your attention to the customer who walked up to the counter.

“Yeah, I’m looking for a - oh, SAM!  Hi!”  The young woman in front of you raised up on her tiptoes and waved over the counter.

“Wanda hey!”  He walked over, an overflowing basket of hard rolls in his arms.  “Glad you came.  How’s the remodeling going?”

“Good!  My contractor told me that we should be able to open by the end of the month.”

“That’s great news!  Did you pick the name yet?”

“My brother and I argued about it for a while, but we finally settled on Latte Love.”

“You’re the one who bought the old deli?!”  

“Mmhmm.  I always wanted to open a coffee shop and I thought it was an absolutely charming little spot.  So I saved and took out some loans and got it!  I’m Wanda.  Wanda Maximoff.”  The overexcitable brunette shoved her hand out in front of you.

“Y/N L/N,” you responded as you reluctantly clasped her hand.  The last thing you wanted to do was be friendly with the person who was your direct competitor. 

Sam chatted with Wanda, asking her all sorts of questions about the wholesaler and how she was faring getting her deliveries set up.  Your vision went red at the sight of your friend and this despicable woman having a friendly conversation.  Why on earth would he invite her into your shop, the shop your parents worked so hard to build and the one you worked so hard to keep thriving?  The fear of losing the family business permeated your mind on a daily basis.  This wasn’t making it any better…

“Who’s that?” Natasha’s voice snapped you out of your stewing.  She leaned against the counter, sizing up the scene in front of her.

“That’s the new coffee shop owner.  Wanda.  I have no idea why she’s here or why she’s talking to Sam,” you huffed, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter.

“Someone sounds a little jealous,” Nat teased.  

“Jealous?!”  Your face flushed red with embarrassment.  “You think I’m jealous?  Nat, that’s the woman who’s going to try to steal all our customers!  She’s the enemy here, not the prize!”

Natasha looked at you, then at Wanda, then back at you, and back at Wanda.  “She’s hot.  Think I stand a chance?”

“Can you pretend you’re not gay for like, five minutes please?  Five minutes.  That’s all I’m asking.  I’m not jealous, I don’t want anything to do with her, and I swear to Christ if she’s into chicks too and you sleep with her your ass is so fired.  ANYONE who sleeps with her is outta here!”  As much as you hated to admit it, Natasha was right: Wanda was gorgeous.  She had the perfect figure, her cropped jeans hugging the curves of her hips just right.  The billowy light blue and white button up and oversized sun hat gave her a youthful exuberance that radiated from her glowing face and stunning green eyes.  

“You’d have less of a stick up your ass if you got laid, you know?” she smirked.  Groaning, you headed back toward the kitchen, kicking the swinging door with your foot.  The sweet smell of powdered sugar and freshly baked cupcakes instantly calmed you.  Unsure of how to amuse yourself until Wanda left, you grabbed a cooling rack of cookies and began frosting, turning the sugary discs into half moons.  The repetition of frosting and smoothing calmed you.  With enough time and vanilla Wanda’s unwelcome appearance would soon become a distant memory.

************************************************

Latte Love had been open for almost a month.  The cafe had a slow start initially.  Customers trickled in and out for the better part of two weeks.  For those two glorious weeks you paid no heed to the brunette who could often be found sweeping the sidewalk and arranging the outside tables just so.  Suddenly, something changed.  Before you knew it a line formed outside the locked doors every morning with people waiting to get their morning cup of coffee.  You didn’t pay much attention to it at first, but once you spotted a couple of your regulars in the line your vitriol for Wanda increased tenfold.     

“That’s the third time today they’ve had a line out the door!” Peter exclaimed as he pressed his nose to the glass.

“Thank you for that reminder, Captain Obvious,” you snarked as you counted back change to the lady at the counter.  “Anything else you want to add?”  

Peter quickly recoiled from the glass, a sheepish expression on his face.  “Ned says their coffee is really good….and so are their muffins,” he mumbled.

Oh great.  Now I’ve gotta compete with her pastries, too.  What a bitch…you thought to yourself as you handed the lady back a fistful of coins.  Wanda was frustrating you more and more every single day.  You sighed, taking off your baseball cap and running your hands threw your sweaty hair. 

The door jingled.  Sam and Nat walked in, the two of them eating cookies that suspiciously didn’t look like yours.

“What are those?” you asked.

“You want one?  Wanda gave them to us.  Pietro’s trying out a new recipe for sugar cookies.  They’re honestly not half bad.”  Sam reached into the brown paper bag and grabbed a large cookie, its warmth causing it to bend ever so slightly.

“Goddamn it!  You slammed your cap down on the counter.  In your mind, this was an act of war and you were not going to stand for it.  Who did she think she was, bribing your employees?  

“Y/N, just relax, okay?  Wanda didn’t mean anything by it.  She’s really nice if you get to know her,” Natasha asserted.

