#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.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

i feel like if ace's UM does end up just allowing him to copy other's UM, it would solve a potential problem which is malleus putting everyone into a state of sleep. like they told us that it would only be lifted if malleus either lifts it up on his own or if he dies and idt twst would kill off a major and VERY popular character. but if they give ace that ability as his UM it would solve that in a way?

but if they do give that to ace as his UM i hope that ace would struggle to copy people's abilities, or at least kinda go through the emotions the original spell caster felt when theyre using their UM or when they first awoken it. maybe like a price to pay to use other's abilities but thats just me HAHAHHA

Yeeeah, that's what I was thinking too. I can't imagine Ace's UM being anything but a UM borrowing/mimicry spell right now (due to his own propensity to easily learn new skills and do vocal impressions)... It would also just be really useful for the end of book 7, since the briar barrier can only be taken down with Malleus's death or with Malleus willingly removing his magic. Given Malleus's stubbornness and being in such an emotional state, I really doubt he'd be able to come to his senses even all these hundreds of parts later. I really doubt whether all of our powers combined can take him down either, given his track record of being so stupidly OP. And it for sure wouldn't be a good move on the Twst devs' part to kill off such a money maker and significant part of their marketing for their series. (I do want to point out, however, that Malleus's insane popularity is exclusive to the international/English-speaking part of the fandom; he is not a top contender in JP and I would say has more of a middling status.) Having someone else reproduce his UM could very easily resolve this issue, but I guess that's also highly dependent on if Ace can get a grip on his UM that fast, or if he can even feasibly iron out the kinks of controlling what is probably a very complex spell. Epel, who got his UM most recently in book 6, still seems to have only a 70-80% success rate with his, so it's possible that Ace doesn't fully master his UM even if he gets it as soon as his own dream. I definitely don't think Ace would be able to use his (theoretical) copying UM to its full extent ASAP, as then we could just cut the dreams short right then and there. I feel like it'd become more relevant during the actual OB Malleus showdown or something. In general, there'd have to be come kind of drawback or limitations to his UM even if he got used to casting it at some point (just for power balancing reasons). Maybe there's a cooldown period, or he can only use the UM as much as his imagination will allow, or maybe it requires that he be able to empathize with the feelings of the original mage.

... Oh, you know what??? That might actually tie book 7 up quite nicely! If Ace's UM allows him to copy the UMs of other mages but only with the stipulation that he must empathize or relate to how they were acting when the original mage used their UM... Wouldn't that mean that Ace has to understand Malleus's loneliness and the fear of being left behind by his loved ones??? ACE CAN ACTUALLY PERFECTLY RELATE TO THAT because he was in denial mode that Yuu would be going home earlier in book 7. On top of that, he's probably also harboring shame for making fun of Deuce so much, only to be the one who doesn't have his UM yet. Ace can totally relate to what Malleus is going through 👀 He'd be forced to confront his denial of his own emotional vulnerability because he sees Malleus displaying the very same behaviors.

Maybe Ace gets his UM early on but has no idea how to use it properly until it comes in clutch in the final battle because he realizes (at last) how Malleus is feeling. Then it’s Ace who becomes the trump card that lets us triumph…! And that brings us full-circle—the final boss being beaten by the first student that we met, our first friend… Ace Trappola 🫶

[neyafromfrance95]

never getting over the contrast between how the elves treat and see galadriel vs. how sauron treats and sees galadriel in s1.

gil-galad to elrond about galadriel after forcing her to retire from the middle-earth in s1e1:

"galadriel sails to the sunset. you and i must look to the new sunrise."

sauron proposing to galadriel, offering to give her all the power in the middle-earth in s1e8:

"i would make you a queen. fair as the sea and the sun. stronger than the foundations of the earth."

notice that he isn't even talking about himself. he never calls himself a king. galadriel calls him "my king. the dark lord" as if to signify that sauron would be more of a queen-making consort who would control her, sure, but she would be the one everyone would kneel to and recognize as their leader. this is supported by his s2e8 remark:

"i would have placed a crown upon your head. i would never have rested until all middle-earth had been brought to its knees, to worship the light of its queen."

he is talking about making her the one others worship. why would he "not have rested" until she was seen as a queen by everyone if her status depended on his status? bc he is saying that he would be her lieutenant, her queen-maker, basically her consort.

and that makes sense considering his "you bind me to the light. and i bind you to power." he would give her what she desires the most - power over the kingdom of her own, where no one is a greater authority than she is. in return, she would give him that which he lacks - the light. his designs would finally be "complete" and "balanced".

anyways, jokes on gil-galad and elrond. they treated galadriel like there was no place for her in the new era of the middle-earth and then humbled her, but she ends up wielding power over lothlorien where she has all power and authority, while being sauron's greatest adversary.

