#so many that i cannot pluck one from my brain and share

[cruel-hiraeth]

pondering

[iamthecomet]

Worthy

[Kinktober - Day 10 - Body Worship] Rating: Explicit.

Pairing: Dewdrop/Cumulus (Cumdrop my beloved)

Featuring: A little bit of angst. Body worship. Cunnilingus. Biting. Marking. Dew having a six sense about these things. It's so soft and not very kinky. I can't help it. Zero projection, none at all.

Word Count: 1.2k

Cumulus' self-esteem slips. Dew's there to fix it.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Cumulus is  expecting Cirrus back to their shared hotel room any moment. It’s been a long day, a hard show. Her skin feels too tight. When she catches sight of herself in the full length mirror on the bathroom door she retreats across the room with her tail between her legs. She can’t help it. Most days she loves her curves. Loves herself. Knows that everyone else does too. She’s confident. It’s easy. 

Today? After long, fully glamored, flights and treks through crowded airports? After a show that never seemed to end? She can’t. She cannot keep up the facade of self-love. She’s too tired. She’s weak to the voices in her head that say she would be so much happier if she looked like Aurora, or Sunshine, or even Mist. 

She knows Cirrus will help get her out of the funk, that she will whisper words to her and tell her how beautiful she is and reassure her. But she doesn’t want to talk about it–doesn’t want to hear it. She wants to sink into herself. Curl up under the blanket she brought from home–the one that still somehow smells like Aether, and sleep for the rest of the week. 

There’s a quick rap at the door. Two knocks. And then the swipe of the keycard in the door. Cumulus has already showered and changed. Dressed in one of Aether’s oversized t-shirts and underwear. She’s cross legged on the bed, caccooned in her fuzzy blanket just as the door clicks open. She’s expecting Cirrus so she doesn’t look up right away. She keeps her eyes on her phone, some game Sunshine told her helped keep her mind off of things when she was anxious on tour. 

It’s late, past midnight, but the city is still wide awake outside the hotel. Sirens wail, people talk, engines rev. Cumulus leans back against the generic headboard and tries to focus. To turn her brain off. They have another long day tomorrow whether she is in a good mood or not–the least she can do is sleep. 

Bony fingers slip into her view, hover near the edge of her phone before they pluck it from her grip. She looks up, finds Dew looking at her from the side of the bed. Arms crossed over his narrow chest, her phone in one of his hands. 

She blinks at him, confused. “Where’s Cirrus?”  “We traded,” he says and doesn’t elaborate on why. Cumulus doesn’t think he needs to. 

On her worst days, Dewdrop finds her. She’s not sure how he always knows. Always finds his way into her space, her arms, her bed. He can tell from across the stage. From down the hall. The word comes crashing down around her, and Dew is there like he can smell it on her.  Maybe he can. 

She’s never asked. Afraid that if she does, she’ll break the spell. Disrupt the magic. That he’ll stop doing it. She can’t even talk about it with him, thank him properly. She’s usually good with words, with feelings. But there is something scared about these moments. 

Dew hops onto the bed, settles in front of her. His knees touching hers as he mirrors how she’s sitting. He tosses her phone onto the other side of the bed and looks at her. He reaches across the distance to catch a corkscrewed curl in his fingers. He straights it out, lets it go and watches it spring back up before he tucks it behind her ear. Fingers gentle over her skin as he does. 

She wonders if she does this for the others. If they find Dewdrop waiting outside their doors when it feels like their world is imploding, like their skin is too tight. Or if she is special. She knows she gets a side of him not many people do. Easy, gentle, devoted. 

He sinks his fingers into her hair and leans in, rocking up onto his knees to kiss her. No more words. Just action. They won’t talk about it–not yet. Maybe he’ll weasel her problem out of her after he’s made her cum upwards of a dozen times. But until then they are done speaking. 

He licks into her mouth when she sighs. Tongues sliding together. He pushes until she’s laying down and he’s kneeling between her thighs. One hand on her face, the other slipping up under the hem of her shirt to drag calloused fingers over velvet soft skin. 

Cumulus lets herself be carried away on it. She’s shirtless before she knows it, wearing only her underwear now. And then Dew is too. Kneeling before her in a pair of skin tight skinny jeans and a studded belt and not much else. He leans back on his haunches to really look at her. Head tilting as his eyes drag over her collarbone, her tits, the softness of her belly and thighs. 

She waits. Wants to hide, to cross her arms, to close her legs, but she digs her fingers into the bed sheets instead. She allowes him this indulgence, half expecting this will be the time he scoffs and turns away. 

“So fucking gorgeous .” He whispers instead. Bending to press their bodies together as he latches his mouth onto her pulse. One hand braced by her head, the other cups one of her breasts. Dragging his overwarm palm over her nipple as he squeezes. 

Cumulus’ eyes flutter closed as his mouth dips lower. Tongue dragging over her collarbone. Licking at the sweat beading in her sternum. He latches onto her other nipple and she moans. Hand flying to his hair as her rolls her piercing between his teeth. 

She slits her eyes open to find him looking up at her. Staring at her face. Molten copper eyes blown nearly black already. 

“Dew.” 

He pulls way, a string of spit connecting his mouth to her nipple. “Shh, lay back. Close your eyes, Lus. Let me take care of you, please .” 

She could argue. Part of her wants to–to assert that she doesn’t deserve this. But there is something in his tone, in the way he rolls his hips against her thigh, that makes her think this is for him too. That the lust in his eyes is genuine. 

So she listens. Lets him call the shots just this once. She drags her nails over his scalp as he sucks a deep purple mark next to her nipple and lets her head fall back into the pillows. She closes her eyes. Dew gives her other nipple the same treatment. Then works his way downward, sucking and biting dark marks into her skin the whole way. On her ribs. Her hips. The slope of her belly. The inside of both thighs.  By the time he finally pulls her panties down and licks into her cunt she’s boneless. Eyes slitted open so she can watch. He groans low at the first taste of her. Tongue flicking out over her clit. Pulling her thighs over his shoulders, tight around his head like he would gladly die between her legs. 

“Can’t believe I get to have you,” he muses like he’s the lucky one here. He’s lost in her, drunk off of the taste of her, the feel of her curves beneath his hands. Cumulus feels holy when Dew gets like this. Worthy of his worship. His devotion. 

She settles in, gives in to pleasure. Allows him to pray at her altar.

[conkers-thecosy]

My ask about asks I forgot to send you.

I've seen many posts about people missing how common asks used to be so I have been trying to send about an ask a week. Now I send this ask first anytime I follow someone as I really don't want to bother anyone, so I'd love to know if you enjoy receiving asks and if so what kind of asks. Not having energy for asks or being comfortable with them is perfectly okay.

The categories I have in my ask notebook that I file under are in colour. Please feel free to make your response as long as you want or private (the asker cannot directly respond to private responses).

Self, Job/Work: please let me know what you are comfortable with from eh idk just ask it to nothing personal at all.

Baggishield/Tolkien, Dragon Age, Johnlock/Sherlock, ineffable spouses, other fandom: Please let me know what fandoms. I think my main fandoms and ships are Bagginshield/The Hobbit, Sherlock/Johnlock, Dragon Age Inquisition, {Pippin/Faramir Merry/Eowyn}/The Lord of the Rings and I dip my toes in a few that I currently can't remember but ships I don't engage with the canon of at all are: Good Omens but only for Crowley/Azirapheal, Stranger Things but only for Steve/Eddie , The Witcher but only for Geralt/Jaskier.

OC's you want to talk about

art/drawing do you draw and like to get asks about it?

your writing

blog specific only is your blog specific to a fandom or something that you only want asks about related things

Story snippets ideas and prompts: Do you like receiving them?

Pets: I'd love to know all about them

Garden and Hobbies: What type of gardening and/or hobbies?

Like being tagged in things: If so what kinds of things?

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer.

Hi there!!

I'm sorry this took me so long to answer - I know there's no pressure (which I appreciate immensely!) but I really want to answer them, I'm just super slow!

Self, Job/Work: Honestly I'm super happy to talk about anything like this! With all my social links on my pinned posts it wouldn't be too difficult to find out a lot of stuff about me and my life anyway! Baggishield/Tolkien, Dragon Age, Johnlock/Sherlock, ineffable spouses, other fandom: Okay so while I enjoy all of these fandoms, and more besides, I get real single-minded about my special interests. Right now it's Bagginshield, and that's really all my brain has room for! OC's: I would genuinely loooove to talk about my OCs, so very much! As I said above, bagginshield is really my main focus right now, but I have two half-written original novels that I really hope to pluck up the courage to share one day. Honestly I would love so much to have the opportunity to talk about them more here, but I know there's not a lot of interest. Folks are here for the bagginshield stuff, and that's totally fair! But, I'm going to write these stories either way and I really would love any excuse to gush about them and my OCs! art/drawing: I don't draw, I'm afraid! I wish I did, I'm always in so much awe of people who have that skill! I paint a bit, but not often and just for fun, and it's always some weird abstract stuff, haha! your writing: Love to talk about writing! It's all that keeps me going some days, and any excuse to chat about what I'm doing, what I'm planning, ro even giving advice to other writers is just so much fun to me! blog specific only: Nah, this blog is a mish-mash of everything! Happy to talk about whatever! Pets: So I have a dog! His name is Wilfred, and he was a rescue! He's my boon companion, and I love any excuse to show him off, haha! Garden and Hobbies: So I do garden, but I'm new to it! I never had a garden before until about 3 years ago, and it's been super fun to learn as I go! Other hobbies are funny, because I do a bit of everything. I'm fairly crafty so I've done pottery, sewing, jewellery making, painting as I mentioned, a bit of knitting, etc. I also used to have my own small business, running a perfumery, so I've made all sorts of bathing products, soaps, bath salts, candles, etc! Like being tagged in things: I do, but you may have noticed, I'm a bit slow at responding! I do try to keep on top of them and I never mind being tagged, but it ebbs and flows, for sure!

Okay, I think that's everything!!

Thank you so much for sending this! I will answer your others at some point, but my alarm has just gone off and now it's writing time, haha!

Thanks again for these lovely asks you send to people, it's really such a wonderful thing you're doing!

[gumi-writes]

i love it when people give me essays about their characters... they are more than characters!!! they are pieces of the soul and the living person and i have life threatening rabies. i really enjoyed hearing what you have to share about her and would always like to hear more!

also, i just really love the concept of being a leper, a face not even a mother loves - lingering on the outskirts of both human and monsterkind since birth. not quite one or the other, and the lack of the security a suffocating binary provides might as well be worse (but what does it matter to tien when love cannot change this story).

is humanity a choice? is it memories, our passion, our experiences? one cannot ponder theseus' paradox if the ship was born of war's wounds. no matter how you look at it, she's like a bystander. even monsters have desires like a thorn in their ribes (ais has desires the enormity of which disgusts him, vere swallow his through his pride, mhin presses down on it like a bruise), and when you live your live rejected and whittled by desire, the tender intimacy even the strongest ache over mean nothing to you. manmade horrors, the thrill! they say god is man but man is not god because He was born of their desire for goodness and greatness (but they are not clean). they are of humans but she is not a human.

also really big fan of characters who are apathetic in the sense they can 'like' you, but you will never have a place for yourself amidst the patchwork of their life. to be guilty over such thing would prove the tragedy's nature so she feels no guilt. they feel no shame. there is no goodness hiding inside the hollow heart. loving in a world that is cruel is to be lion hearted - then, you are brave. then, you are strong. and a heart that never loves, even in shame and disgust, is strong as the sentinel tiger is.

which really ties into the foxglove also meaning insincerity and a hardened heart! it can heal, but it is unfeeling. the foxglove can be used therapeutically to increase heart contractions. again it ties to the heart. maybe the only way she can feel is if another's poison will die on her lips like with every forgotten memory under the graveyard of their tongue and take them with it. but the foxglove will always bloom in spite of hardship. that is the real shame. she will come back again and they must forget again.

something about tien saving the mc from death with her blood. something about binding each other together like a cursed vow.

on another note, i think one of the many reasons i like tien is because i have an oc who works as a soulless hunter for a church in one of the cities outside of eridia. to be whittled away into a blade until you do not even know the privilege of desperation. wow. my jam!

you know at the very least if i'm going to continue writing this much i only hope it all makes sense HAHA

i think so too! i actually recently had a discussion about the kind of things that compel us when it comes to the creation of characters and relationships, and though the answer is obviously very varied, there is something to be said about those that essentially use it as a method of processing or even healing, if it comes down to it. this way makes it impossible to not pluck some of you to put into an oc, but i think it’s more fun that way. but i’m really glad you did! 🥰 i do have a ludicrous amount of thoughts on her, so the opportunity to put some of it down on paper and not floating in my brain like some kind of haunting essay is well, it’s really nice!

a leper is honestly a great way to put it. hard to form any sense of belonging, of kinship, if you know nothing of personhood. it’s somehow both an objectification and an ascension, and without the firsthand of a before experience, how can you imagine a change let alone manifest it? things have always been like this. they will always be like this. what good is an indomitable strength if it only keeps you bound? and how can love hope to change anything other than to make an end worthwhile? she can’t hope for more. she doesn’t even know what that would look like. in a kinder world, love would be the answer. but this isn’t a kind world. and tiên herself would not exist as she is in one.