“She’s stealing our customers!” you shouted.  “And I can’t believe you guys are eating her food!”

“Dude, relax.  The cookies are good and she’s nice.  Her brother’s cool, too,” Sam added, wiping cookie crumbs from his goatee.  

“Unbelievable,” you mumbled, storming around the counter and yanking the door open.  You were going over there to give her a piece of your mind. 

You didn’t care what customers thought as you pushed Latte Love’s door open.  Lucky for you there weren’t any at the moment, the last one having left moments ago.  You heard the commotion of dishes crashing from the back and a voice you hadn’t heard before mixing with Wanda’s.  As the commotion in the background subsided, it was the perfect opportunity to look around at the transformed deli.  

The new design was rustic chic with exposed brick walls, stained wooden tables, and the same rustic counter that Mr. Neely once stored his meats and cheeses in.  A series of shiny metallic coffee machines sat behind the counter, the shelves above it stocked with containers full of different types of coffee beans.  The front case was stuffed full of various breads, pastries, cookies, and sandwiches.  It wasn’t a bad place at all, and the food didn’t look half-bad either.  She’d actually done a decent job at bringing the old shop back to life.

“Y/N?” You whipped around as Wanda called your name.  She looked exhausted, her face glistening with sweat and powdered sugar as she pushed a rack of cupcakes and sweet breads out of the kitchen.  Her hair was swept up in a messy bun, strands hanging askew as she wiped the sweat from her bow with her arm.  Her black apron was peppered with sugar and frosting stains.  “How are you?  Did Sam give you a cookie like I asked him to?” “Did Sam - what?”

“Oh, I gave him some cookies to try.  Pietro’s working out a new sugar cookie recipe and he needs taste testers so I figured-”

“What are you playing at here, Maximoff?”

“Excuse me?” Wanda tilted her head as she questioned you, her gaze quickly hardening into a stare.

“You heard me.  What are you playing at?  Is stealing my customers not enough for you that you need to go after my employees too?”  

Wanda’s jaw dropped open as she stared at you incredulously.  She laughed, shaking her head as she started unloading the cupcakes.  “Are you for real right now?”

“Before you showed up we’d sell out every single day.  Now more often than not I’m throwing stuff out.  Sales have dropped and I’ve lost regulars that I’ve had for years.  So I’m telling you this now: stay away from me and my staff.”  It was all you could do to not take all your frustration out on her.

“I don’t know what you think’s going on here,” Wanda started, placing the trays neatly in the case.  While she wasn’t outwardly aggressive, she shoved them in there harder than she normally would.  “But you are absolutely insane if you think that I’m trying to steal your customers or staff or whatever.  Sam and Natasha have been nothing but kind to me and Pietro, I just want to return the favor.”

“Well stop.  The last thing I need is for my guys to be fraternizing with the enemy,” you grumbled, your blood pressure reaching a boiling point as you stared her down, fists clenched tightly at your side.

“Oh, so now I’m the enemy then?” She slammed the tray on the counter, sending loaves of bread tumbling off the sides.   “Jesus, Y/N, what’s wrong with you?  Have you ever stopped to think that maybe people stopped going to your shop because they wanted to try something new or, here’s a novel thought, maybe they like my place more than yours?”

“Fuck you, Wanda!  That place means everything to me!  You have no idea what I’ve done to keep that bakery running and I’m not gonna let your stupid bucket list adventure ruin my life’s work!”

“Get out!” Wanda shouted as she threw a muffin at your head.  Her aim was wide and the pastry hit the wall with a splat as you leaned out of the way.  “Get the fuck out of my store you bastard!”

Your vision tunneled as you stormed out of the shop, not neglecting to flip her the bird as you slammed the door behind you.  Ever since Wanda Maximoff came to town everything had gone completely and utterly wrong.  Everyone seemed to be flocking to her and her business.  Even Sam and Natasha, two of your closest friends in the whole wide world, had taken to her.  It irritated you to no end.  She constantly invaded the deepest depths of your mind, and many nights you awoke in a cold sweat after she invaded your dreams.  There was nothing you wouldn’t do to get her out of your mind: grueling pre-dawn runs, sleepless nights spent getting ahead on cake orders, countless after-work happy hours throwing back whatever alcohol you could get your hands on…anything to get that frustrating, irritating, beautiful woman, out of your mind.

************************************************

After your spat, it was like someone had built the Berlin Wall in the middle of the street.  Patrons realized that something was up with the two shops and most had picked a side.  Lucky for you a majority of the customers you lost returned.  Things finally went back to normal for a while.  Sam and Natasha stopped frequenting Latte Love, or if they didn’t they kept quiet about it.  Natasha reamed you out for the way you snapped at Wanda, telling you to grow the fuck up and deal with it like an adult while Sam became unusually quiet around you.  It was exasperating, but at least you felt like you were in control again.  Yet as things started to go back to normal, there was something looming around the corner that would change your life forever.