[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

[jasmine-does-wevertf-she-wants]

I'm thinking about the difference between like and love in MDZS.

Like it's out of the question that LWJ is instantly incredibly attracted to WWX. Later that obviously develops into a very devoted very deep love. The narration doesn't give any indication when that happens though I'd venture somewhere during the Wen indoctrination camp.

Anyways, does teen!LWJ like WWX though? In the way that he enjoys his company, likes to spend time with him, enjoys who he is as a person? I'd say no. We have no indication that LWJ regards WWX positively on a conscious level at all. Now I think that mostly can be attributed to teen!LWJ lacking most of the emotional development he'll do later. Teen!LWJ doesn't seem to like anyone much other than LXC. And that's okay! He's not a people person and that's fine! Given that and the emotional turmoil WWX most certainly wrecked on him upon arriving in Cloud Recesses I think it's perfectly understandable he doesn't like him much and tries to avoid him.

But then attraction begins to develop into love when he sees WWX isn't only a trouble maker in the Wen indoctrination camp but can take himself back for the safety of the group while still sticking to his principles. Who does it like him? Then he still takes care of LWJ single-handedly saves the whole group sacrificing himself in the process and LWJ is forced to confront very suddenly he's not falling in love with a beautiful talented careless troublemaker but with one of the few people in their world who will choose what's right and trying his best to balance that with the circumstances they live in. And WWX goes missing and LWJ is desperate to find him and he comes back and he is so markedly different from anything their world says he's supposed to be and decidingly not in a good way and he's prepared to let it go for the sake of conforming to the rules he holds so high. Of course throughout the plot he realizes the rules mean nothing and can be very much interpreted to do injustice vs. upholding what's right and that he was wrong to turn his back on WWX for not abiding by the rules.

And then WWX comes back from the dead and it's the first time LWJ really lets himself enjoy his company lets himself enjoy the person WWX is actively keeps him by his side while WWX tries his damned best to be the most obnoxious person to LWJ and how likely is it that LWJ realizes it does not matter? He was so so so wrong for ever thinking WWX annoying. He doesn't like most people's company but WWX can do everything he could not stand in another person and it's fine because he knows WWX and knows whatever he does is out of love and because he thinks it's right and WWX does not go wrong in judging what's right.

And I think actually the opposite is true for WWX. He arrives at Cloud Recesses and is so captivated by LWJ so beautiful the only one who can keep up with him and he stays by his principles the only one WWX ever met who truly treats him as equal. But LWJ rejects him at every opportunity and while WWX does not think LWJ hates him that's certainly not a basis to consider anything more and then the plot happens and really he doesn't have much time to think about anything regarding his feelings until his death.

But then he's resurrected and they do have time and LWJ is not rejecting him but supporting him and caring for him at every turn. Being a person WWX can depend on. Being the only one who ever was that for WWX. While still being beautiful and brilliant and being even more righteous than he was as a teenager and WWX falls in love so quickly it's a speed run. And he really didn't have a chance to do any different.

And I think it's kind of beautiful how they start out from such different points but very beautifully meet in the middle after years and years of misery but still together in the end.

[ineffableghost]