“one cannot ponder theseus’ paradox if the ship was born of a war’s wounds” goes hard as hell actually. i think so too. it’s not like we can look to see a before where there was a start and a descent—tiên was already in the thick of it the moment she was cognizant, and perhaps the tragedy here is that the opportunity to learn how to be remotely human was never offered and now too late to be of any use. she doesn’t want for nothing but are desires not the core tenet of being alive, one of the things that both man and monster share? (your summary of ais, vere and mhin was delicious btw <3) even an end, about the only thing she could crave feels a futility—so her existence is one of stagnancy, a transient, liminal ache of a thing where, on her own, she can only hope to experience thin slivers of humanity through the tiny bites of connection her blood allows her. and even then, it is barely above a nothing—a curiosity that will fade as soon as the moment passes with it.

guilt or shame are largely human emotions, anyhow. taught in response to something you’ve done wrong, but a living weapon has no such need for such humanity. a tool can only do the thing it was meant to do or it doesn’t, and such binary options leave no room for the internal maze of remorse. any goodness died as the world itself lay dying till the very last death rattle. you want to survive? you need to match the violence you were born in the cradle of. maybe the truth is we’re all a little monstrous here.

and honestly? i kind of liken tiên to a lonely, chained god. it accounts for that stagnancy and strength, and that strange purity despite being embroiled in blood. even her amorality and being seemingly above human things—joys and despairs alike. her heart, though i have not actually thought the specifics of the where, may as well have origins something both timeless and yet, long gone.

but it is a shame. being a certainty where nothing else is. she can’t even hope to realise she loves you, and can only afford you recognition where she has almost next to none. is it enough? is it fair? she can’t even honour anything you have, though she can only vaguely feel an absence that will only be devoured by the rest of her ceaseless existence.

oh, anon. you are speaking my language <3 for all her expertise in the dealing of death, she can deal life where she is invested enough to do so. she can compensate for blood loss, gently plug and sew your wounds, even mend your bones, but are you prepared to have her in you in a way that not even she understands the full extend of? if there is something other than nothing, her blood will help instead of harm. but it is the hand of something older than you both.

ooh! 🥰 as someone that (obviously) loves the psychological and emotional implications of living weapons, that sounds so exciting? you must tell me more if you’re up for it. sounds like they’re married to the job, so to speak, and all the hardening that comes with it! to fight monsters for a living is to become a bit of one yourself, and i have to wonder myself if your oc had a choice when it came to such a living. but maybe they’re not even cognizant of the lack of choice. but i’m just spitballing. i’d love to hear more regardless!

[rockinlore]

#NEWS: Manifesto in U.S., heaven of foods, is that right?

📍Atlanta, Georgia.

There are many things that make Atlanta a great place to visit—the food is just one of them. Visiting Egg Harbour during our concert in Atlanta was one of the most memorable experiences I've had in a long time. The quaint little town was filled with history and charm—the perfect escape for an afternoon getaway. Walking through the old streets, we could see the timeless beauty of the architecture and the vibrant colors that adorned the buildings. The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafted through the air, tempting us to stop at the local bakery for a snack.

As we soaked in the atmosphere, we stumbled upon a hidden gem—a small ice cream parlour that looked like it had been plucked straight out of the 1950s. We knew we couldn't pass up the opportunity to indulge in some frozen treats, so we eagerly made our way inside. Rows upon rows of colorful ice cream flavors greeted us, and we couldn't decide which ones to try first. The friendly staff behind the counter helped us narrow down our options and even recommended some local favorites. We were like kids again, licking our cones and giggling at the brain freeze that inevitably followed.

Welcome to New York🗽

Beneath Big Apple Sky. What’s better to call a city covered with the beautiful view whenever you look up to the sky?

New York is a city of many treasures. From the world-famous Rockefeller Center to the iconic Empire State Building, it's home to so much history and culture that it's impossible to see everything in one trip.

But don't be too discouraged! I’ve made ut easy for you: here are places that you simply cannot miss in the Big Apple. Experience the best of New York with a tour of the city's iconic landmarks.

As soon as I walked into Keens Chophouse, I was welcomed by a cozy atmosphere and the savory aroma of steak filling the air. The restaurant's antique decor exuded a timeless and classic feel that I absolutely loved. The menu was extensive, offering various cuts of meat and seafood dishes. The steak was cooked to perfection, paired with delicious sides and mouth-watering appetizers. See the photo of a meat I took of? That’s it!

We walked a few blocks to the iconic Tiffany & Co. flagship store. The bright blue store front immediately caught my eye, and I couldn't wait to explore the different sections of the store. We wandered the luxurious halls, admiring the beautiful jewelry and elegant displays. I also took some time to customize a piece of jewelry with an engraving, making it truly my own.

Lastly, we headed towards Radio City Music Hall and were greeted by the impressive art deco design of the building. The history and grandeur of the venue were undeniable. Upon entering, we were excited to leave our mark by creating our own signatures on the guest book. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I couldn't have asked for better company to share it with.

p.s. Neeways I'm looking forward to the day when we meet again. 🤘

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

Back with another headcanons request! So, we’ve talked about the hobbit before, and I was wondering about some of your Bagginshield (hoping I got that right bc this is gonna be embarrassing otherwise) headcanons?

to be completely honest with you, i haven't really thought much about it. that may be just because my friend and i are shipping them more for fun than anything though (listen, it is hella funny to watch the films with a straight face and whenever we have a thorin/bilbo scene that inherently has homoerotic subtext, which you cannot possibly convince me is an accident, going "gay.") (disclaimer i'm now afraid i must add lol before this gets weird, both of us are queer so that's 100% humour)

but nevertheless i think i might have created some universe in my brain where they're happy and together and no one's dead or scarred for life. so i'll gladly dive into that and share some stuff that happens there :)

- They spend winter and spring at the castle and summer and autumn in the Shire. Fight me on this if you want. Thorin leaves his throne to Fili for six months (what began as “training because once I die you’ll have to do it anyways so better start now” has developed into “oh uncle’s gone? well guess i’m gonna have to rule the kingdom again”) and Bilbo makes sure that Lobelia does not break into his home while he’s gone.

- Adding onto that, Bilbo - of course - shares his chambers with Thorin when they’re in the castle, but hell does that not mean he doesn’t have his own. Because he does. Thing is, they’re not used for sleeping, dressing or whatever you do in your room usually. Nope, Bilbo’s are filled with the plants he loves and tea and all kinds of lovely pastries, there’s a kitchen for him to bake in and a balcony to watch the sunset on. Thorin makes sure that he does not have to do anything else but keep the plants alive and eat everything before it rots.

- They regularly have the others over. Of course they all see each other often enough in the castle, but while Thorin and Bilbo are gone over summer and autumn, well, they don’t, and after all that’s half a year. So they invite their dwarven friends and family and celebrate that day that Dwalin stood in front of a little home far away from where he came from, and that day that a little hobbit opened his freshly painted door to see said dwarf and begin an adventure he neither knew of nor particularly wanted to go on. 

- Thorin absolutely adores the Shire by the way. You should see the way his face lights up as butterflies land on his fingers, as he plucks another set of flowers for Bilbo’s windowsill or as young hobbits climb onto his shoulders and laugh when he shakes them and teaches them all kinds of Dwarven songs. Everyone adores him, almost as much as he adores this place. He can absolutely understand why Bilbo did not want to leave at first, and to be very honest, he always goes away with a heavy heart too, no matter how happy he is to return to the mountain and no matter how often he reminds himself he’ll come back the next year. 

- And oh, don’t even get me started on their wedding. It was perfect. It was the most perfect wedding you’ve ever seen. Bilbo had beads braided into his hair, so many that whichever way he turned he shone, and he looked simply ethereal. Thorin was wearing a flower crown that his nephews had made for him, wonderfully intricate and so skilfully made that seriously, everyone doubted it had been just his nephews that had made it (sure, they may just have forgotten to mention that Tauriel had helped. but they did do a lot of the work!). They had chosen the most lovely spot in autumn; all around them were trees and brown leaves, but the sun was shining and barely a cloud was seen. Picture golden sunlight falling onto black hair, braided beautifully and carefully backwards, a crown of daisies adorning it, as Thorin danced with Bilbo hours later, watching the sunset and the stars come out, and the moon and dawn the next morning. I’m convinced that all of middle earth was present - the dwarves were certainly, Bard and his children, his boyfriend (though much to Thorin’s dismay - at least it would’ve been had he noticed anything but Bilbo that day), Gandalf and Elrond and even some hobbits from the shire that Bilbo himself had invited. God, it was perfect. 

- Their honeymoon to Rivendell must’ve been an adventure in itself lol. Given that Thorin was not too happy about the idea but Bilbo more than just certain that he would not spend it “just in the castle like every other day, oh my”, they had had some arguments about it - in the past, that was, because no matter how often I’m capable of mentioning that Thorin was literally mentally g o n e for anything that wasn’t Bilbo, it won’t be enough to actually get it across and tell you just how little he cared where the fuck he was going with his husband. 

- The day Frodo’s parents drowned was the day Thorin realised that there was no question whether they’d be adopting him, no discussion or argument or even two seconds of shared eye contact to make sure that they’d come to the same conclusion. I don’t even want to say there was any understanding, any communication at all. There was no “what will you do” or “what should we do”. There was simply this little, young, orphaned boy, and there were the two of them, and suddenly they were three and the little, young, orphaned boy was theirs. Of course Thorin had thought about being a father; of course he’d thought about having children. But once Fili had seen the light of the world, the second that Thorin had held this young dwarf in his arms, he had known that he’d found his heir. And despite all the love he later was to hold for Frodo, despite all that, not for one moment would he have given away Fili’s throne. Both Bilbo and - a significantly older - Frodo understood, certainly, and no one had raised the young hobbit as a prince either, and after all suddenly becoming royalty (regardless of whether you get a crown or not) is pretty neat. 

alright that’s it rn, hope you liked some of these in the end!

[stolen-pen-name23]

hello! how about #8- “You’re looking a little pale.” and/or #15 “I’m fine… just a little dizzy.” with Obi-Wan and Dooku?

Hi Kate!!! Thanks for the prompt!! // from these prompts // prompts now closed!

I have no idea when Dooku actually left the order, so I made it up for my purposes. Obi-Wan is still a padawan here, but he's like 19-20ish.

Read on Ao3 (or below the cut)

Here ya go!

---

The floor of an unfamiliar starship is not the most pleasant place to wake up.

Admittedly, the cold, hard floor of a starship is not the worst place Obi-Wan has ever woken up, but it certainly isn’t the most ideal place to come back into consciousness on.

He blinks, focusing his vision on his surroundings. The space he is in is barren but sleek. He can tell that the ship he has found himself on is a nice ship.

Groaning, he assesses himself for injuries. Aside from some slight motion sickness from laying on the floor of a ship in flight, Obi-Wan is physically unharmed.

He pushes himself to his feet and carefully inches his way down the short corridor. Peering into the cockpit, he can see the side profile of… no. It can’t be.

“You’re awake,” Dooku says plainly without looking at him.

“Master Dooku?” Obi-Wan questions.

“Actually, it���s ‘Count’ now. I’ve had a bit of a title change.”

Yes, that was right. Dooku left the Order a couple years ago when Obi-Wan was still in his early teens. He doesn’t know much about Dooku’s departure other than that it was due to a difference in ideology. Obi-Wan is not sure what that ideology may be. The other Jedi hardly speak of it. Qui-Gon never does.

“What am I doing here?” Obi-Wan asks cautiously.

“No pleasantries for your Grandmaster?”

“I see no reason for them,” Obi-Wan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve only met you a handful of times. Oh, and you kidnapped me.”

“Fine, we’ll skip the salutations then,” Dooku says. “You’re here for a reason that you will see shortly.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. Of course, he isn’t going to get a straight answer.

“How wonderfully vague, though I suppose you are more forthcoming than most kidnappers.”

“I presume you have experience with them then?”

“It cannot be helped that so many people want me,” Obi-Wan smirks.

“A lot of arrogance for a young man who does not know where he is.”

“Call it a character flaw.”

Obi-Wan looks down at his hands.

“You’re wondering why I have not bound you,” Dooku says.

Obi-Wan shrugs his shoulders. “The thought did cross my mind. As I mentioned, this is not exactly my first time getting kidnapped.”

“Why would I have you bound? You are not my prisoner Obi-Wan.”

“Oh really? I do not remember choosing to be here.”

“You will choose to be here.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t care for the certainty in Dooku’s tone.

“If I’m not your prisoner, why did you take my lightsaber?”

“You’re not my prisoner, but I do not need any hotheaded padawans getting any funny ideas before we get where we need to go.”

“And where may that be?” Obi-Wan tries again.

The Force seems to thrum around them and dread pools in Obi-Wan’s stomach.

“A looking glass, of sorts,” Dooku answers.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. This lineage is so weird.

“Must you be so cryptic all the time?” Obi-Wan asks. “Why not just tell me where we are going?”

“I could tell you, or I could let you see for yourself,” Dooku says. With that, the ship slips out of hyperspace and glides towards a green planet.

“Where are we?” Obi-Wan asks again.

Dooku plucks at levers and pushes at buttons, taking his sweet time in answering Obi-Wan’s question. “This planet does not have a name, though there are several places throughout the galaxy that are like it. Rare as they are, they are places of great import for individuals like us.”

“Individuals like us?”

“Force-sensitives.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the way Dooku says the words, like their shared abilities somehow make them the same.

They are not the same.

“So why are we here?”

“You are here to see your destiny.” The statement comes out simple and sure.

Oh, Obi-Wan does not have a good feeling about this at all.

***

The ship lands in an unassuming clearing in an unassuming forest on an unassuming planet.

Dooku makes Obi-Wan get off the ship first, much to his annoyance. It would have been very easy to steal the ship if only Dooku had gone first.

“I advise you stay close,” Dooku says, clearly having already thought about Obi-Wan’s would be escape plans. “This forest is not a place you want to be alone in at night without a communicator. I would hate for you to get lost.”

Obi-Wan looks around and gets the sense that Dooku is right. Obi-Wan has his fair share of survival skills learned through a mixture of experience and traditional Temple-based training, but that does not mean he wants to put them to use.

Dooku takes the lead, but even then, Obi-Wan feels as though he is being watched.

The forest is not as unassuming as Obi-Wan initially believed. His bad feeling intensifies with every step he takes — the Force pulsing through his veins tells him to be careful.

It is not long before the bad feeling turns physical. The longer they walk, the worse Obi-Wan begins to feel. It started as a nagging headache blooming in the back of his skull. Now, he fights dark spots that dance behind his eyes.

“You’re looking a little pale,” Dooku says in a way that is both deeply condescending and somehow still somewhat caring.

Obi-Wan takes a few labored breaths and tries to blink back the dark spots from his vision. He rests a palm on a tree trunk and leans against it. “I’m fine… just a little dizzy.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?”

Obi-Wan whips his head over to Dooku and immediately regrets the fast movement as it sends another wave of nausea through him. “What did you do to me?”

“It is not me. It is your attachment to the light. That is the source of your weakness. Practitioners of the light side don’t do so well in places like this.”

Dooku hands him a canteen and Obi-Wan eyes it warily.

Dooku sighs and rolls his eyes. “Would I have gone to the trouble of taking you all this way just to poison you? Drink.”

Obi-Wan accepts the canteen.

“The light is not my weakness. It is my strength,” Obi-Wan says after a long draught. He hands the canteen back to Dooku.