************************************************

“Hello?” you mumbled groggily into your phone.  It was the middle of the night and your phone jolted you awake with its abrasive ringtone.

“Y/N, it’s Nat.”  You shot right up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.  She sounded extremely concerned to the point where you were worried.

“What’s wrong?  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  It’s the bakery.  It’s-”

You didn’t even let her finish before you hung up, frantically searching for some clothes and your keys as you raced down the stairs of your apartment toward your car.  As you sped down the road toward downtown, an orange glow illuminated the dark buildings while sirens grew ever closer.  

Oh no.  Oh no no no no no.  Please no.  Please.  You white-knuckled the steering wheel, your damp palms sliding as your heart pounded in your chest.  The turn onto the main drag confirmed your worst fears: The Rolling Scone was burning. 

You skidded to a halt almost as soon as you turned the corner.  Fire engines, police cars, and ambulances blocked the area surrounding your store and the other end of the road while firefighters rushed into the burning building.  You jogged down the street, looking for a familiar face in the crowd of first responders.

“Y/N!” Natasha jumped out of the back of an ambulance and came running over to you, a reflective rescue blanket draped over her shoulders.

“Nat!  Oh god, are you okay?”  She threw her arms around you and squeezed you tight.  You instinctively pulled her close, cradling her head with one hand as you wrapped your other arm around her.  

“I don’t know what happened.  I was working on the books in the office before I got started on the donuts and I started smelling smoke, so I walked out there and the kitchen was on fire.  I tried to put it out, but when it got too big I called 911.  It’s all my fault, Y/N.  I’m so sorry.”  Her eyes were brimming with tears as she apologized for the mistake that wasn’t her fault.

“It’s not your fault,” you mumbled against the top of her head.  “I’m just glad you’re okay.”  You held her close to you as she cried into your shirt.  The sight of your beloved bakery burning to the ground in front of you should’ve elicited some emotional response from you, but you felt nothing.  None of what was happening seemed real.  You’d wake up in a few hours, shake off your nightmare, and head back to work like nothing ever happened, but that wouldn’t happen again for a very long time.  Now when you woke up, you’d have to spend the foreseeable future picking up the charred pieces of your livelihood.

************************************************

Gone.  It was all gone.  The last tangible reminder of your parents had gone up in smoke.  Words couldn’t accurately describe just how devastated you were.  The bakery was the way you dealt with the crushing pain of having tragically lost your parents so early in life.  Now your coping mechanism was gone.  You looked around, seeing the charred remains of the booths, the front counter, and the collection of employee and family pictures that hung on the back wall.  One picture in particular caught your eye.  It was you and your parents after the little league championship game the year your team won.  The picture was charred around the edges, half of your mom’s body was burnt off, but it was mostly intact.  You ripped it off the wall, sighing as you stared at the faded memory.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered at your parents’ beaming faces.  You let their dream burn down and with it your last memories of them.

You stayed in the building most of the day.  Natasha stopped by at one point to find you on the floor leaning against what was left of the front counter.  She offered to grab you some food or take you home, but you declined, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the void.  That’s where Wanda found you when she showed up later in the evening.

“Hey,” she said as she crouched under the CAUTION tape.  You ignored her as you stared at the charred photograph in your hand.  She stood awkwardly in front of you, a brown paper bag in one hand and her purse in the other.  Wanda was the last person in the world you wanted to see right now.  You wanted to scream, to tell her to leave you alone, but you didn’t have the energy.

“Please go,” you murmured, flipping the photograph through your fingers.  

She didn’t go.  She walked over to the counter, kicking a piece of charred wood to the side as she sat down next to you.  There was an unspoken tension in the air as neither of you looked at each other: you stared down at the picture, she stared at the brown bag in her hand.  

“Here,” she said as she slid the bag over to you.  Taking a look inside the brown bag, you saw two delicious looking honey butter muffins staring back at you.  “I figured that it’d help you feel a bit better.”  Wanda smiled, her emerald eyes glimmering back at you.  For the first time since you met it made your heart skip a beat.

“You figured that muffins from your still-standing cafe would help me feel better about my bakery burning down?”

“Look I’m sorry, okay?  I’m really sorry about your bakery…” she trailed off as she brought her knees up and hugged them close to her chest.  “It should’ve been my place that burned down, not yours.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true!  Sam told me all about this place.  How your parents built it from the ground up, how you’ve literally spent your whole life working here, how you dropped out of school after they died to-”

“Please stop,” you interrupted as you felt another lump in your throat. .

“Is that them?” she asked, leaning over to get a better look at the photo in your hand.