Pepper leaned forward, also resting her elbows on her knees. "What's the difference between good and evil?" "The uniform," Crowley quipped. She scowled at him, and the rest of the Them sat up and paid attention too. "I'm serious." "And you don't go for easy questions either." Crowley looked her square in the eye. "I wasn't exactly joking. It's long, and complicated, and gets very fuzzy around the edges." "Try us." Crowley felt Adam's eyes on him too, and grimaced, lips parting instinctively to taste the air for danger, snake-fashion. "S'how you look at something that defines whether you consider it good or evil. Doesn't matter if the coin comes down heads or tails, still got the same value. Different times have different values and consider different things evil. Not much stays the same there, given long enough. The only thing that does really, is if you treat people as people with all the free will that implies, or if you treat people as things." He smelt/tasted dead leaves, and human, and damp dog with the faintest whiff of sulphur-undertone, and distant cowpat, and damp tree, and damp stone. No danger there that he could sense. Adam sighed. "Why would someone make people and then get angry when they act like people anyhow?" "Aziraphale would tell you that it's ineffable." Crowley shifted, stretching out one leg, then the other. "Personally? Likely because they think of people as things. Good has to persuade people to choose it, Evil is happy to force things into line. S'why it's easier to slide to Evil than to climb to Good. Life's never really about being wholly good or evil anyway, not for humans. It's about finding the balance point between the push and pull of them that works for you." ... Pepper was frowning. Adam just looked thoughtful. Brian and Wensleydale looked thoroughly out of their depth. Crowley hissed a sigh through his teeth and then produced an apple in his hand. Maybe metaphor would work where direct explanation didn't. "There is nothing of this Earth that is entirely one or the other. Look. Apple. Considered good, sweet, healthy, yes? Also represents original sin - the stolen Knowledge of Good and Evil. Couldn't have one without the other." He split it neatly into top and bottom halves, revealing the star shape in its centre and a dark pip. Even Fallen, the thing the once-maker of stars was best known for was, at heart, a star. Probably part of that ineffable divine sense of humour. "And the pips here? Well, they're a source of poison. Cyanide. Killed lots of people in its more pure form. One pip alone isn't going to hurt, mind you, but you eat a couple pounds of pips at once and you're in trouble." He split the halves again and passed over the four apple pieces to be eaten by the kids. They bit in cheerfully, and watched him. He shrugged. "Same goes for people. I've met people responsible for mass-murders - millions of deaths, minimum - who loved their families and painted pretty pictures. I've met people that humans generally consider good that did some very nasty things behind everyone's backs. And I've had far too many commendations from Hell about Evil being done by people convinced they're doing Good, to take people's word for what they are." Adam sighed too. "The vicar here says Heaven is all Good and Hell is all Evil." "That's a very popular way of looking at things," Crowley said dryly, "both here and in those places. Like I said before, the difference is the uniform." He looked up suddenly, sensing "angel approaching", and spotted Aziraphale picking his way down the slope. "Uniforms are black and white. The people wearing them - not so much."

From: Take My Heart (But Not My Hand)

[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!

[punks-never-die205]

Honeysuckle: Red

afab!reader x Vampire!Eustass Kid

cw: Vampire AU with blood, violence, gore, some very marginally dubious consent, 18+ only

Summary: Vampires are real, and the World Government has ways of maintaining the balance of power and peace between humans and Vampires. Most of it is simple extortion, but one person's desire for freedom threatens to upend the delicate balance and change the world completely.

Tag List: @keiva1000, @mfreedomstuff, @likeeliterallywtf, @usopp-enjoyer

Chapter 7: Contractual Pleasure

Kid carries you upstairs and into his room without saying anything. Setting you down inside the doors he starts to pull off his dripping clothes. They’re heavy with blood at hit the floor with uncomfortably thick wet sounds.

“Y-you’re stripping?” You stammer, turning your back to Kid.

`“I’m not going to shower with my clothes on.” He snorts. “You should strip too. You’re covered in blood.”

“I, wuh, no, I’m - I’m, that’s,” you start to argue, but the more you stammer, the more you realize that you’re really bloody, and the idea of having to go however long before you could clean up is unsettling. “I c-could go to muh-my room.”

“Could.” Kid agrees. “You could also shower with me,” his voice dips low, his tone soft. “I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

“But… naked.” You meant to say something different, however when you turned around Kid was already stripped bare.

“Most people are when they shower.” He grunts. “If you’re really uncomfortable you can go to your room, but becoming a vampire’s thrall requires a level of… connection, naive little mouse.” He punctuates the words again, as he walks to the bathroom. “Better to get used to it, if you ask me.”

Nerves kept you from asking what manner of connection was required, but you decided to at least try. Pulling your own clothes off you set them down on the pile Kid had made. You cross your arms over your chest, stepping into the bathroom once you hear the water start.

“Should… Should I wait outside?” You question, approaching the shower. It’s open, but the entire bathroom looks to be lined in tile, and while there’s no curtain or glass around it’s perimeter, there is a small lip to contain the majority of the water.

Kid tosses a wet washcloth at you that’s big enough to be a hand towel. It’s warm and soapy and has just enough force behind the toss to almost shove you a step back.

“Don’t over think things, just get cleaned up.” He says, turning toward you while he’s lathering up.

Irritation crosses your face at the toss, but you can’t help the rush of blood to your face at the sight of him. Kid wasn’t one to wear an excess of clothing in the first place, but the open shirt and the baggy pants had been hiding more than you could have imagined. The two long scars on the left side of his body weren’t the only ones he had.

From the looks of things he almost lost his arm.

The scars spoke of a violent life, but as your eyes followed them you realized that your gaze was drifting too far south. Pulling your eyes back up you were nearly looking at the ceiling as you stepped into the shower.