“Maybe,” Dooku says. “But not here.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep, centering breath and tries to remain calm. Wherever he is, he gets the feeling that he absolutely should not be here. He carries on anyway.

Twigs snap and leaves crunch under his feet until he notices them start to dampen. Solid ground turns soggy the farther they walk. They approach the gaping maw of a cavern, and at its face lies a spring — the source of the mud. Light dances on half of its surface while the other half lingers in the shadow of the cave.

“I presume this is where you are taking me?” Obi-Wan asks, unable to pull his gaze from the spring.

“Very astute,” Dooku says. “Keep going.”

The mud under his feet squelches and sticks, almost as if nature itself protests his movements. Obi-Wan does not want to keep going. Everything inside of him is telling him not to keep going.

Get out of here, Obi-Wan. It’s not safe here, Obi-Wan. It’s dangerous here, Obi-Wan.

The voice in his head telling him to stop almost wins, but his body is weakened by the dark energy that pulses through this place and Dooku is pushing him along. His feet drag and he is brought forth towards the spring.

Dooku kicks the back of his knees and he falls to the ground. His hands sink into the mud.

Now on his knees, Obi-Wan finds himself staring at his own reflection on the surface of the water.

“What is so special about this?” Obi-Wan asks between labored breaths.

“I’ve already told you.”

Obi-Wan looks back at the water and finds himself staring at someone new. No. Not someone new. Himself. Older. But it is undeniably him.

His Padawan brain is gone and a beard covers his face. His brows are set in a harsh look of concern — the same one Qui-Gon makes fun of him for, though there is nothing funny about the scene that begins to play out in front of him now.

A fire. A fury. The Jedi Temple under siege. Scorch marks. The gleam of sabers and the blue bolts of blasters.

Everyone dead or dying.

Everyone except him.

“This is a trick. This can’t be real,” Obi-Wan says, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the water’s reflection.

“Of course it is. Don’t you see?” Dooku implores. “This is your destiny.”

Obi-Wan shivers, the cold of the Dark Side raising gooseflesh across his skin. He can feel his body trying to submit under the pressure of the Dark Side, even as his spirit resists. The pressure builds and his body trembles. He feels as though he is about to pass out and he is sure he would have, were it not for a familiar voice that calls out.

“That’s enough, Dooku,” Qui-Gon says. “Let him go.”

Hope sings in Obi-Wan’s chest.

“Padawan,” Dooku says. “Good of you to join us.”

“Let. Him. Go.” Qui-Gon’s strong voice echoes through the cavern.

“I’m not holding him and he is not my prisoner. He looks into the waters of the Dark Side purely of his own volition.”

Qui-Gon ignites his blade and strides toward Obi-Wan. Dooku ignites his own saber and blocks Qui-Gon’s path.

“Do not interrupt him, Padawan.”

“Do not call me that,” Qui-Gon hisses. “And get out of my way.”

“He needs to finish this on his own.”

“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon says. “Don’t look at that. There is nothing for you there.”

“Master?” Obi-Wan squeaks out, sounding more like a scared youngling than the young man that he actually is. “I don’t like it here.”

“I know,” Qui-Gon says. “We can leave. Just look away from the water.”

Obi-Wan wants to look away from the water, but its pull is that of a siren call. Irresistible.

“Master Dooku said my destiny is in here.”

“Master Dooku is a liar. Come with me. Please Padawan, just look away from the water and come with me.”

“You are making a mistake, Qui-Gon.”

“The only mistake I made was taking my eyes off of him. I knew you had changed, but kidnapping? You’ve resulted to kidnapping padawans now?”

“Look at him, he is hardly a youngling anymore. You could make him a knight tomorrow if you knew how to let go. But either way, drastic measures have to be taken to show him the path he should follow.”

“This is not his path,” Qui-Gon says. “He will never join you. He will never join the Dark Side.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon says firmly. “He’ll never join you. Obi-Wan… he’s… he’s different. He’s good. Even your ichor cannot taint his light.”

“Even the most righteous Jedi are tempted by the dark.”

“Not him. Never him.”

Obi-Wan can feel the strength of Qui-Gon’s convictions, his hope, through their bond. He clings to it like a drowning man clings to a rope and with what remains of his strength, he pulls himself from the dark waters that threaten to consume him.

“Master?” Obi-Wan questions weakly.

“You are making a mistake, Obi-Wan,” Dooku says. “Only pain and misery await you if you stay on your current path. You saw it yourself and you shall see it again.”

“The future is in motion,” he says shakily. “Nothing is set in stone.”

“Don’t be naive, Obi-Wan. Remain on your path, and the future you saw remains inevitable.”

Obi-Wan swallows back the lump in his throat. “Regardless, there is no future where I follow you.”

Obi-Wan staggers forward. His fingers grasp for his lightsaber, but he knows he is in no condition to take on Dooku. To his relief and to his surprise, Dooku does not reach for his own saber. He stands to the side and lets Obi-Wan climb back up the hill. He does not look angry, only disappointed. There is not much time for Obi-Wan to ponder this before Dooku shakes his head and turns back, walking out the way they came in.

Qui-Gon watches Dooku leave, never taking his piercing gaze off of his former master until he has blended fully into the shadows. With his disappearance, Qui-Gon darts down the hill towards Obi-Wan. Rocks and loose dirt rolls down the hill with each of Qui-Gon’s heavy steps, but it does not slow him down.

The sight of his Master and the security of knowing he was coming to save him makes some of the fight die down inside of him. He trips over his own feet and falls forward on the slippery hill. Mud and dying leaves stick to his robes and his skin while the smell of decay that accompanies a forest floor fills his nostrils.

He just wants to get out of here.

Though it seems he will not have to wait much longer. Strong hands grab his arms and drag him to his feet. Qui-Gon dusts off his shoulders while giving him a once-over.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Not… not really.”

“That was a yes or no question, Obi-Wan.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, trying to put more strength behind his words. “He cannot hurt me.”

“Actually, he can, but I’m glad he did not.”

Obi-Wan offers Qui-Gon a weakened smile.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Qui-Gon says, lending Obi-Wan a steadying arm.

Obi-Wan leans on his Master and lets him guide him home.

[yeojaa]

wait !!!! find her jk with that prompt the other anon sent!!! can u plssss that’s literally something find her jk would actually do🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ read finders keep hers ]

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  idiots in love.  like, that’s all there is to say.  angst central, my dude.  wc.  2.4k.  author note.  i meant to make this short and end with some tender lovemaking but...  i cannot be trusted near a keyboard so you get this word vomit instead.  xoxo!

You love Jeon Jungkook.  Have, you think, since before you knew what the word love meant.

(Maybe since you were children and you’d still stood a chance against him, bursting with pride from a job well done, young enough that your parents’ kind words felt better than anything in the world.  Before he’d turned into the president of the Casanova Club and he’d just been your and your brother’s best friend.  Little Jeon with the unbelievably big eyes, always so curious about everything.

Or maybe since your tenth grade White Day, when he’d bought you your favourite candies and pressed them unceremoniously into your hands, too many to hold so they fall to dirt and tumble around you.  He’d stooped to snatch them all up, shoving them into the pockets of your coat.  “Because we’re best friends or whatever,”  he’d said with this toothy, silly smile.

More likely during university.  That time you’d maybe (read: very) foolishly made out, liquor fueling the tangle of your limbs and how utterly good he felt within them, a nectarine dream in his brand new G Wagon.  You’d thought he’d laugh in your face, mumble something about no, we can’t - which he had - but he’d also taken you home, tucked you in and climbed in beside your inebriated self.

Definitely once you’d started seeing each other, spending more time in his bed than anywhere else.  It’d been nearly impossible to separate head from heart, falling deeper and deeper into the Jungkook-shaped black hole that seemed to eclipse everything else.  You’d fallen head over stupid heels, leaving bits of yourself hidden among his things.  Your lip balm in his trouser pocket, perfume on the collar of his favourite turtleneck, shape of your mouth alongside monogrammed initials. 

You hadn’t meant to.

Love him, that is.  It’d simply happened in between all the laughter, the eye rolls, the smiles.  Threaded between each action and cemented by the thud of your heart, beat into the ground like a drum.)

Sometimes, though, you don’t like him.  Oftentimes, in fact. 

You and Jungkook are as different as can be.  

You’re in business development at a tech firm;  he’s the technically unemployed son of a real estate mogul.  You invest most of your money;  he spends his as if it’ll never run out (which it likely won’t).  You grew up with an older brother;  he’s got two younger sisters.  You drink to celebrate, to wind down;  he drinks to prove a point.  You believe in love - have to, looking at your parents and feeling how you do about him;  he knows it exists but up until recently, had zero interest in it.

You wonder still, seated at the table with your group of friends and their partners, whether that still rings true.  (Deep down, you know it doesn’t. You know he loves you, wants you in a way he’s never wanted anyone else before, but your brain is a fickle thing, playing tricks when it shouldn’t.) 

Would he be happier without you?  Better off without you? 

Your thoughts mock you - just as he does, roguish smile turning his entire expression into sunshine.  Inescapable, all-encompassing, so blinding it’s almost hard to look at.  Trained on the girl he’s chatting up at the bar.  

This is what Jungkook does.  What he’s always done.  You should be used to it, really.  The man’s charm is always turned up to eleven, always in full effect even when he doesn’t mean it to be.  It’s simply part of who he is- young and rich and devastatingly, heartbreakingly handsome. 

Still, you can’t help the emotion that swells somewhere deep in your stomach, jostles the meal you’ve just had and turns your insides into a sea of nausea.  You know when he’s just being friendly and you know when he’s flirting.  It’s a terribly thin line but one you recognise, intimately familiar with the two sides of his personality.  

Right now, he’s flirting.  Doing that thing he does, one arm folded on the counter top, unblemished hand resting somewhere along his hip, silver of his rings acting as a beacon beneath the dim restaurant lights.  His other hand slots itself into the pocket of his coated jeans, tattoos thrown into stark contrast against his skin and the black of the denim.  There’s that smile of his, more a smirk but sunny, radiant, beautiful.  It lights up his entire face, steeping his expression in something warm.  The dimple in his cheek winks with each laugh - you can only imagine the one on the other side does the same, cut deeply into his skin.

Don’t be mad, you tell yourself.  He’s your Jungkook, bad habits and all.  

You love him.  You love him.  You love him.

If he notices your stoicism, he doesn’t comment on it.  Doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if you’re okay or what’s up.  Barely even speaks to you, save to toss his arm around your shoulder and tug you close, practically tug you into his lap while his friends share stories of their week.

It’s your usual Friday night dinner.  Something you’ve done with this ragtag group for as long as you’ve known them.  An excuse to go out and drink and eat some damn good (and often free) food. 

You wish you could enjoy it like you normally do.  Instead, you’re preoccupied by the way a perfume that isn’t yours lingers on his collar - seeps beneath the fabric and marks him up like a possession.  It’s too sweet - cloying sugar apples and coconut - nothing like your usual earthy wisteria and dewy rose.  It stings your nose when you inhale too deeply, nestled into the familiar shape of Jungkook’s frame, settled between the vertebrae you know best.

You hardly notice when he does speak to you, rousing you from thought you can’t quite place any longer.

“Ready to head home?”

The rest of your friends are going about their business, slipping their coats on and exchanging ideas for plans the following morning.  (Saturday brunch is a very popular thing, though it tends to lean late lunch versus true breakfast-brunch.)

You nod and slip from beneath your lover’s arm, plucking your purse up as you rise.  You’re ready to get out of here, ready to scrub away the melancholy that lingers like a thin film across your skin.  

He must have realised sometime between your silence in the car and your lacklustre kisses in the elevator.  You think he must, as he nearly slams the front door of his penthouse shut, kicks off his Chelsea boots and lets them tumble together just off the welcome mat.  (Not the reaction you’d expected, but you’ve learnt to never expect anything from him.  As much as he might be your best friend, Jeon Jungkook plays by his own set of rules.)

He doesn’t wait for you to undo your own shoes, carefully undoing the straps of your Jimmy Choos and setting them where they belong before you follow the sound of his footsteps.

When you find him, he’s stripping off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly across the back of his desk chair, keys and wallet and phone dropped none-too-gently upon wood.  He says nothing even as he crosses to his closet, steps inside and slips off each piece of jewellery:  assorted rings and his Rolex - everything but the bracelet you’d gotten him for graduation.  

His belt goes next, set back within the confines of its velvet lined drawer.  Through the hole goes the button of his jeans, down goes the zipper, and then he’s in nothing but his vaguely sheer dress shirt, boxer-briefs, and silly printed socks (yellow bananas on black fabric, for reasons), looking every inch the adonis he is. 

You still haven’t said a word, carefully hanging your dress in the small space you’ve carved out for yourself.  You don’t really know what to say - how to approach his apparent frustration when you don’t know where it comes from.

Is he upset with you?  Had you, somewhere along the line of your own sadness, done something to upset him?

You’re running through all the scenarios, lost in thought, when his voice breaks the quiet.  Snaps forth and hits its mark - a perfect shot.  “Seriously?”  There’s a fickle quality to his tone, a pettiness that you recognise when he hasn’t gotten his way, when he’s not quite sure what to say but knows he wants to have something.  (It doesn’t come out often with you, but you’re intimately familiar with it still.  His I-want-to-fight voice.)

“Pardon?”  You’re not expecting him so close, close enough to reach you but far enough that you can tell he’s purposely put this distance between you.  It feels strange - further apart than it is.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

You blink.  Once, twice, three times.  When you speak, it’s full of confusion, paired with your brows gathering in a little knot of bewilderment.  “Anything about what?”

“What happened at dinner.”  

He sounds so utterly deadpan, you can’t help but laugh, a sound of disbelief rather than amusement.  

“You mean you flirting with that girl?”  Even saying the words feels awful, makes you want to crawl into bed and forget about it all.

Jungkook, on the other hand, looks like you’ve just handed him the answers to all of life’s questions.  His entire face rearranges, all the pieces matching back up to form a proper puzzle.  There’s a certain smugness to it now, caught in the round of his cheek and how it ticks higher with his grin.  “So you did notice!  I fucking knew it.”

“Of course I did.”  You want to be appalled.  Know you should be.  (But it’s Jungkook and you love him.)  “Kind of hard not to.”  

He’s the devil in disguise, snapping you to him with a flex of his arms, hands curled around your waist.  It’s clear he’s pleased, absolutely tickled pink that you’d fallen for his silly little trick.  “Gotta keep you on your toes,”  he croons, eyes twinkling, mouth wobbling with the strain of keeping his laughter hidden. 