You nodded.  “That’s, umm, that’s the day we won the little league championship.  Dad coached my team that year and…”  You trailed off as your eyes filled with tears.  “Umm, this place is the only thing I have left of them, you know?  Coming here every day, it’s almost like they’re still here.  And now that it’s gone I…”  You looked down at the picture as hot tears rolled down your face.  The emotional breakdown that had been brewing all day was finally bubbling up through the cracks.  “Sorry.”

Before you could say anything else, a pair of soft hands wrapped around you and pulled you close.  “It’s okay, you can let it all out,” Wanda whispered.  That was all it took for you to finally break down.  You sobbed into her chest as she held you.  She squeezed you close as she gently rocked back and forth, her fingers gently stroking your hair.  “You’re okay, Y/N.  You’re going to be okay.  I’ve got you,” she soothed.  Your body was wracked with sobs as you finally let everything go. 

Wanda’s touch was calming.  You’d never felt so calm or safe wrapped up in someone else’s arms before.  You never cried in front of anyone, not even Natasha and she was your best friend.  Somehow you knew that Wanda was someone you could trust completely.  “I’m sorry that you’re going through this, but you don’t have to go through it alone,” she whispered in your ear as your sobs started to calm.  You didn’t have enough control to speak yet so you simply nodded into her chest.  Her scent was intoxicating, a combination of sugar, roasted coffee beans, and vanilla blossom shampoo.  You never noticed it before.

“Sorry for getting your shirt wet,” you sniffled as you sat up.  

“Sorry for throwing a muffin at your head,” Wanda chuckled as she reached up to brush a stray tear from her face.  Her hand was incredibly soft as she rested it on your cheek.  You felt your face grow hot, but you weren’t sure if it was from the way she was touching you or the lack of distance between your faces or all of the above.  The knot in your throat instantly migrated down to your stomach as you locked eyes with her.

“ S’okay,” you mumbled as you lost yourself in her deep green eyes.  After staring for a moment too long, you turned your head away and blinked.  She shook her head, realizing for herself the tense intimacy of the situation.  “What kind of muffins are these?” you asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Honey butter.  Pietro found the recipe online and fell in love with them.”  

“I can see why,” you responded with your mouth full.  “They’re good, but I think mine are just a bit better.”

“Shut up,” she answered with a playful smack.

************************************************

Over the course of the next few weeks, Wanda came over to your bakery almost every day.  At first it was just to bring you something from the cafe: a cup of coffee and something sweet in the morning or a sandwich after she closed up for the evening.  Her presence soon became a familiar comfort to you and you looked forward to the few moments you spent with her every evening.  Daily food deliveries turned into offers to pick up dinner, and you often found yourself sitting up with her until all hours as you ate and continued the arduous rebuilding process.  Soon enough Wanda was coming over to help you on her days off.

As you spent more time with her, the way you thought about her changed.  You no longer woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares that involved her.  Nowadays when you dreamt about her you woke up with an uncomfortable throbbing in your pajama pants.  Her smile made you weak at the knees and you craved any opportunity to touch her.  She was an incredible woman but you were terrified to tell her how you felt.  

Natasha, of course, had noticed the shift in your demeanor towards her.  “So do I get to fire you when you sleep with her or are you gonna fire yourself?” she teased one night while you were tearing the tile flooring out of the kitchen.

“Fuck off, Nat,” you answered, not steering your attention away from the floor.

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t drooling over her when she wore those shorts in here the other day.  Besides, I see the way you two are when you’re together.”

“She’s just being friendly.  She’s like that with you and Sam too, you know.”

“Y/N, she kept staring at your crotch when you wore those grey sweatpants last week.  Even if she doesn’t like you, and I’m telling you she does, she still wants to fuck you.”

“Right, yeah,” you guffawed.  While you brushed Natasha off, you hoped she was right.  You had caught Wanda staring when you wore your grey sweats last week…and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it.

“You should tell her how you feel.  I’m pretty sure she feels the same way.”

“Nat-”

“She’s over there now.  Just go talk to her.  Ask her out for dinner or something.”

“Nat-”

“Relax, I’ve got everything under control,” she smiled at you.  “Go talk to Wanda.”

You groaned as you pushed yourself up from the hard floor.  “Fine.  But if this all goes wrong I’m blaming it on you!”  You wiped your hands on a rag, throwing it at Nat as you headed for the door.

“It won’t!” she called from the kitchen.  You shook your head, grinning as you pushed the door open and crossed the street to Latte Love.  The store was closed for the evening.  Inside, Wanda was cleaning up, wiping down the tables and counter like she did every evening before making her way to The Rolling Scone.

Wanda looked up as she heard the door jingle.  Her exhausted face lit up at the sight of you.  “Hey you,” she called.  “What’s going on?”