“Oi!” Kid snaps. “Eyes where you need them! I don’t want to grab you just cause yer not watching where yer going.”

“S-sorry, I didn’t want to, uh… I mean, I -.” You shove your face into the wash cloth and decide to focus on the task at hand.

“If you weren’t allowed to look, little mouse, I’da blindfolded you and washed us both.” He says it evenly, even if you could hear the smirk in his tone, but it doesn’t matter. The words themselves have you so flustered you’re almost dizzy.

You were overcome with the powerful visual of him peering down at you like some doll-maker with a cotton ball, carefully cleaning the details of a fragile little doll. The exaggeration of the differences in your sizes seemed appropriate given how much stronger vampires were in the first place.

The visual was enough to keep you distracted so much that you don’t realize Kid is done showering until he speaks up.

“Don’t take too much longer, we have your contract to discuss.” He reminds you, drying off haphazardly and then wrapping the towel around his waist before he leaves you alone in the shower.

You finish cleaning up, almost rushing through it, but forcing yourself to slow enough to make sure you get all the blood off. Turning off the water you dry yourself as well. The towels in the room are massive. It had gone easily around Kid’s waist, and down to his knees. So it was small wonder you could almost wear it like a robe. If there’d been sleeves, or even just slits for your arms it would’ve worked perfectly.

As it was the towel nearly wrapped around you twice, tucked under your arms and slightly past your knees.

Coming out of the bath, Kid’s already dressed. It’s nothing like what he usually wears, simple black clothes. There’s a set of clothes that look to be right for your size on the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to move toward them.

The moonlight is coming into the room, the silver light making his skin look like porcelain again, setting the lines of his hair almost on fire compared to the deep crimson of the shadowed locks of hair. There’s an elegance to how he stands. It’s easy to see how humans of yesteryear would’ve worshiped vampires.

“Becoming a vampire’s thrall,” Kid begins, his eyes still on the moon outside the window. “Is a matter of give and take. The vampire takes the thrall’s blood, and the thrall receives the vampire’s protection.”

He turns toward you, the moonlight reflecting off golden eyes that aren’t turned toward it anymore.

Ethereal.

“Usually a vampire feeds on a thrall to seal a contract.” He steps toward you and you find you’re calm. Calm, mostly at least, save for a thrill that runs up your back at the idea of feeling that sweet euphoria again. “But you need to recover, and I’m still full.”

Kid’s gaze holds you still and he kneels down enough to be just a little below your eye level.

“Full… and,” his gaze shifts, looking down and then back up. He doesn’t let his gaze linger, but the intent isn’t lost on you. “Certainly able.”

The rush of blood heats your skin, but you’re not scared, or nervous. Maybe it’s something Kid’s doing, but you feel like he wouldn’t force you to do anything.

“Relaxed.” You murmur, and he nods.

“We ain’t got time for you to be a nervous mess, little gift, so hang in there.”

Your brow furrows, even with the calming sense. “Do we have to?”

Kid tilts his head in confusion, and then laughs. “Bwah-hahaha! Do you think we have to fuck or something to seal the deal?” He questions and you nod.

He puts a hand over his mouth, as though he didn’t just laugh right in your face, and shakes his head. Once he’s composed himself a little more he gives you a grin.

“Nah, it doesn’t have to be anything like that.” He snorts. “The more intimate, the better, but it can be just a hand shake.”

“Why is more intimate better?” You question.

His gold-glowing eyes keep soothing you. “Feeding is a pretty intimate act, innit?” You nod as he asks the question, leaning toward him a little before a hand’s on your shoulder. “Better ta’ know you can stomach being that close. That’s why.”

Your lips part and the small sigh of breath passing over them feels dry. Licking them, you swallow, and realize your eyes were focused on Kid’s lips.

“Kiss.” You say softly. “A k-kiss, then. It’s more than a handshake.”

He grins. “That it is, little mouse.”

The hand on your shoulder moves up to cup the side of your face, and you nuzzle into it automatically. You can feel the smile on his lips, even with your eyes closed in comfort. The warmth almost seems wrong, but he’s never felt cold to you.

Right now you can’t even remember if that was something they told you was true about vampires. Regardless it seems impossible in this moment for them to be cold.

“Open your eyes.” Kid hums, and you open them enough to see the soft smile on his lips. “Good girl.”

He leans in slow, his hand keeping you steady. Heated breath slips over your lips before the distance between you closes.

Soft.

It’s so soft.