He expects you to agree - maybe roll your eyes and pat his cheek, laughs along with him and give him some sort of shit about how he’s an idiot - and visibly starts when you push yourself away, two palms flat against his chest. 

“Sure.”

One word.  Nothing like he’d imagined.

“Baby?”  You’ve made it two steps - two whole steps, which is two too many to Jungkook - when he’s pulling you back, trapping you against his chest with his arms looped around your shoulders.  “Where you going?”  He’s kissing along your shoulder, trailing warmth everywhere he touches. 

He still smells like that girl’s perfume.

“Can you get off me, please?”  You’re more polite than you normally are, working hard to keep calm when he only tightens his grip.  Of course he thinks you’re kidding, thinks you’re pouting and playing just like he had when you’d returned home.

When you repeat yourself - a little harder, a little quieter - he seems to realise how wrong he’s read the situation.

“Angel—”  You’re swept around, left to stare into the neat white of his shirt as he peers down at you, waits for you to meet his eyes.  You don’t, staunchly focused on the buttons of his Oxford, how they strain over his broad chest.  “Baby.”  Now he’s the one full of reprimand, disapproval colouring the single word that’s normally so sweet.

“What?”  It’s just as bratty as he was earlier but somehow worse, touched blue.

“What’s wrong?”  Jungkook seems genuinely perplexed, concerned and maybe, just a tiny bit frustrated.  He’s not used to you lashing out like this, soft and yet unyielding, hidden behind a door he’s fumbling with the keys to.

“You.”

“—me?”

You’re not one to throw out things you don’t mean, carefully picking and choosing your words.  It’s something you’ve always done - far more responsible than your idiot best friend who’s never had to worry about a thing in his life.  

The line of his mouth dips, pulls into a frown as he studies you and tries to crack open the windows to gain some insight.  It doesn’t work well;  he’s faced with a stone wall.

“Why’re you mad?” 

You want to laugh.  Do, actually, so short and abrupt it’s more of a scoff.  “What’s wrong with me?”  You’d pull away if you could. (Realistically, you could, but you’ve always been too soft for him.)  “You spent almost all of dinner flirting with someone else.”

“Yeah— to make you jealous.”  As if that makes it better.  As if that doesn’t tear a giant hole right in the centre of your chest, launches your poor heart out of the airlock to fend for itself in the emptiness of his expression.  

You don’t know why it feels worse to hear it out loud.  You’d figured as much. 

(Jungkook had done this in the past, though always jokingly.  He’d rarely been invested enough in a girl to go to such lengths but you’d seen it once or twice.  Always the age old adage of wanting what you can’t have.)

You wish you could separate the then from the now.  Remind yourself that he does care, that this is his twisted, stupid way of showing his affection - of keeping you around.  (You know he’s just as vulnerable as you - maybe more, sometimes - but he shows it poorly.  Pushes you away when he tries to pull you in.)

Tears are welling, spilling across your lashes faster than you can yank them back.  Something about being an angry crier.  

“Good job,”  you mean to snap, to make him feel how you do.  (Small - so very, very small.)  Instead, it’s terribly quiet.  A whisper that gets lost to the cotton poplin.  “Now I’m jealous.”  And miserable and insecure.  All things you usually aren’t, that only Jeon Jungkook manages to bring out in you.

“Baby,”  he tries again, crushing you to his chest, jut of his chin resting atop your head.  His hugs had always been your favourite - swallowing you whole, making you feel safe - but it’s too much now, a prison cell rather than your familiar bed.  “I’m sorry.”  He’s kissing again, stamping his affection into the dark of your hair, brushing over and over with the soft of his lips, his rounded adorable nose,  “I thought—”

You know what he thought.  Know where he’d been coming from (a place of immaturity, a gilded golden room with Jeon Jungkook stamped across the door) but it doesn’t make it any better.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less.

[noctis-noctua]

Iron Resolve and Refreshing Gales | Overworked Jean x Reader

Relationship: Jean/Reader

Genre: Fluff

Premise: Jean has been pushing herself to the max lately and refuses to acknowledge the detrimental consequences of it no matter who tells her… except for the one person who has her wholehearted devotion.

1754 words.

Here you go! Sorry if it’s a bit subpar - this is my first time writing for Jean, but no complaints here. She’s awesome and I am a total simp for her lmao. 

    Jean has a destructive tendency to attend to the needs of everyone but herself. It doesn’t matter if the issue is as trivial as finding a lost cat or filing papers - Jean carries out each and every request from the citizens of Mondstadt. These days have been busier than usual. Ludi Harpastum is a few days away and that means that preparations are being carried out religiously. In other words, Jean has people knocking on her door non-stop. Can you help decorate Town Square? Hilichurls are blocking the path that my goods are traded on, could you please clear them out? She hasn’t felt the doting embrace of sleep in two days, nor has she consumed more than a couple of light meals. ‘There’s no time for them,’ she often explains to the other Knights. ‘I’m satisfied with anything I can get.’ 

    Lisa is an early riser. She enjoys taking time to brew a pot of Sumerian tea and read new material as the sun floods across Mondstadt, and to do so she must awaken ahead of schedule. It’s because of this that Lisa arrives at the office before anyone else; 5:00 am to be exact, leaving much time to prepare for the day’s labor. She strides to the library doors before coming to a sudden stop, observing the sounds of a frenzied pen in the room across from hers. Jean’s room. Lisa does not hesitate to open the door, exposing a fatigued blonde reading and marking up a stack of documents.

    “Jean, have you been here all night?” Jean’s eyes are dull, leaden bags hanging from beneath them. On the right side of her desk is an almost-spent candle, the dwindling remains of its wax no more than 2 inches. 

    “Oh, good morning Lisa. Unfortunately, I have. That’s alright, though. The sooner I finish them the sooner I can move on to patrolling.” Her tone is desolate despite Jean’s attempts to liven it. The blaring headache ricocheting in her brain is practically begging her to rest, but Barbatos knows that’s not an option. She still has so much to do, and even after she completes this there are mor-

    “[Y/N] hasn’t seen you in days. Not taking a break strains her, too.” Lisa remarks, eyes dancing over the bookshelf. She catches sight of the full series of The Fox in the Dandelion Sea. Mondstadt’s famous romance novels, and one of Jean’s favorites. It’s almost ironic, how such a neglectful Knight came to be a sappy romantic. 

    “...[Y/N] is strong and independent, Lisa. She has no need for me, and although I’d enjoy seeing her, I know that she is perfectly capable of looking after herself. If I have to push my relationship to the side momentarily to sate the people of Mondstadt, then it has to be done.” Jean responds as she pushes another paper to the side. By now there must be 40 finished pages. It pains Lisa to look at them, much less read them. Making peace with defeat, she suggests that Jean purchases a full meal and exits the stuffy quarters. The Dandelion Knight can do nothing but sigh for the 40th time, doing the best she can to ignore the subtle shaking of her limbs, the thrashing pain in her head, and the gradual blur of her sight. 

    She’s fortunate enough to finish up faster than expected and spends the spare time making a beeline for Good Hunter. Suddenly, the hunger in her stomach is 10x more noticeable, and nothing else is on her mind but eating some Fisherman Toast. That is until she bumps into a sobbing blob of red, blubbering much as a fish does.

    “Klee! Did something happen? Did you blow something up?” Jean interrogates, crossing her arms. The small Knight makes a tentative nod and bursts into another fit of tears. I was really hungry… It’s fine, I can always eat later. Jean comforted herself as she held Klee’s tiny palm, preparing for the damage inflicted. 

-

    It’s 11:00 pm. Jean’s ponytail has been ruffled to a point of no return, convincing her to take it down and let the locks of hair flood down her shoulders. New civil letters sit on the mahogany table. Jean prepares another candlestick for the long night ahead, resisting the culling of sleep. It’s much harder to focus than it was last night and nothing but a handful of 10-minute naps and a mushroom skewer are stopping her from dropping dead. Finish fast and I can go home and get a 3-hour nap… Jean’s mind is so adrift and preoccupied that she ignores Kaeya’s presence entirely. 

   “Busy as always, Acting Grand Master. I heard it’s your 3rd day at the office. I thought I’d take the time to invite you to Angel’s Share.” The Cavalry Captain’s voice is sultry, filling the dusty silence. Jean takes one look at his flamboyant figure and turns back to the envelope in her hand, squinting at the printed symbols.

    “Sorry, Sir Kaeya, but I have some stuff to do. I can’t possibly drink - it may impact my performance. Thank you, though.” Kaeya chuckles at that. Stalking over to the paned glass, he observes the joyous city below. Upon closer inspection, Jean looks like absolute shit. Her hair is mussed and her skin is a cumbersome shade, a slight green tone atop her normal paleness. 

    “Same old excuse. Take some time off. You need some fun, Acting Grand Master. It must be boring to be so serious all the time.” His words are not valuable enough to be met with more than a hum. “Fine, fine, be that way. But know that if you ever want to come down, everything is on me. It’s not every day that you come out. Plus… pushing yourself so much can’t be good for your health, Jean.” The drop of formalities is Kaeya’s last attempt to pull his superior away from the bureau, and then he takes his leave. Jean doesn’t fail to notice the painkillers he slipped onto the papers. That snarky Captain… as crass as he tries to be, Jean knows that his actions come from a genuine concern for her health. Thanking him in silence, she tosses the two pills into the back of her throat. 

    The evening descended into twilight, then to the darkest hours of the morning, and Jean has not moved from her chair. The herbal pills had dissipated an hour ago, and the pounding of her headache is almost enough to send Jean reeling. She doesn’t stop, obviously; she’s felt much harsher pains. 4:00 am tranquility serves to be helpful for such aches, but now that her entire body is in pain, it’s much harder to soothe. Her head jolts in intervals as she fights the intense drowsiness. Iron as her resolve may be, Jean is human. Her back hunches as her arms catch a drifting head that now lolls on her reports. The flutter of her eyelashes is peaceful in its own right. Slow exhales leave Jean’s body as she sleeps, her body relishing in such a rare moment. 

    Jean opens her eyes to the scene of a stubby candle that has burnt out. She opens her intricate timepiece in a hurry. 5:00 am. How could she have slept for an entire hour? Dread floods her system as she thinks of how much she has delayed her already bustling schedule. In the midst of her panic, the door opens. It must be Lisa. No one else is mindlessly occupying the building at this ti-

    “Hi, Jean. I brought some tea and cookies for you. I’m sure you must be exhausted… it’s been three days since I’ve seen you, after all.” Jean’s stare softens at the sight of her beloved holding a steaming teacup and a tray of shortbread. She caresses the hand that passes the teacup. The comfort of skin is something she longs for, and something she has deprived herself of these past few days.

    “[Y/N]... I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy lately, and…” Her lips become still as you tread your fingers through her hair and press a chaste kiss to her forehead. “...and I’ve missed you.” She revels in the smile that tugs from you. That beautiful smile… Archons, how much she’s missed it.

    “Jean, come home. If not for your livelihood, for mine. The bed has been cold.” The desperation in your voice breaks Jean’s heart in two. If Jean is a Dandelion Knight, you are the passionate gales of Barbatos plucking her apart, seed by seed. There is no plausible way for her to stay composed around you. Jean leans into the hand against her cheek, a cat yearning for human contact.

    “I suppose I can… do these in the morning.” That earns a swift glare from you. Jean huffs, taking a singular bite of the shortbread. She’s had to explain her Knightly duties to you in many instances, but it always went through one ear and out the other without fail. 

    “No, absolutely not Jean. Give it to your subordinates. Tomorrow, you are staying with me, no questions asked. I’m sure they’ll allow it - your face looks 5 seconds away from death. Now come.” Jean grimaces at the list of tasks she’s stuck on the table’s edge, biting her lip in a debate against herself. Surrendering herself to the feeble begging of her lover, she mutters a small agreement. The tug on her arm convinces Jean to stand, leaning into your shoulder. She finds solace in the warmth you radiate as both of you exit the Knight’s Quarters arm-in-arm, attached at the hip like lovesick puppies. 

    The sun has begun to ascend again, accompanied by a saccharine breeze. It smells of sweet flowers and calla lilies. It smells of the fresh fields of Windrise, tangling Jean’s hair. 

    “Look, even Barbatos is happy that you’re taking a break!” You tease, and Jean cannot help but giggle. She will always laugh at your jokes, and she will always give in to your demands for touch because Jean is a hopeless, pining fool. On the elevated platforms on the Cathedral stairs, Lisa’s plump lips curve as she sees the Dandelion Knight and her precious adventurer roaming the empty streets of Mondstadt. It’s days like this that Lisa is grateful for waking early, so she can experience the morning wind, the rising sun, a delectable dish of tea, and a picturesque scene of a dandelion being burst by the adamant winds.

[harryhandstan]

onding

onding (n.)-a heavy fall of rain or snow (in this case snow!)

this was inspired by this request and I thought it would be perfect to include in the A Very Merry Styles Fic Challenge! I cannot take full credit for this one as @tbslenthusiast​ helped guide me as my wonderful creative director, @taintedwonder​ was my amazing editor, and @bfharry​ was my lovely beta reader! honestly owe the title to miss tanya @sunflowers-styles​ cause she was a huge help with that! I appreciate you all so much ❤

hope you all enjoy!!

word count: 1.6k

writing tag | masterlist

//

Snow falls rapidly from the sky as you and Harry drive to your destination, neither of you noticing just how fast at first. You were both too excited at the idea of getting away from your busy schedules to celebrate the holidays with Harry’s family for the week.

His hand rests on your leg as he drives, fingers tapping along to the Christmas music playing from the radio. Occasionally offering a gentle squeeze to your thigh and a sweet smile; relaxation already flowing through his body and wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

The snowflakes seem to get larger and fall faster as you get closer to your destination and, as much as you don’t want to burst through his bubble of contentment, you begin to worry about the quick escalation of them. Your mind starts running through all the many possibilities that could go wrong at the idea of the weather worsening the further you travel.

“Harry..are you sure we shouldn’t stop for the night? It’s getting a bit late and those snowflakes aren’t getting any smaller..”

He ducks his head down slightly to look out the windshield and a deep sigh falls from his lips as he returns to his upright position. You don’t miss the way his fingers grip the steering wheel a bit tighter when he says, “Hate to admit it but, maybe you’re right.”