“Not much.  Just helping Nat rip up the tile in the kitchen.  Contractor says he’ll be ready to go by the end of the week for that.”  The words felt like cotton balls in your mouth.  You never got this flustered around her but the thought of telling Wanda how you truly felt about her had your stomach tied in knots.  “How was your day?”

“Good!  Pietro left early for an appointment, so it’s just me closing up.  I was planning on picking up Indian for dinner.  Wanna join me?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.  Listen-”

“Oh!  I got this call for this INSANE order.  This lady wants twelve dozen cupcakes by Sunday.  SUNDAY.  Can you believe that?!”

“Wanda-”

“I mean of course you can, you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have.  But I mean we’re a coffee shop, not a bakery!  I would’ve sent them to you but, well, you know, it’s a little hard to bake cupcakes when you don’t have an oven.”

“Wanda-”

“So I said ‘Sure, why the hell not?’ and I think that was a mistake because-”

“WANDA!” you said a little more aggressively than you intended. 

“Yeah?” She threw her hand towel over her shoulder.

“Wanda.  I, well, fuck.  Sorry, I’m not good at this.”  Your hands were all sweaty and your knees felt weak.  “Look.  What I want to say is, well, for the past few weeks we’ve…spending time with you…fuck!  Why is this so hard for me to say?”  You ran your fingers through your hair, frustrated that you couldn’t figure out the right words to say.  

Wanda’s quizzical look slowly softened into a smile as she started to put the pieces of the puzzle together.  She looked down at the ground, biting her lip as she threw the towel on the counter right before she jumped up on it, spun around, and hopped off on the other side.  She walked right over to you, stopping less than a foot away as she looked up into your eyes.

“You know, for an emotionally suppressed type of guy, you’re pretty cute when you get all flustered,” she teased.

“Wanda, I-” 

Before you could finish your thought, Wanda grabbed your waist, leaned in, and kissed you.  Your hands somehow found their way to the back of her neck, palms resting on her cheeks as you cupped her head.  Every single coherent thought you had flew out of your brain the second her lips touched yours.  They were just as sweet as you imagined they’d be.  You smiled into her lips, eternally grateful that she had been the one to initiate this in the first place.  She smiled back as you deepened it, capturing her bottom lip between yours.  There was no need for talking, no need for any other explanation.  The dance between your lips told the entire story: you were hers, and she was yours.  The knot in your stomach burst into a million butterflies as every touch ignited a burning sense of desire within you.  

“Wanda, I-” you somehow managed to choke out as she began to kiss the side of your neck.

“There’s a couch in the office and the door locks,” she mumbled.  Her lips grazed your sensitive skin as she spoke and it took everything in you not to let out an offensive moan.

“Lead the way.”  Wanda grabbed your hand and dragged you behind the counter and through the kitchen to the small office in the back of the shop.  You slammed the door shut behind you as Wanda pinned you to it, locking the door with one hand before bringing it back up to roam your body.  She slammed her lips into yours as you grabbed her hips, pulling her flush against your body.  The contact sent a surge of energy through your groin and you knew it would be only a matter of moments before your shorts became unbearably uncomfortable.  

You explored her body as you kissed her, tracing over every curve as she moaned into your mouth at the sensual contact.  She was heavenly.  You decided to change up the intensity of your make out session, swiping your tongue over her lower lip.  She willingly opened up and allowed your tongue to explore hers.  

Before you realized it, Wanda’s hands made their way down your body to the front of your shorts.  She unbuttoned them, stopping right afterwards to palm your throbbing erection.  You nibbled on her bottom lip as she fondled you and she smiled into your mouth in response.  As she pulled your pants and boxers down, you pulled off your t-shirt and threw it off to the side.  

“You’re beautiful,” Wanda whispered as she looked at your naked body for the first time.  She ran her hands over your toned biceps, strong and wiry from years of kneading dough, and your pecs, down your toned stomach before reaching your cock.  She grabbed it with one hand, stroking it gently as she dropped to her knees.

“Wanda,” you groaned as she worked her hands up and down your shaft.  Pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she lined up her mouth with your tip and swallowed the first part of your penis.  She swirled her tongue around your tip, coating it in saliva before removing her mouth and using it as lube to jack you off.  Your knees felt weak as she took you in her mouth again, bobbing her head up and down your entire length.  She sucked and licked and swirled your cock, hollowing her cheeks as she took you down her throat.  The noises that came from her mouth as she gagged on your length were sinful, but it only made you want her that much more.

At one point she reached for your hand, placing it on the back of her head.  You took that as a sign to do what you wanted, so you moved her head up and down at a speed you liked.  You moaned as you felt the familiar fire burning within you, spurred on by the way Wanda’s eyes watered as she let you fuck her throat.  She grabbed onto your thighs as you pounded into her, nails digging into your flesh as she looked up at you with those pleading green eyes.