He’s rough, and loud, and full of fire and gravel, and his lips are just so soft, warm, and hungry. The gentle pressure presses in more forcefully, sending a rush through your chest. It’s not on par with when he fed from you, but it soaks through your skin and makes your heart rush. The pleasure coils around your lungs and pushes soft moans up to your tongue.

When your lips part the deep hum in Kid’s mouth slips between your teeth, followed by his tongue. The soft moan in your lungs hitches in your breath, and you whine into the kiss. You don’t know when you reached out for him, but you clutch fabric between your fingers as your nails scratch through it. Kid’s hand against your back is the only reason you’re still on your feet, and when he leans back he doesn’t go far.

Heated breaths rush from your mouth in shivering, panting gasps. Tears prick the sides of your eyes, and your cheeks feel so warm they ache. Kid’s eyes are hooded, pupils wide, the golden amber little more than rings against an absolute darkness.

“M-m-m… more,” you murmur. There’s a desire to toss the towel aside and beg for him to take what he pleases, but if you let go of your hold on his shirt you think you might just sink to the floor in a puddle.

“It’s not quite the same rush, is it?” He murmurs, tilting his head to the other side and pressing a hot kiss briefly against your lips, the measured kisses pressing against your cheek until he licks and nips at your ear. “Let me give you more, little mouse.”

“Please,” you gasp, nodding your head.

“Naive little mouse.” He speaks the words into your skin, fangs slipping over your tender flesh until you almost scream for him to bite you. “I’ll be kind.”

The promise leads to a hand between your legs, palm against your thighs. “You can tell me to stop,” his voice is soft, but clear and firm, the words sink into your brain, cutting through the heat and euphoria without disrupting it. “At any point.”

You pull in a deep, desperate gulp of air as his hand moves up your thigh, nodding as his golden eyes catch and hold your gaze again.

“Just pleasure,” he promises again, the side of one thick finger pressing against your labia, pushing between the soaking lips and nestling into the folds of your pussy.

You breathe in deep again, the whine on the edges of your lips turning into a moan when the side of his knuckle nestles against your clit. You don’t know what words slips past your teeth, why Kid grins at it, all you know is that your hips buck on their own, grinding into the soft bump of that knuckle.

“I could’ve fucked you half dead,” he muses, the tip of his tongue licking along your lips as you nearly sob from the feeling. “And you might have thanked me.”

“Keep your eyes on me.” He commands, holding you in place even as your legs give out. Toes and legs curled, Kid alone holds you just off the floor, finger forcing pleasure into your clit. It’s hard to obey his command, but he’s leaning over you, making it easier for you.

“Please, please, I - I don’t - I what - please!” Your shattered moans and whines turn into the best words you can muster, watching Kid’s tongue slip over his lip.

“You beg pretty good all on your own, mouse.” His voice is heavy, husky, needy. “I can’t wait to help you practice.”

His eyes never leave your face as he grinds his finger into your clit like he can feel it in the same the way you can. The building pleasure is almost too much, you almost want to ask him to stop, but it’s not nearly the same as when he fed from you. It’s close.

So close.

“Close!” You gasp and he grins.

Kid watches you a couple more seconds and the golden light fills his eyes so strongly it’s like the endless dark of his pupils have been haloed by the gods themselves.

“Cum.” The word has layers, you think. Sounds more than just his, but you don’t know and you can’t hold onto it.

Pleasure slams into you with such force you can’t breathe. You limbs go taut and you swear your bones seem ready to bend from the rush that’s hit you. The intense rush lasts just a couple seconds before it gives way enough that you can breathe. Like a drowning sailor coming up from the swell of a squall you pull in every scrap of oxygen you can.

Your body shivers, and the pleasure continues. The intensity may have come down a little, but the euphoric rush is too foreign. Too new. It’s harsh and jagged, lighting your muscles like electricity, causing your limbs, fingers, and toes to twitch randomly. It feels so good you feel like it’s pulling you down into delirium.

When you start shaking your head, Kid pulls his hand away from your thighs.

“See? More intimate is better.” He says softly. Shivering, you nod. If nothing else you can’t imagine being nervous about a simple kiss after this.

Kid licks up along his soaked finger, and leans down and kisses you again. The taste of your pleasure and his warmth slips against your tongue easily. The taste, the act, is grounding after the intense orgasm, and when he leans back you feel deeply satisfied and far less shaky than you had been earlier.

“Isn’t just your blood that’s honey-sweet.” He muses, kissing the tip of your nose briefly. “Sleep, little mouse. It’s my job to keep you safe now.”

[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?”