He still hums along to the songs filling the space, but there’s a significant drop in his mood as he takes the next exit with the most promising hotel options. Your hand trails upwards to work over the knot you can already feel forming on the back of his neck from the stress of the situation as he decides which place would be better suited for the two of you to stay in.

You know his source of frustration only lies with the fact that you’re supposed to be at Anne’s house for Christmas dinner the following evening. You can only hope that the weather permits you to be able to still make an appearance on her doorstep at the time she requested you be there. You know she would be just as happy to see her baby boy a day later than he promised, but it would hurt Harry’s heart deeply not to live up to his word. 

The clerk flashes Harry a knowing look when he hands over his card and tells him he only needs one bed for one night. It has Harry’s own smirk returning to his face and a blush spreading across yours at the implication. You suppress a giggle as the rest of the transaction is processed, but it bubbles up out of you the second you’re in the elevator on the way to the 4th floor where your room waits for you. Your laughter rings through the tiny space and only stops when you let your head fall against his chest. He loops the arm that isn’t supporting his duffel bag around your body to pull you even closer, smacking a kiss to the top of your head.

“Someone’s sleepy,” He mumbles into your hair, “Y’only get this deliriously happy when you’re tired.”

You pull your face away from his chest to look up at him, “Or when I’m spending the weekend snowed in with my rockstar boyfriend.”

“Y’really think we’ll get snowed in?”

You shrug, “Maybe. Would it be so bad to be stuck here together for a few days?”

He scrunches his nose at you, “Nah..we’d miss dinner and presents at Mum’s though.”

“Anne’ll forgive us.”

He nods in agreement, “Yeah, know she would. Can’t control the weather, can we?”

You try to restrain the yawn that creeps up but you fail miserably and cover your mouth as it stretches across your face. It had been a long day; an early morning flight and the new international time zone making your eyes drop closed just until the ding indicates you’ve reached your intended floor.

You keep yourself pressed close to Harry’s side as you make your way down the hallway to your room. He fiddles with the key for only a moment before you almost tumble through the open door and his hand catches your waist quickly to steady you. Luckily the bed is close by and you plop down across the bottom of it, your own duffel tossed aside on the floor, arms extended wide across the cream colored duvet.

He tugs on your wrist and you quietly whine before you peek one eye open to look up at him. Before he can say anything, your stomach growls, outraged at the idea of not being fed since the quick lunch you’d been able to grab much earlier in the day.

“M’hungry, Harry, think we could find some dinner before we crash for a few hours?”

“Doubt anything’s open this time’a night. Let’s do a shower first and then we’ll raid the vending machine, yeah?”

You’re both too tired to do anything much more than actually get clean under the spray of the hot water. It feels like a blessing on your skin and you let it rinse away any worry you might still have about the weather outside. His long fingers work over your scalp to ensure all the suds from your shampoo have disappeared and your eyes droop closed without your consent. You have to splay one hand firmly on his chest to keep from falling into him and knocking you both down in your exhausted state.

He steps out first, careful to keep his eyes on you as he works a towel over his body to dry off, grabbing another one off the small shelf mounted on the wall to wrap you in before he lifts you lightly up and over the edge of the tub. 

“Arms up.” He’s already dressed himself quickly in a loose pair of sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt and you silently curse yourself for being too tired to enjoy the view. He gently assists you in completing your own nighttime ensemble by slipping your oversized night shirt over your head and guiding your arms through. You sink into the soft piece of clothing as your fingers dance across the hem of the shirt.

“Hey. Y’forgot something,” He chuckles when you look down at your outfit, confused by what he means. “Up here, love. Kiss?” He requests and bends down so you don’t have far to reach up and indulge his offer. It’s a quick peck, mainly to the side of his mouth, but he doesn’t complain; fingers gently guiding your chin to center his lips over yours, a satisfied hum vibrating through his chest just before he pulls away.

You’re more alert now as you make your way to the small vending area that the two of you had passed earlier on your way to the room. He digs some change from his pocket with the hand that isn’t laced with yours, transferring some of it over to your free hand, before jingling his portion around while he surveys the options in the machine. You’re already loading your coins in, poking the numbers on the keypad, and you eagerly await your snack as it makes its way out of the coils to drop down into the slot.

“Knew you’d go for those.” There’s a lazy smile working its way over one side of his mouth as he watches you bend to retrieve the bag of pretzels.

“They’re my favorites,” You mumble and you tear the bag open, unable to wait until you get back to the room. You rest your head on his shoulder while you wait for him to decide on his own snack, “What’re you gonna get?”

“Well seein’ as you snagged the last bag of those, ya g’nna hafta share.” 

“Gladly.” You pluck one from the now partly empty bag and bring it to his lips. He bends to accept it, crunching as he finally adds his coins in the machine.

“I’ll get somethin’ sweet for us to split, how’s that sound?” 

You hum in agreement, exhaustion working its way through your body again, your brain too tired to form words at the moment. The coils around his selection unwind, dropping it with a clatter, and you move with him when he bends to collect it.

You’re again thankful for the short distance back to the room and a whispered “oof” falls from his lips when you trip over nothing but your socked feet. His hand loosely clutches a handful of the fabric of your shirt to help steady you until you’re falling back on the bed and scooting up to the top. You tuck yourself under the heavy layers of the sheets and duvet and don’t bother waiting for him as you burrow as deep as you can to get warm.

You don’t make it to dessert, passing off the now half eaten bag of pretzels to him, preferring the comfort of the pillow against your cheek over the bite of chocolate he offers you.

“Reckon y’were right about us stopping when we did,” He mutters as he stares down at his phone, the weather app casting a glow onto his face in the now dimly lit room, “Pretty big snow storm blowin’ through. We might be here a lil’ longer than one night.”

“Hmm.” 

He knows you’re mostly gone, sleep overtaking any conscious response you may have been able to provide, and he shakes his head at the sleepy smile on your face. Just as your soft snores fill the space between you, his heart swells at the sight of you resting peacefully; knowing there’s no one else he’d rather be snowed in with than his sweet, sleepy girl.

[keeper0fthestars]

Two A.M.

Francisco Morales x fem character

1.3K words

warnings: this is basically 90% fluffy fluff with some talk about anxiety and fear,slight angst?

summary: Frankie knows what it’s like to struggle with with insomnia

a/n: ahhhhhhh this is my first time posting Frankie? I don’t know what I’m doing. be gentle please :) 

~~

Old habits die-hard. After years of being trained to wake at the slightest disturbance, he’s attuned to the nights that she’s restless and can’t fall asleep. He’ll reach for her in his semi-wakefulness; gently stroke her back or her hair, tuck her restless legs alongside his, help quiet her anxious mind, soothe her back to sleep. 

This time, when he wakes, unease settles into his awareness and he reaches across the bed to find her spot already cold. Digging a knuckle into his eye to rub out the sleep, he lifts his head, turning his ear, listening for where she might be in the house when he hears the soft sound of the fridge door close. He sits up, pulling on his pyjama pants, his phone showing almost two o'clock. 

Stairs creaking on his way down, he finds her sitting on the counter next to the sink, looking out the kitchen window, a bowl of cereal in her lap. She does not need to turn on a light switch with the moon on full display shining through the windows on this side of the house. He catches a glimpse of the glimmering expanse of water just beyond their property. He knows that’s what caught her eyes too because one side of her face is cast in silver light, her hair shining when she turns, hearing his bare feet on the hardwood. 

“Hey.” He whispers in the quiet.

“Did I wake you?” she murmurs, pulling her feet underneath herself cross-legged.

He shakes his head, gently padding towards her. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

She’s wearing his t-shirt, the dark one with the torn collar and the hole in the sleeve; her legs are bare except for a pair of grey flannel shorts and socks with the red stripe around her calf.  Standing in front of her now, two large hands rest on her thighs.  He watches her, tilting his head to the side.

“You okay?” 

He knows she’s not.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He recognizes the nameless emotion in her eyes, the pale tremor on her face, the kind of faltering fear she would never afford herself during the day where there are deadlines to meet and bosses to appease and things to take care of and his heart clenches at the burden she carries, the battle she is facing. But battle isn’t the right word, because it was never a fair fight, to begin with.  Of all the blood and dust and gunfire he’s ever endured, this is the one battle he wishes he could do. He’d gladly be first in line it if it meant she didn’t have to.  Instinctively her forehead touches his shoulder, and he hears her inhale slow and deep like he’d taught her, eyelashes fluttering against his bare skin. He wants to be brave for her. When she cannot be. 

Smoothing a hand down her back, he thinks of all the nights she’s helped him get back to sleep, holding him, smoothing his hair after a nightmare, whispering against his overheated skin, taking the edge off the events of his past as they blurred together all messy, comforting him when she has so many demons of her own. If there is anyone that understands what it’s like not to be able to shut off your brain at night, she does. 

He also knows sometimes she doesn’t want to talk about it, and he knows better than anyone that inside the silence, more important things can be shared. The hum of the fridge kicks in and he stays like this, his nose buried in her hair, his hands seeping warmth into her ribs. For as long as she needs. Their breaths and the ticking clock are the only sounds for a while and then he feels the air shift around them. 

“Do you want some?” she asks, remembering the bowl of soggy cereal in her lap. She lifts her face, and he gently brushes her hair behind her ear. 

“I have a better idea,” he breathes. 

“Better than Cap’n Crunch?” her voice is warm now, teasing. He knows this because her cheek surrenders itself to a dimple, and the sight of it makes his heart sing. 

He presses his mouth to the divot in her left cheek, then moving feather-light down the side of her neck, eliciting an involuntary clench of her shoulder as goosebumps erupt down her arms. Her eyes crinkle at the sensation, and then the heat of his body is gone.

Opening the fridge, he pulls out the carton of milk. Setting a small pot on the stove, he pours milk and lights the gas underneath. In the darkness, he turns to the pantry, rooting through the top shelf. 

“What are you doing?” she asks softly.

Returning to the stove with a jar of honey and a small tin of cinnamon, he plucks a spoon from the dish rack on the other side of the sink. Sprinkling cinnamon into the milk, he measures two spoons of honey, stirring. “My grandma used to do this for me when I couldn’t sleep.” 

She watches him move around the kitchen, as if in slow motion, the way the angles of his back catch the soft moonlight, her eyes are drawn to the two matching dimples at the bottom of his spine. She watches him retrieve two mugs from the same dish rack, placing them on the counter next to the slowly heating concoction. He gives the pot another stir and then turns and leans on the counter, watching her. 

“The microwave would heat the milk faster, you know.” Her eyes linger on his collarbones, over the soft planes of his chest.

“Yeah,” he says lazily, his voice still thick with sleep, “but then I wouldn’t have time to do this.” 

Putting her bowl in the sink for her, he pries her legs loose from their crossed position. Carefully he lifts her hand, holding it in his grasp, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.  With eyes that want to take away every single sleepless night she ever has, he brings her warm fingers up to his cheek, splaying them open.  He feels her hand curl over his jaw, and he leans into her touch, curling his own hand over hers, keeping it there. His mouth finds her palm, pressing gently before letting his hands roam up her legs around her back. Pressing slow open-mouthed kisses along her neck, she fits inside his arms like their only purpose is to hold her together. To be brave for her.  When she cannot be.

The slope of his neck is the perfect spot for her mouth and she feels his pulse thumping in time with her heartbeat. She doesn’t know if it’s the warm drink in her stomach or the way she fits against the solid wall of his body, his arms snug around her hips, protective, possessive, but it’s impossible not to feel safe inside his arms. A yawn erupts, unexpected from her mouth and everything around her begins to melt away. He is nothing if not a hit of serotonin and he seems to know exactly what she needs. Their mugs are empty by the time he convinces her to come back to bed. He pulls her off the counter, holds her close and starts walking out of the kitchen. 

She is not one to be coddled like this, and at first, she protests but it’s weak even for her, and he scoffs softly, “Oh shut up,” using his mouth to abruptly silence any further complaints, leading her up the stairs, side by side, not letting go of her.

“Just don’t crack my head on the door frame.” 

“Oh?” He stops at the doorway of the bedroom and grins in the semi-darkness. “You didn’t seem to be complaining when I had you pinned against it yesterday.”

Once she’s settled in the middle of the bed, he slides in behind her, tucking his knees along the backs of her thighs, snaking an arm around her waist, eliciting another jaw-splitting yawn. Finally, he feels her weight sink against him, her body going limp, making sure she’s sound asleep before allowing himself to be pulled under too. 

~~

tagging: @opheliaelysia​ @pedropascalito​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ @oldstuffnewstuff​ 

I would love to know what you think of this? and if you’d like to be tagged in any future writing :)

[gukyi]

on the hunt for love | kth

summary: on your anniversary date, kim taehyung has two missions at hand: pet as many dogs as he can at your local dog cafe, and, if he plays his cards right, adopt one.

{established relationship!au}

pairing: kim taehyung x reader genre: fluff word count: 1k warnings: none! a/n: thank you thank you thank you to @aurawatercolor​ for commissioning me for this drabble and for contributing to blm. also, yeontan + taehyung forever!!!

Why Kim Taehyung works in museum curation rather than animal rescue and adoption is far beyond you. 

From every dog in the park to every cat at the pet store, and every rodent, bird, amphibian, and reptile in between, Kim Taehyung loves them all. If he could do whatever he wanted with his life and not have to worry about a job, or paying bills, or other adult responsibilities, he would buy himself a ranch and live on it with hundreds of animals, rescuing stray puppies and kittens and memorizing everybody’s names. 

Unfortunately for him, Kim Taehyung actually does have to worry about a job, and paying bills, and other adult responsibilities, which means that his time with animals is fairly limited and, for the most part, at a distance. Which is why he will take every opportunity he gets to spend even a couple hours with some dogs and cats, showering them in love and affection at every turn. 

Now, you can’t say you’re too particular when it comes to dates and, more specifically, anniversary dates. You’re pretty easy to please, very go-with-the-flow, happy with whatever comes your way, from the classic dinner and a movie, to a night in with takeout, or anything in between. But trust Taehyung to select the one thing that has the ability to usurp you when it comes to his undivided attention: a dog cafe. 

Granted, you aren’t terribly broken up about it. Sure, the coffee could do with a bit of a lower price, and you end up going through an entire lint roller after going to one of these places, but seeing the sublimely happy look on Taehyung’s face, watching as his eyes light up when he sees the puppies scurrying around, chewing on toys and play-wrestling with each other—well, that’s more than enough. 