“I’m gonna cum,” you moaned as Wanda ripped your hand away from her head, bringing her other hand up to jack you off as she sucked on your tip.  The sudden suction and added stimulation immediately caused you to tumble over the edge as you released down her throat.  She greedily swallowed every last drop.  Having her suck you off like that was a life-changing experience.

Wanda sat back on her heels, wiping the drool from her chin as she gasped for air.  “Nice cock,” she chuckled.  “Hope it feels as good as it tastes.”

“Why don’t we find out?” you teased, offering your hand to her as she stood up.  “But I think you’ve got too many clothes on for that.”

“I think we can take care of that,” Wanda smirked, reaching down to pull her shirt over her head.  “Want to get my pants?” she asked as she reached behind her to undo her bra.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” you joked as you unbuttoned her jeans.  You slid both them and her panties down her legs before she kicked them off.  “Wow,” you said, taking a step back to admire her.  

“Like what you see, tiger?”

“Wanda, I’m sure you’ve heard this a million times, but you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”  Wanda blushed a deep shade of crimson at your words.  It wasn’t an exaggeration.  She was absolutely gorgeous.

“Thank you,” she whispered sheepishly as she sat on the couch.

You sat down next to her, your eyes darting from one part of her nude figure to the other before you settled back on her lips.  Leaning forward, you kissed her as she fell back on the couch.  It didn’t take much to shift your position so that you were completely on top of her.  You relished the taste of her lips as you kissed and you wanted to savor  the sensation of every second.

“Fuck,” you murmured as you reached a hand down between her legs.  “You’re absolutely soaked, Wanda.”  She whined as you drew a finger up the length of her cunt, teasing around her engorged clit.  “You do that to me every day.  I go home soaking wet and fuck myself thinking about how good you’d feel inside me.”  She bucked her hips against your hand, desperate to relieve the ache building within her.  “God, I want you in me so bad, Y/N.”

“Jesus,” you whispered through gritted teeth as your erection swelled at her words.  “And here I was trying to figure out how to tell you how the first thing I do every morning is jack off to the thought of you.”

“I guess we both have filthy minds then,” she grinned.  Her face was flushed with arousal, the redness spreading down her neck and onto her breasts.  “Fuck!” she exclaimed as you dipped a finger ever so slightly inside her before quickly pulling out.  “Please just fuck me!”

“You’re cute when you beg,” you sighed as you lined yourself up with her entrance.  You teased her with your tip, rubbing it up and down her slit and over her lips and clit before barely pushing your head in.  She whined, rolling her hips in a feeble effort to lower herself onto you.  

“Y/N please-” Wanda’s words turned into a sharp cry as you slammed your entire length inside her.  Her pussy was absolute heaven.  She was warm and wet, her slick velvety walls engulfing you and squeezing in all the right places. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you croaked.  You laid over her for a minute, trying to regroup yourself enough so you wouldn’t immediately blow your load inside her.  As she adjusted to your intrusion and you calmed yourself down, you began to roll your hips against her, thrusting in and out.

“Shit,” she gasped.  Wanda rolled her hips in time with yours, meeting you as you thrust your length all the way inside her.  You continued at a steady pace, the sounds of her wet pussy being the only noise in the room.

“Are you okay?” you asked, noticing Wanda’s eyes were screwed shut.

“Feels really good.  Can you go faster?”  Not wanting to disappoint, you began to pound into her.  Her mouth gaped open at your newfound intensity as she reached up to wrap her arms and legs around you.  “Oh fuck, right there.”

The couch shook under the duress of your movements.  You pounded into Wanda, her tight hole stretching perfectly around your cock with every thrust.  Sweat beaded on your forehead as you grunted from exertion.  Your moans and groans, along with the squelching of Wanda’s pussy, filled the room.  As you pounded into her cunt, your cock disappearing within her wet folds, Wanda’s moans became louder and more erratic.  “You close, baby girl?”

Wanda nodded, wrapping her legs tighter around your midsection.  “My clit,” she choked out.  You helped her move one of her arms from your back to the sensitive spot.  She circled it furiously, a loud groan tearing from her chest.  “Faster,” she commanded.

You doubled down on your efforts and hammered into her dripping cunt.  The way her walls fluttered and clenched around you told you she wasn’t far away from her orgasm.  The way she tightened around you sent that familiar coil through your lower abdomen.  It wouldn’t be much longer until you reached your climax as well.

“I’m gonna cum,” she whined.  You pounded into her as fast as you could, groaning as your hips slammed against her swollen pussy.  Her hand circled her clit furiously.  Wanda came with a loud groan, her back arching off the couch as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed down on her.  Her walls throbbed and clenched rhythmically around you, the intense sensation finally causing you to cum as you released your thick load of cum deep inside her.  Wanda dug her nails deep into your back as you absolutely ruined her.