Other than his bedroom, this is probably Taehyung’s favorite place in the entire world. He would give equal amounts of his entire self to spend the rest of his life both cozied up in his room and in this dog cafe, which sources its pups from local rescue shelters, all of which are up for adoption. 

You have a feeling that Taehyung may have an ulterior motive for bringing you here. 

“Think about it,” Taehyung says as you’re seated by the window, waving around toys in your hands as the puppies jump to catch them with their fat little paws, chubby and covered in fur. “My lease doesn’t have any restrictions on pets. Dogs just can’t be over a hundred pounds. None of these dogs are over a hundred pounds.”

“Yeah, because they’re all puppies,” you say, scratching the stomach of what looks to be a terrier mix on your lap.

“So?” Taehyung says, either not paying attention or purposely missing your point. “Aw, wouldn’t it be so cute? To have a little dog running around. I’ve always wanted a pet.”

“A goldfish isn’t good enough?” You tease, knowing that that’s not what Taehyung meant. 

He scowls at you. “A pet that will sit in my lap and lick my face,” he clarifies. You don’t mean to keep rebuking his reasonings, you just want to make sure he’s sure about this. It took the two of you three months of dancing around each other before you finally asked if you were actually dating or not. Neither of you are very sure about anything. 

“Then you better pick a cute one,” you tell him as he smiles down at the puppy in his arms, fondness written all over his face. 

“Oh, they’re all so cute,” Taehyung says with a sigh, looking around the room. He isn’t wrong. Puppies have this inexplicable and permanent quality of being adorable all of the time. It’s something that they and Taehyung both share. “I wish I could adopt every single one of them.”

“You know what, when you’re a famous museum president and I’m an award-winning professor and we both live in a giant mansion in the Hills, we can have as many dogs as you want,” you promise him, imagining this wonderful dream life where he is by your side every step of the way. “Which one do you think you want to adopt?”

Another dog scratches at your leg, a fluffy little thing, black and caramel brown, and you easily pick it up with one hand and place it on your lap. Instantly, the puppy begins to yap at you excitedly, jumping around until you pick it up and press it against your chest. It begins to calm down, pawing at your upper torso until you lift it high enough for it to settle happily on your shoulder. It’s so small that it fits perfectly, resting itself on a human perch. 

Taehyung is enthralled. He, shockingly enough, seems to disregard all of the other puppies in the room—not that they mind, exactly, as there are plenty of other patrons and even more dogs to keep them entertained—as he turns to face you, reaching out a delicate hand to stroke its back. 

“Look at its eyebrows,” Taehyung tells you.

You’re just about to tell him that dogs don’t have eyebrows when you notice two brown lines right above his eyes, like angry little eyebrow slants, and they make the dog even cuter than it already was. 

“It’s right at home on my shoulder,” you comment, enchanted. Taehyung may be the more canine-inclined one out of the two of you, but you cannot resist this puppy’s charm. To your brain, it is the striking image of Taehyung. It reminds you of him in every way, down to the way the two of them tilt their heads in curiosity. “I like this one.”

“I’m in love,” Taehyung says, heart on lock. It’s obvious that none of the other puppies can compete. “I would lay my life down for this puppy.”

“And not me?” You ask, offended. 

“No,” Taehyung says with a smug little grin, leaning in for what he is hoping is a kiss, “because I’d never want to leave you.”

It’s admittedly greasy, especially for him, but Taehyung is beautiful and your boyfriend and right there, so you let him press into you to place a kiss on your lips. But not a second later he’s sputtering back, finger wiping at his lips as the puppy on your shoulder yaps. Clearly you were not the only one expecting a kiss. 

“Fighting for my attention, are we?” Taehyung says cheekily, reaching out to pluck the puppy off of your shoulder and cradle it in his hands. 

“Always,” you muse in response, letting him kiss you for real after being tricked into a puppy lick. “You want to adopt a dog, Taehyung?” It’s not a question. You both know he does. 

And you know better than anyone that Taehyung will be the best dog dad the world has ever seen. You have no doubts when it comes to him, no worries or fears. A man like him, filled with love and affection, care and devotion. He loves everything wholly, completely, fills himself up with it so he can fill everyone else up with it as well. 

Your biggest problem now is going to be demanding he kiss you instead of the dog. 

Twenty minutes later, Taehyung has a brand new dog and a little crate to carry him in, and is already deciding to extend your anniversary date by making a pit stop at the local pet store to buy enough food to last until next year and enough toys to last this dog’s lifetime. 

But you aren’t complaining. Not when you get to spend more time with your boyfriend, with the man who lights up every aspect of your life, showers golden rays on everything he touches. He says he’s blessed to have met you, to get to love you, but you know the truth. You’re the lucky one. 

You hope that your luck will never change.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget that i’m still taking commissions!

[darlingpetao3]

Give Into the Symptoms (EoWells x Reader)

Rating: M (Smut)

Summary: When an unknown substance is accidentally released into the medbay, you find yourself isolated along with Doctor Wells, and both of you start to develop some very interesting symptoms...

A/N: Happy Friday! Here’s some super hot smut to spice up your day! Word count - 3,223

Tag List: @blogforhoes​

Team Flash likes to joke that being accident-prone is your superpower. Little did they know, one accident in particular would catapult you into a world of suspicion and realization…

It’s one of those days - a day in between just having caught the latest meta terrorizing the city and having another one pop up. You have forgotten your travel mug, and are searching the Labs for it. Oh, right!

You remember setting it down while visiting Caitlin in the medbay, then got distracted. There it is. You jog into the room, but remember that’s probably not a good idea. What if you trip on absolutely nothing and fall flat on your face? Not if you can help it.

But that doesn’t seem to help you.

When you reach for your mug on the desk, it’s like everything happens in slow motion (later, you find yourself wondering if this is how it feels for Barry) - your arm knocks over a series of test tubes holding different coloured liquids. Some of the substance splashes onto your skin, whereas the rest of the matter falls to the ground. It gives off a pungent aroma. You can practically see the fumes rising from the desk and the floor up into the air. In the shock of the accident, you let out a yell, and find that whatever the hell chemicals just touched your skin feels like it’s burning.

“Miss (Y/L/N)!” comes the familiar voice of your superior (and friend? You’re fairly certain you’re friends… You hope you’re friends...) Doctor Harrison Wells. The scientist zooms in on his motorized chair at the fastest speed it will carry him. “What’s happened?”

His voice is a mixture of surprise, concern and impending protocol.

“Ow, ow, I knocked over chemicals on the desk, ah!” you try to explain while shaking your affected limb. “Some on my arm.”

You shout in wild staccatos while Doctor Wells helps usher you to the emergency wash station to ease the moderately uncomfortable sensation. Even after the cold water sprays on your skin, it’s Harrison’s next few words that shock you even more than the water temperature or the burn.

“You need to remove your shirt. Quickly.”

“I- what?”

Doctor Wells wheels over to one of the cabinets in the room and plucks one of the many overly stocked S.T.A.R. Labs sweaters to toss it at you.

“There will still be remnants of the concoction on your shirt. It will continue to soak through the fabric and reach the rest of your body. It cannot be touching you. Hurry. Unless you want to try to bathe in that sink.”

You have your shirt off faster than you could say “the Flash.”

You remove your shirt so fast, in fact, that Doctor Wells hasn’t even had time yet to turn away or avert his eyes. Instead, he witnesses the entire thing.

“Oh, well…” he utters, possibly embarrassed, turning around too late. His eyes one hundred percent saw you in your bra. And now you will let that tiny factoid harass you for the rest of your life. You shrug on the classic navy sweater with the organization’s logo stretched across your chest. It is not your size, but it will have to do.

“Alright, I’m decent,” you say to the back of his dark-haired head. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat after he faces you again, but you can’t decipher its meaning. But that is the case with many things when it comes to this man.

“We have to self-isolate ourselves.” Harrison’s voice is calm but firmly urgent. “We’ve both been in contact with each other and the substance. Quick, initiate lockdown.” You know just what to do and sprint to the door to the room. You smash the emergency glass and press the Big Red Button. Instantly, metal barriers drop down to seal the doors and windows, locking you in with the secret object of your affections and an unknown substance.

Only time will tell what will happen to the two of you next.

***

Nothing.

Nothing has happened! God, you are so bored.

“How long are we supposed to be stuck in here?” you ask.

“So far, it’s uncertain. This is an unknown substance. But we must stay isolated so as not to pass along the contagion. We both came in contact with the substance particles, so we may eventually show symptoms.” Harrison hums.

“What?” you ask.

“This unforeseen circumstance may be worth taking notes. For posterity. Do you have a pen?”

Naturally, Harrison would find a way to take this unfortunate situation and turn it into a learning experience.

Always a scientist.

Maybe that’s why you admire him so much. Well, more than just admire…

At first, time passes incredibly slowly. You don’t know what to say in the awkward silence between you and Doctor Wells, so you try to keep yourself busy. This proves extremely difficult, however. All there is in this room are Caitlin’s medical journals, test tubes and various other tools, and a medical bed. Yes, there is a computer, but it was set up solely for data entry. No internet. Not even so much as Solitaire!

And the metal barriers seem to have blocked out all signals to your phone.

Even Doctor Wells’ chess set was out in the other room!

This is hopeless.

You hop up on the medical bed and recline a bit. You’re starting to feel a little strange, but you can’t figure out what exactly is wrong with you. Is this one of the symptoms, or have you finally gone mad from being cooped up? You start to mentally examine yourself.

Your skin tingles, but in a good way - not like how it burned earlier. Your entire body feels comfortably warm, and you find that when your eyes fall on Doctor Wells, that’s when you start to feel hotter.

The man sits in the corner of the room, studying one of the journals. Every so often, he’ll lick his finger and turn the page...

You swallow hard, now wholly distracted by his lips. They’re so pink it should be a crime. But the real outrage is the curves of his arms. At first, you were going to ask whether he wears such muscle-defining sweaters like this all the time, but really you know the answer to that is yes. Your eyes take you on a vicious cycle of drinking him in, admiring every piece of perfection that is Harrison Wells.

“Miss (Y/L/N)? Are you feeling alright?” he shakes you from your ogling.

“Huh, what? I think so…”

“Are you developing any symptoms?”

Is horniness one of them?

“I’m not sure.”

“Write down what you’re feeling, anyway,” he suggests. “It could be helpful.”

You do so, taking the pen and paper you’d found earlier and jot down what you’d been feeling. You’re noticing a bit of lightheadedness too, so you add that to the list. But you hear something mid-scrawl.

“Did you know that you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on?”’

You lift your head. Did he just…?

“I’m sorry, w-what?” you stutter. Doctor Wells removes his glasses in one motion, letting one of its arms touch his lips, which bend up into a smirk. He wheels over to you in the bed, the closer he gets, the hotter and unsteadier you become. Your vision seems altered - rosier than usual.

“I believe you heard me correctly,” he answers, “and I mean it. You make me want to…”

“Want to what?” If you don’t settle yourself down now, you’re going to jump the man.

“It isn’t proper what I want to say.”

Oh, now he’s holding back?

Fuck it. You need to know. You slide your legs off the bed and, without much further thought, kneel between his widespread legs on his chair. Your hands gripping the armrests instead of literally anywhere on the man himself like you would prefer. Leaning in close, so much so that you share the same dangerous breath.

“I need you to tell me,” you beg.

Doctor Wells just blinks at you, then frowns.

Wait. Something’s not right here.

You pull back and examine the situation, and then the scariest words come from his mouth:

“Miss (Y/L/N)? What are you doing?”

You try your damndest not to scream. Did you just hallucinate all that? Oh God, I imagined him coming on to me, didn’t I??

Jumping back far away from him, you turn around to hold your head in your hands. Is this all one big fever dream? Is this a symptom? What’s real? What’s not? You sure as hell don’t know anymore. All you do know is that you’re hot and bothered and almost mauled your boss because of it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” you say. “I’m just…” You’re completely frazzled. “I’m just going to write it down.”

New symptom: horny hallucinations

You try to let the next half an hour pass without feeling this strange woozy sensation. In doing so, you close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing while lying down. But it’s still too hot. You’re still too hot. You remove the sweater, entirely forgetting that you aren’t alone in this room. Doctor Wells has been quiet for far too long. And it would appear he’s been watching you. His elbow rests on his chair, hand covering his mouth as his eyes rake over your body. You look down to his lap, an accident.

Good Lord, he’s got…

The curve of him is all too apparent in his pants. The way he’s sitting only draws attention to it. It’s like you have instantaneous tunnel vision. His growing self is all you see and all you care about. You go to him, no longer wondering or caring if this is all an illusion, it’s not even a thought in your brain. All that remains is this unrestrainable animal lust for his body. Consequences be damned. You kneel in front of him.

“(Y/N)...” he exhales. He doesn’t sound stunned or taken aback by your extreme forwardness. Instead, it sounds like a warning.

“Suddenly not so formal, hm?” you say. “Good, because we’re about to get better acquainted anyway, Harrison.” Doctor Wells doesn’t make any motion for you to stop your advancements, just stares lustful daggers at you while you practically claw at the man’s buckle and zipper. You reach into his pants to wrap your hand around the single thing in this room that you believe can heal you. His sheer hardness is unveiled and in your firm grasp. Doctor Wells’ groan shifts into a growl. Well, hello. His brow furrows but in the sexiest goddamn way.

Heavens above, you’re desperate to taste this man, eat him, swallow him, consume him.

New symptom: salivation

Your tongue darts out for a slow lick. But the slowness doesn’t last because the need is greater than anything you’ve felt. Soon, you surround your lips around his cock and take him further in your mouth. Further, letting the underside of him brush against your flattened tongue. On your way back down, you swirl around him, which makes your colleague, your employer reach a hand into your hair. He grips a handful at the base of your head. Harder. Pull it harder.

Doctor Wells does just that, and perhaps you did say out loud that after all? You aren’t sure of anything anymore other than you feel on fire, and you need more. Your blood hurtles through your veins. A ceaseless throb makes itself known between your legs. More so than before, that is.

Going in for the kill, you return your mouth to him, meanwhile reaching your own hand past the waistband of your jeans to touch yourself. You need to get off just as much as you want him to. You feel like you’ll keel over if you don’t deal with yourself too.

Harrison’s bobbing head stops to stare down at you.

“Are you-? Fuck, (Y/N), are you-?”

You hum around him in affirmation, and just after you do, the scientist pushes you off of him. In any other situation, you might be mortified that a man told you to stop blowing him, but this is no ordinary situation. Your vision blurs for a second in a surge of lust. You’re like an animal that’s just been denied their meal. There’s so much more to eat.

You stand up, chest heaving, and positively do not believe what you witness next.

Doctor Wells’ hands clutch the chair’s armrests again, but then you watch as he moves his foot. He takes a step onto the floor, then stands to a full six feet. It’s a fucking miracle- no. It truly is a hallucination. A dream. It’s a fantasy.

There’s a flash of danger in his eyes, while yours widen, big and round as his prey. The tables have turned. He’s stalking you, walking you back until you hit the metal barrier where the door once was. Captured.

This hallucination is fucking wild and I am here for it.

Might as well give in to the symptoms, right?

Harrison leans down by your ear and inhales your scent. Sweat, desire, desperation.

“I can’t resist you,” he says as if it’s difficult to even speak through the palpable sexual tension.

“I’d always imagined you saying that,” you confess, because why not? This isn’t real anyway. “I can’t resist you either.”

“I’m aware,” he chuckles into your neck, where his mouth quickly attaches. You swallow twice. “You seemed rather hungry back there.” Your pulse is starting to skyrocket again.

“Still am.” Your fingers find the hem of his soft black sweater and begin to lift it up over him. Might as well indulge in this glorious sex dream. Harrison helps you of course. He seems to want this as much as you. You’re both a series of grabbing hands, flexing muscles, and greedy touches as each and every article of clothing finds its rightful place on the floor.

Fucking hell, sex-fantasy Doctor Wells looks like an actual god. Part of your brain wonders how much of his usually-covered appearance is accurate. The rest of your brain (and another part in particular) thinks, Get in me.

The look on his face says it all. He’s going to ravage you.

Harrison, faster than you could ever imagine, spins you so that your exposed breasts press against the metal barrier. Your palms rest flat against the cool metal as well, bracing yourself for whatever the man has planned. Whatever it is, you want it. Now.

His hands run down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake despite your entire body feeling hot as all hell. He steps closer, so close that his whole body presses against the back of yours. His still hard cock digs into you from behind. You reach around and take hold of it and start to pump. The scientist rumbles into your neck, where he licks and nips and sucks and fuck- bites. You squeal. By the way his body twitches, you think he rather enjoyed hearing you like that.

If you weren’t already a mess, Harrison’s fingers take over the job you tried to accomplish on yourself earlier. His fingers are greeted by your already sopping desire.

“You really were serious, weren’t you?” he says at the slippery feel of you. “Do I always arouse you like this?”

“God, you don’t even know.” It comes out a bit strangled. “All the time.”

“Are you ready for me?”

“Do you seriously need to ask?”

He doesn’t answer you, but instead takes his length to press it against you from behind. Finallyfinallyfinally. A little more. Just a bit more. More. Further in. With each inch, you whine for all of him. Doctor Wells growls into your shoulder once he’s reached as far as he’s able to sheath himself inside you.

It’s only when he starts a steady pace of thrusts that you almost believe this is all real. The feeling in your gut tells you it’s real, but the rest of you insists it’s a very very heated symptom. His mouth is still attacking your neck, any bit of skin he can get to. The current mark he’s leaving is starting to hurt but in the best way.

“Fuck,” you swear, knowing your climax is just on the horizon. You’re nearly there. “Faster. Faster,” you ask of him with what little ability you have to form words. Doctor Wells chuckles, almost evilly, into your ear.

“That I can do,” he replies. His hips snap repeatedly, a deliciously rapid speed. Skin against skin slaps to quick beat. His fingers circle at the same pace. And with a surprise, sharp smack to your ass, this wicked combination is your undoing.

You come apart like a crumbling mess, crying out as you do as the man repeatedly slams into you, now seemingly for his own gain. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, an orgasm this powerful, is it even possible to have one this...

***

You blink your eyes open.

You’re still in the medbay, but the barriers on the door and windows have been lifted. And you’re definitely still clothed in your S.T.A.R. Labs sweater and jeans. So it was all a crazy dream?

Regardless, you’re never going to be able to look Doctor Wells in the eye ever again.

Speaking of the man…

He rolls in on his chair with a pleasant and calm smile.

“Feeling alright, Miss (Y/L/N)?” he asks, concerned. “You took quite a spill earlier.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

You don’t remember falling. You remember a whole lot of an X-rated fantasy, though.

“I didn’t, um…” you aren’t sure how to phrase this. “I didn’t do anything embarrassing or potentially fireable, did I?”

Doctor Wells raises an eyebrow in one of his classic moves. “I don’t believe so. Other than the falling, of course. But you needn’t feel embarrassed about that. It could have happened to anyone.”

You nod slowly, relieved that you didn’t blow your boss under the influence and proceed to fuck against a wall. Although… no. No. You are relieved. Yes.

“I see the barriers are up,” you note. “I take it that isolation is no longer required?”

“You would be correct,” Harrison confirms. “Doctor Snow rushed in, with the appropriate hazmat gear and did some tests. You were out long enough for the results to come back. We’re in the clear.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

“Quite.” Harrison smiles at you, but there’s something different this time than previously. You aren’t sure what it is. “I will leave you now. Feel free to take a few days off. I know that was probably a lot to take in.”

“Right. Yes, right, thank you, I will.”

“Take care, (Y/N).” Harrison wheels away out of the room and out to the corridor. You take a breath and step out of the bed, feeling a bit uncomfortable as you walk. And then, in the reflection of one of the mirrors on Caitlin's work desk, you see it.

A deep-purple mark on your neck.

When you press your fingers to it, it hurts a bit. It’s fresh. But how can that be…?

Can that-?

Did he really-?

But then that means…

Oh shit.

~

Anonymous Request: Hey dear🤗 I want to request a EoWells story. Reader gets exposed to a VERY powerful aphrodisiac at star labs and the reader asks harrison to help her😏. And he gets exposed to it too. And both go totally crazy and do shameless dirty stuff to each other and together (maybe they always had feelings for each other). And Harrison reveals his secret( that's he's not paralyzed) to get more and more from her. Lots of smut!🙈 Plus add whatever you like. can you plz?🙏🏻

[dapandapod]

A soft plucking of heartstrings

So here I am, 2.30 in the morning, just finished a promptchallange from the fantastic @sleepingreader!  It may have gotten a little longer and a little softer than I intended, but please enjoy!  Here it is on Ao3!

Also, here is my challangers writings and I can’t tell you enough how amazing i find it! 

Soft plucking of strings. Spots of candlelight give the tavern a soft and homey feel. The patrons sit with rapt attention listening to the bard on stage with the cornflower blue eyes.

His eyes are closed, his voice dancing with the notes from the lute, weaving a tale of longing, heartache and lust. Every eye is fixed on him where he sits on the stage, no one can miss the raw emotion making itself known through music. Jaskier is lost. Lost deeply in his memories, in his feelings, in the words falling from his tongue and the soft vibration of the instrument in his arms. He loves this song, but it leaves a bittersweet taste. Especially when Geralt is around, as he is tonight, knowing what the price was. Everything is alright now, but the memory is still there. The pain, that hollow space carved out still makes itself known every now and then. The last tones ring out and Jaskier takes a breath before he opens his eyes and lets them roam over his audience. As soon as his eyes are on them they break into applause, almost as if they were waiting for him to return. He makes a sweeping bow and leaves the stage to sit down with his witcher. His witcher, yes. Geralt came to him after the disaster of a dragonhunt. It took them awhile to find their way with each other again and if Jaskier is perfectly honest he prefers what they have now. It’s fragile and honest and something entirely new for his whitehaired friend. Their friendship has blossomed into actual friendship now, not the push and pull of wills they had before. Now they see each other, and listen like they didn’t do before.

As soon as Jaskier sits down he gets showered in coins and ale. The patrons share their coins and their stories with him, what his song reminds them of, their own heartache, longing and lust. Geralt says nothing, just sips the ale pushed into his hand. The night is young and he is asked to sing another set, so he does. And when they finally retire for the night Jaskier finds his coin purse heavier than it’s been for a long, long time. He counts them out in their shared room, Geralt claiming the bed closer to the door and undresses. It’s entirely unfair of him to expect Jaskier not to sneak a peek as he takes off his shirt. Jaskier absolutely sneaks a peek, because expecting anything else of him would be plain stupid. And of course Geralt notices him staring. “What?” He asks over his shoulder and yup, time to kickstart the brain. “I have decided we stay another night.” Jaskier says, gathering the coins and putting them in the leather purse. “Why would we do that?” Geralt asks as he unlaces his trousers and yes, that's just unfair all over again to expect Jaskier to be able to hold a conversation with this view in front of him. Geralt pulls them down and Jaskier has to look away because Jaskier is many things but he is not cruel to himself. There is only so much he can take. Jaskier is also very good at lying to himself so he watches from the reflection of the small window instead. “Because today I have earned us more than we have gotten in months and it is time I give myself a- uh. Give us a treat. In the morn we shall go shopping!” Geralt snorts and lays down on the mattress. Jaskier swiftly undresses too, but takes a long time to fall asleep. He is mapping out all the stands he wants to visit and the sweets he wants to taste. And wants Geralt to taste! And with that image floating through his mind his eyes close and he drifts off.

When morning comes, Jaskier is almost bouncing with enthusiasm. It’s been a while since he dared spend coin as he will today and still expect to have some left for later. Geralt is slow out the door so he impatiently grabs him by the wrist and drags him along. If he had looked back at the witcher he would see a small smile curve and his finger flex, but he does not look and so it remains a secret. The first stall they visit has, surprise, knives. Geralt stops and admires the handiwork as Jaskier studies the rings next to them. The silver work is expertly done, but not what they had in mind. So Jaskier draws him to the next stand. And the next. They find a woman selling plums, the first of the season. She recognizes him from the tavern, and when they buy a handful of her plums she puts in two apples for them as well. Jaskier gives her the brightest smile and a squeeze of her hand. They find a stall with hair jewelry. Small beads to put into braids, hairclasps, ribbons and leatherstrips worked with fine details. Jaskier sends Geralt to find… something, anything that makes him go away as Jaskier buys two small beads of carved bone with intricate patterns and one of those worked leather straps. He adds a silver comb adorned with swallows for Ciri and folds it all into a piece of cloth. When Geralt returns he already stands two stalls over, a thick man with a thin mustache selling strings and flutes and for some reason, hats made of straw. They didn’t mean to, but a young girl on the street next to a barber shop grabs ahold of them as they pass. “Good sirs, are you not weary from your travels? If you follow me inside my father can offer the best trim of beard and hair this side of the river!” Geralt gives Jaskier a one-over and firmly nods. The bard needs some taking care of, he seems to decide, and they both walk out of there an hour later with hair newly washed and oiled up. Jaskier will never say it out loud, but he longs for the stubble to return to his witcher's face. The girl sees them outside and gives them a satisfied smirk. “Did I not say so, good sirs, that he is the best?” They nod their agreement and hand her one of the apples they were given. When they make it back out to the market Geralt stops by a big stand with tacks and blankets and brushes and many other things Jaskier is not very familiar with, but feels like they are meant for horses. Geralt picks out new reins from soft leather and grease to keep them smooth. He finds a big brush with long strands that looks the perfect amount of firm and soft, if Jaskier is any judge at all. And new saddlebags and, of course, a big bag of treats. Geralt opens his own money pouch to pay but Jaskier smacks his hands away and enjoys the feeling of giving. He likes that feeling, and all the gods know Geralt has seen too little of that in his life. “Jaskier, this is going to sound odd.” Geralt says after a good 30 minutes of ogling at a blacksmith stall. “But can I have the leather pouch for a moment, and can you go look at the bookstore?” Jaskier can only give a crooked smile and oblige, small butterflies making pirouettes in his stomach. And after a while Geralt comes to him, carrying a long wooden casing. Jaskier squints at him suspiciously, but Geralt simply can’t play fair and the smile he shoots him makes Jaskier lose his nerve and look away. It is a frightening thing, looking at someone you treasure so much without a hope of ever being treasured the same way back. To see them smile towards you as if they actually might. Jaskier buys a new notebook, Geralt a pair of new leather gloves. They buy a few jars of cherries and other sweets, and by then the sun is hanging low on the sky. The money pouch is very much lighter but not empty, just as he planned. Geralt walks them out on the fields, past farmers and cows and a cat on a fence, blinking at them with big eyes. Jasker simply cannot walk past the cat, her big eyes and pink nose and tail that is curling, even though cats' tails normally don’t curl. He bends down to pat her, and Geralt stays back. “Oh no, you big oaf, you come here right now and pet this cat.” Jaskier demands of him, but Geralt stays. “Cats don’t like me.” He mutters, and looks away when the cat leans against Jaskier’s legs, purring loudly. The bard reaches for his friend, grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer. “This one doesn’t mind, do you my girl?” Jaskier croons at the cat, and she blinks up at him and then at Geralt. She doesn’t hiss, she doesn’t bite, she just purrs and waits. “I uh.. I never touched a cat before.” Geralt admits, at loss at what to do. So Jaskier drags him over and places his hand over his. Together they stroke the cat on the back. Geralt's skin is rough and warm under Jaskiers fingers, and the uncertainty radiates from his friend in waves. Jaskier is only a man, and he is a man with a day filled with treats, so he allows himself another one. With his thumb he strokes Geralt's hand before he releases it and sits back a little. He looks at the cat and then back to this big man, this witcher, this old grumpy lump of muscles he calls his friend and his… everything. He studies the way Geralt's mouth is slightly open in awe, and how the cat blinks at him and how he instinctively blinks back. How his finger lingers on the soft fur, how carefully he scratches behind her ear and under her chin. And then the cat wanders off, leaving them there to look after her. They look at her go, and then they keep walking to where Geralt was leading them.