“Fuck I love you,” you gasped as you collapsed on top of her from sheer exhaustion.  Blood pounded in your ears and black dots peppered your vision as you recovered from the best orgasm you ever had.  

“You love me?” Wanda asked, her eyes blown wide with desire from the afterglow of her incredible orgasm.

“Shit, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that.”  A sense of panic overtook you as you stared down at Wanda.  

“No it’s okay.  I mean, I feel the same way,” she admitted, smiling back up at you.

“Really?”

“Mmhmm” 

You chuckled as you leaned down to kiss her.  “Guess I have to quit my job now.” 

Wanda looked at you with a confused expression.  “What?” she asked as she cocked an eyebrow.

“I told everyone that they’d be fired if they slept with you, so I guess I’ve gotta quit.” 

“I love you,” Wanda giggled as she shook her head.

************************************************

“So let me get this straight: we’re merging with Latte Love after you threatened to fire us if we talked to Wanda?” Sam crossed his arms as he sat on the newly reconstructed front counter.  You had called the team together to announce the new business venture you were about to embark on.

“Okay first off I only threatened to fire you if you slept with her.  Talking to her would’ve resulted in a stern talking to and overnight donut duty for a week.  Second, it's not a merger so much as it is a partnership.  Both businesses will operate independent of one another, but now we’re going to start carrying some of their baked goods,” you explained.  Everyone looked at you in utter disbelief, unable to fathom your sudden shift in the way you viewed Latte Love.

“What changed?” Nat asked, tapping her pen against the table.

“Oh you know…stuff…things,” you murmured sheepishly as your face reddened.

“Oh my god!”  Nat’s eyes widened in realization as she stood up. “You slept with her!”

“Dude what?!  That’s so -” Peter exclaimed before Sam slapped his hand over his mouth to shut him up.  You pinched the bridge of your nose as you looked up at the ceiling.  Natasha was laughing at the irony of the whole situation before she lambasted you with questions.

“How long has this been going on?  Wait, was it a one time thing?  Oh, it was definitely the time I made you go over there to talk to her when we were ripping up the floor.  And you told me you two just talked.  Talking my ass…Is this a business deal, like sex in exchange for pastries?  Are you two a thing?  I should’ve guessed with how much time you’ve been spending over there and how you never want to do anything fun with me anymo-”

“Nat, will you please shut up?!”  Her endless questions were exasperating.  Yes, you and Wanda were in fact a thing but you hadn’t told anyone about it.  You hadn’t even told Nat about your back office hookup even though it happened two months ago.  There was so much going on with rebuilding the bakery and dealing with insurance claims that you wanted to keep this part of your life private.  “I just think it’d be a good idea for both of us, maximize our profits, boost both of our busin-”

“Hey babe, is there any way you can come help me with the rest of the-” Wanda paused as she barged in on your team meeting.  “Oh hi guys!”

“Mmhmm, it’s definitely good for both of you,” Nat smirked as she took a sip of her coffee.  You shot her a warning look while Wanda stood utterly oblivious to the scene unfolding around her.  “Go on, go help your girlfriend with whatever she needs.  I’ll show Peter how to do the bagels.”

You smiled at Wanda as you headed toward the door.  “So what do you need my help with?”

“Nothing,” Wanda responded as she reached for your hand.  “Just wanted to spend some time with my favorite guy.”

“Don’t let Pietro hear you say that.”

“That’s okay, he already knows.”  She squeezed your hand reassuringly as you crossed the street.  

You smiled as her grip tightened around your hand.  Six months ago there was no way to predict that the woman who ruined your life would ultimately become the greatest thing that ever happened to you.  As you crossed the threshold from your bakery to her cafe, you were grateful to be able to call The Rolling Scone, Latte Love, and Wanda home. 

[meirimerens]

top 5 patho characters GO

Numero One: YULIA!!!!!!!!!!

Numero Two: if i'm being facetious: the reconceptualization of Herb Brides i have in my mind to cope with their obscene manhandling in-canon. if i'm being serious, The Polyhedron [she's living/alive. go argue with her makers]

Numero Three: Capella. i have immense amounts of tenderness and heartache for her as a girl forced to fit into her mother's shoes and having the balance of the future tightropewalk on her skinny shoulders. if i could pick her up and put her in an university where she would thrive and make friends i would. but i am powerless. because the narrative goes on without me (and without her)

Numero Four: equal parts Burakh & Rubin. in some ways for the same reasons. Cain and Abel if Cain didn't want to kill out of jealousy but out of destructive desire to Be You and all he can be is your brother [what Cain was to Abel, and this didn't protect him]. i like to see them as both grappling with the same thing(s), just in different ways, and the narrative rewards and punishes them in kind. i like burakh's (somewhat truly) selfless devotion contrasted to rubin (somewhat) selfish devotion, and where one is Atlas the other is a beaten dog.

Numero Five: equal parts Peter because i relate. to the mentally ill artist side of things because i didn't kill anyone. and i don't have long hair. and i don't like guys. and so on. And Notkin because i have great amounts of thoughts about his future. mostly because he mandatorily gets fucking sick twice on your watch so you get attached to this thing. sorry about your liver buddy

Bonus: Farkhad just because of how much of a blank canvas he is. he's basically a narrative-built-in creative writing exercise and brother. i picked up the pen.

[doe-eyed-fool]

Fear Of The Known

Lucifer x Fem!Angel!Reader

|Preview|

Summery: The future was a scary and unknown thing. Not even God could predict what might happen down the line. And so, when faced with the unknown, he would create someone who could look into the future and what it has to offer.

However, with the knowledge what would be, comes with a heavy burden. Fate was unkind to most and not every future would be bright.

Warning(s): Angst, Violence, Major Character Death, OOC, AU(maybe?), Use Of Y/n, Slow burn, Friends To Lovers

(Pretty much gonna assume the personalities of characters we've yet to see in Hazbin. I'm also basing a lot of the angel/heaven characters off of what I've seen from apieceofheaven and voidseeker's au/characters. Though my interpretation will be very loose and some somewhat personal hcs since there is no longer a solid platform to read that info from. (other than the reposts I can find from Pinterest and Google)

One more thing, there might be some changes made to certain characters. Also, I'm not religious, so I might get some things wrong. I apologize in advance.)

Y/n was a young woman, destined to work close with the higher ups of Heaven, due to the gift she was given. God chose her to be the angel who would prophesy the future.

The symbol of a bright shining star on her forehead acted as a third eye. It would be what aids her as she looks into the future. And for the longest time, the future seemed bright.

Although, the future was not just one straight line. There were many pathways that could be opened by the smallest of acts.

But from how well everything was managed in Heaven, the best future possible, seemed as if the only real future ahead.

No worries, no danger, nothing to disrupt the heavenly balance. Yes, it was all smooth sailing ahead.

Y/n loved her job, and found great joy in telling others of the wonderful future that lies ahead for everyone. However, there would come a day, where the future was changed for the worst.

And it all started with one man...

Lucifer was one of God's favorite angels. He was bright, creative, brilliant. Though, he was a bit of a trouble maker, and would often drag his brothers into joining his mischievous acts.

Well, perhaps mischief wasn't the best way to describe it. Curiosity, was a better way of putting it. But even then, that curiosity would lead him to trouble.

It was a good thing God was so forgiving of Lucifer.

Even Y/n couldn't stay mad at him whenever he got her involved, asking her to use her future vision to see how his actions would effect something or someone.

And every time she'd say-

"My power is not to be abused, Lucifer."

As disappointed as he always was whenever she refused to indulge him, he'd never force her to do something she didn't want to. But boy, was he persistent.

Eventually, his curiosity rubbed off on Y/n. And she took a small peak into Lucifer's future. As she suspected, Lucifer would live happily and sharing his creativity with all of Heaven to enjoy.

Yes. Another wonderful future for all.

But then, another path was opened to her eyes. What she saw, concerned her.

Heaven was in chaos, and Lucifer was at the center of it all.

Y/n didn't dare look any further than that. And she would not say a word about this to Lucifer either. She had a feeling it would have negatively affected him.

However, she couldn't keep this to herself. She needed to tell God about the future she saw. It was the first time she had ever seen Heaven so...frazzled.

As if something terrible were about to happen.

The suspense of not knowing ate at her. If she were to tell God of such a future, she would need to know exactly why and how it would happen. And so, she looked again.

There Lucifer was again. He looked so angry, but so sad at the same time. And there was someone else with him. A tall and beautiful woman with long blonde hair. Lucifer held an arm out protectively in front of her as he yelled something.

He looked injured. Blood stained his beautiful face, as well as his robes. Even his wings were damaged.

Ahead of Lucifer was Michael. Sword in hand, the blade pointing towards Lucifer. He looked a bit roughed up as well. Had they been fighting? Why would they ever fight?

Chains were thrown around Lucifer and the woman he was with, and then, there was a vision of Lucifer and that same woman inside of Heaven's courtroom. Words were being yelled back and forth from Lucifer and the head Seraphim, Sera.

But Joel would have the final word.

There was a look of panic on Lucifer's face. The chains that bind him disappeared and the ground beneath them gave in. With quick thinking, Lucifer held onto that woman tightly, shielding her with his wings.

And just like that, the both fell.

Y/n gasped sharply as the vision faded.

"Lucifer...Lucifer falls from Heaven."

Ok! New series! First chapter is gonna be published tomorrow!

And chapter two is already being worked on lol