As it turns out, Geralt was aiming for the riverside. They sit down a bit away from the water's edge by a big tree. The grass is tall and tickles his ankles where his trousers ride up. They sit close together and their shoulders bump every now and then. They listen to the water and to the birds as the day slowly settles into night around them. And then Geralt picks up the wooden casing and puts it in Jaskier’s lap. “I know it’s your money but I saw you looking at it and…” Geralt opens the casing and inside lies a beautiful rapier, inlaid with dandelions along the hilt and the handguard. Jaskiers mouth opens and closes and he reaches out a hand to softly touch the cool metal. “Geralt.” He breathes. “Geralt.” He looks up, looks down, his eyes stinging a little. “You shouldn’t have” He says when words finally return to him. He did admire it when they stood there, and he did miss the weight of a rapier in his hand at times while on the path. “In a way, I didn’t. You did. And I wanted you to have it and you have spent so much on me today so it was time you spent some on yourself.” Geralt says to him, and Jaskier can’t remember the last time his friend used so many words and for the simple reason to… to what, really? He looks up at Geralt, mouth working to find the right words but he can’t. “Thank you.” The smile Geralt gives him could buy the moon. It's soft and warm and only for him. And Geralt picks up one of the jars of sweets and opens it. He picks up a small cherry and holds it to Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier looks at it, and then into Geralt's eyes. He is watching intently and this doesn’t feel like something friends do anymore. But he opens his mouth and takes the cherry, Geralt's fingers brushing against his lips. A small tingling sensation rushes through him, and down his spine and out to his toes. They are still looking at each other, eyes locked, all smiles gone. And as the sun slowly sets, Jaskier leans forward, leans into Geralt's space. Their noses touch when the last rays of sunshine filter through the treetops. Their breaths mingle, eyes fluttering shut and then they share a soft kiss. Barely a brushing of lips. Jaskier leans over the wooden box, pusing it down on the grass to get onto his knees. Geralt's hand curve around his neck and the tingling explodes to fireworks under his skin. They press their lips together again, a taste of sweet cherries and sunshine and birdsong. They kiss again and again. Jaskier will treat himself more often in the future, he thinks as Geralt's arms snake around him to hold him close. Kisses that taste like cherry and pearls to braid into witcher's hair and apples and plums and sunshine. And when the morning comes he makes sure to give Roach a treat too. And when they make their way out on the path again, that pain, that hollow inside him is filled with feelings and hopes he never allowed himself before. As a treat.

[inkyhorror]

Some day I will write something about my main boy Beelzebub. Today is apparently not that day. Have some Lucifer fluff instead. Devs please give this poor man a break. Posted here and on AO3.

Bedtime

Warnings: None

Pairings: Lucifer x GN!Reader

You swore you had not been gone long. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. And yet upon returning to Lucifers study you find him sitting at his desk, face flat against the desktop and pen in hand dripping ink onto its wooden surface. He is dead asleep. You glance at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room. It is too far for you to read accurately but it looks to be almost one in the morning. You sigh with relief. Finally, it is about time the poor man got some rest. As quietly as you can you make your way to the small coffee table at the center of the room and set down the tray of food you had prepared. Lucifer had skipped dinner in order to finish some paperwork for Diavolo. You thought it would be nice for him to take a break and share a snack with you, but it appears that all those late nights have finally caught up to him.

You gather the throw blanket from the back of the loveseat and approach Lucifer cautiously, weary that any sudden noise or movement will wake him. He does not react. The poor man must be incredibly tired. You gently pluck the pen from his hand and set it into its stand. You hesitate when you go to cover Lucifer with the blanket, fearful that it would be enough to disturb his much needed sleep, but your fear that he would get sick from the chill was even greater. He barely reacts as you wrap the blanket around him, sighing and mumbling something incomprehensible as he settles into a more comfortable position. Having successfully completed your task you pause to admire him. It is rare to see Lucifer with such a calm look on his face. He looks so much younger when he is not scowling or scolding his brothers. You have to work hard to resist the urge to stroke his hair, instead busying yourself by tidying the papers on his desk. Sorting through them an idea strikes. You glance at the clock, than at Lucifers sleeping face, then back at the papers. You smile. Quickly gathering as many documents as you can carry you whisk them away to the coffee table. You plop down onto the floor and settle into your makeshift work area.

Nearly an hour later you hear Lucifer stir. You watch as he sits up in his chair with a groan. As he does the blanket falls from his shoulders and pools in the chair behind him. He sits in complete stillness for a while, his mind still hazy with sleep. Slowly he seems to come back to life, looking first at the half written report sitting on his desk, then suddenly noticing the blanket crumpled up behind him. He picks it up and examines it. Recognizing where it is from he looks to the couch and catches sight of you sitting on the floor with a pile of papers before yo. He blinks. You take the opportunity to speak up.

"Good morning" You watch him narrow his eyes at you and glance at the clock. Noting the time he lets out another groan.

"Good morning. How long was I asleep?"

"Not long. Maybe an hour. I didn't wanna disturb you but now that you're awake," you stand up and stretch, "you should really get to bed. We both should actually, I have classes tomorrow." You watch as he shakes his head slowly.

"You should go to sleep. I have to finish these reports. I need to get them to Lord Diavolo by tomorrow afternoon." He picks up his pen, noting how it had mysteriously been placed back in its stand, and gets back to work. "Thank you. For the blanket and for keeping me company."

"I did a lot more than that." You pick up the stack of papers from the coffee table and trot over to his desk. You place them in front of Lucifer with a satisfying thunk. He eyes the papers, then you. "I didn't have time to get to everything but there are only a few more documents for you to go over." It takes his sleep addled brain a moment to process what you said but the moment he understands his eyes go wide. He picks up a couple of pages and starts skimming through them.

"You... You went through all of these reports?" He glances at you. You nod. He sets the papers back down, a soft smile teasing the corner of his lips. "Thank you. Now I can finish these quickly and get them to Lord Diavolo on time." You pout, disappointed in his reaction.

"You can finish them tomorrow. Right now you need to sleep." You touch his cheek, gently urging him to face you. He looks into your eyes. He looks so tired. You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone. "Those bags under your eyes are darker than mine, very unbecoming of Diavolos right hand man." A direct shot at his pride. Lucifer is not pleased. For a moment it looks like he will reply, but he simply sighs and turn away. Your heart drops. The thought that Lucifer will spend yet another late night without rest pains you. To your surprise he simply replaces the pen into its stand.

"Alright. You win." He moves to stand up and you take a few steps back to give him room. You cannot stop smiling as you watch him collect his coat and drape it over his shoulders. He contemplates the blanket bundled in his chair but decides to leave it where it is for now. As he walks past you he grabs your arm and pulls you along. "Come along. It's time we get you to bed." An odd thing for him to say but you brush it aside, still thrilled at having won such a victory against his workaholic tendencies.

The two of you walk arm in arm out of the office. He leads the way up the stairs and through the halls towards the sleeping quarters. You arrive at your bedroom first. You let go of Lucifers arm and take a step towards your door, only to be pulled back to his side. He does not let go.

"Um... Goodnight?" You look up at him confused. He mirrors your puzzled expression.

"Where do you think you are going?" He tightened his grip on your arm a little.

"Uh, to sleep?"

"Is that so? You think you can just insert yourself into my business and then leave? No. If you so desperately want to be sure I sleep then you will spend the night with me, is that understood." It was not a question. You cannot help but chuckle. Of course, how silly of you to think you would be off the hook so easily. You lean into him and hold his arm tighter.

"Yes, Sir." Hearing this his cheeks blossom with a pink tint. He smirks and starts once again leading you down the hall towards his room.

"Careful, darling. It is unwise to tease a demon."

"Really? Well, what are you going to do about it." Your tone was playful but Lucifer was never one to back down from a challenge no matter how small. He swiftly turned and swept you off your feet. You yelped at the sudden change and instinctively clung to his shirt. Embarrassment colored your cheeks at the indignant noise you just made. Lucifer chuckles and you can feel the sound rumble in his chest. He leans down and whispers in your ear.

"I suppose I will just have to teach you a lesson then, won't I?" He carries you bridal style the rest of the way to his room and you realize, with a devilish delight, that neither of you are going to get much rest that night.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 4

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1       Part 2      Part 3      Part 5

Next Morning

“We’re done here, OK?” The Joker shouts and you stomp away, furious at his behavior.

“Of course we are done, who the hell would put up with you?!! You’re horrible!!!”

“It finally clicked? Good!!!! Come on, speed it up and disappear!!!!” he points at the top of the hill where your car is parked.

You walk faster and J is increasingly frustrated with each step you take.

“So what you said was a lie?!” he yells before he can stop himself. “You assured me I’ll get used with being loved and here you are running from me! Hypocrite! Who’s the liar now, huh?”

You turn around, stunned.

How dare he twist your most intimate confessions in such a manner?

Y/N and The Joker glare at each other for a few moments before you voice all the bitterness and resentment building up in your heart loud enough for him to hear:

“I hate you!”

“Oh yeah?” he smirks. “Perfect! I’m used to it!”

You reprise your stroll, determined not to fall into his little traps anymore: this time is over and you have to put as much distance in between the two of you in the next few seconds before he attempts one of his tricks.

Not that you would fall for it again, but you never know…

One last glare while you try to open the car door and you see him flair his arms around loudly screaming at his phone; your fingers keep missing the lock and you kick the metal frame, irritated. Another glance and you spot a vehicle driving in the parking lane towards where The Joker is.

“J?...” you hesitantly call out to him yet The Joker probably has the earbuds in so he can’t hear you. “J!!!” you wave to get his attention without success. “Oh my God!” you rush back in his direction when you realize that SUV will hit him if it continues the present trajectory. “J!!! J!!!!”

The King is too absorbed in his business conversation thus he finally sees Y/N next to him as she violently pushes him out of harm’s way.

The strong impact wakes you up and you gasp for air, panicked. Your troubled mind has difficulty catching up with reality: a damaged brain can’t possibly render any type of comfort in this situation.

“Why are you crying?” J mumbles half asleep. “Did you have a bad dream?”

You seem confused and unresponsive to his questions, no other choice besides waking up to check on you.

“Calm down. You had a nightmare, ok?” he pulls the agitated Y/N in his arms. “ Hey, it’s me!”

You whimper at the pain paralyzing your body and don’t complain when he drags you on top of him; it actually feels soothing having someone close that understands what’s happening to you.

“Don’t hold me so tight, I can’t breathe,” J pecks your forehead where the blood clot pressing on your frontal lobe should be. “Better?” he asks a tearful girlfriend that ultimately begins to understand she wasn’t hit by a car minutes ago: it’s an ordeal she already went through months ago despite the aftermath of the accident still creating problems. “Such an early bird,” The Clown yawns since he won’t be able to doze off after your episode. “Only 7 am Princess…” the grumbled noises make you receptive to his complaint. “What about you give me some sugar in exchange for my services?” J suggests, quite puzzled when you roll off him and stumble out of the bedroom. “Where are you going?!”

You don’t answer because you’re concentrating just on what your neurons were able to translate in such a short notice: your man wants sugar. That’s why you’re in a big hurry to bring him a bag containing the sweet product, happily offering the item to his majesty The King of Gotham.

“For God’s sake, Pumpkin!” he accepts the gift nevertheless and places it on the covers. “That’s not what I meant,” he snatches Y/N in his arms and kisses her.

“No…sugar?...” you inquire out of genuine curiosity.

“I already got it,” he mischievously smirks at your bafflement, deciding to exercise your skills at once. “Say Princess: if I give you two kisses and then I give you two more, how many kisses do you get?”

“Ummm…” you debate on the question,”… not enough?”

“Due to your high standards, certainly,” The Joker huffs at the genuine reply. “Your solution is not wrong, but I’m looking for a number. Two plus two? Come on, you already know this one!”

“Mmmm… Four?...” you blur out and get groped as reward.

“Good girl!” J proudly applauds your abilities at crack of dawn. “Enough algebra for this morning,” he changes topic. “Your doctor appointment is at 10; you should take a shower soon,” and he rambles on until something is clear: the blank expression on your face hints at the outcome.

“You’re not listening, are you?” he suspiciously inquires.

“No.”

Why would you? Your brain’s self-defense mechanism prevailed at all the information flooding your deteriorated synapses and the result was blocking the outpour of sentences.

“That was a 10 minutes speech, Pumpkin!” The Joker grouchily admonishes the carefree Y/N.

“11,” you gesture at the clock on the wall.

“11 what?”

“11 minutes, not 10,” you nonchalantly conclude.

“Oh, so you have the audacity to time me while you don’t bother keeping up?!”

“Yes,” you giggle and hide your face under the pillow.

“That’s preposterous!”

“Hm?...” your nose emerges from under the cushion at the fascinating word you can’t recollect being in your current vocabulary.

“Preposterous, Princess!” J repeats.”… Stop laughing, would you?” he forcefully hijacks your pillow and you snicker because whatever-the-heck- it-means Preposterous Princess sounds like a hilarious nickname. “You wanna play games?” The Clown Prince of Crime sucks on his silver teeth willing to bring a final showdown to this magical day. “Fine, remember you made me with your abominable behavior!” he reaches for the nightstand in order to grab his favorite deck of cards. “Pick a card, any card; I won’t peak,” J watches the captivated woman pluck her choice from the mound. “Now put it in the stack,” he urges and you follow the instructions.

The Joker vigorously shuffles the cards then searches for yours.

“Is this it?” he triumphantly flicks the Joker card out of the bunch.

You nod a yes completely smitten he guessed again and your terrible half steals a kiss, triumphantly growling to himself:

“Who’s  laughing now, huh?”

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

After Your Doctor’s Appointment

J slides the screen on his phone and before he can utter anything you announce:

“Hi, this is Pre… Pro… Mmm… W-wait,” you stammer and gather your thoughts. “This is Preposterous Princess.”

The Joker sighs, definitely unamused at your 5th call in a row to tell him what’s going on at your routine consultation: he barely finished counting the ammo boxes he received with the shipment after you left and going over the heist scheme for next week it’s made impossible by Y/N.

“Pumpkin, I will remind you that’s not what I meant when I said that word. It was Preposterous COMA Princess!! Two separate entities, alright? We need to have a serious discussion after you get home.”

“I have to go, Pro… Ummm… Preposterous Princess is at…at the gates,” you say it very fast and hang up, excited to share news with him.

Yet The Clown is already acquainted with the whole development on your condition: the doctor’s office contacted him after your departure in order to brief him on Y/N health. The blood clot is a bit smaller since it keeps reabsorbing; the cognitive issues are there, tests ended up pretty much within normal range except one, thus it’s necessary for the two of you to have the dialogue he mentioned about.

Five more minutes and you barge in his office holding your yellow teddy bear and for the first time in his life The Joker can’t help regretting he’s about to burst someone’s bubble.

You approach the desk and set the ultrasound picture in front of him waiting for his reaction; your bright smile doesn’t go well with how gloomy he appears, literally an understatement anyway.

“Baby,” you tap the image just in case he didn’t realize what he’s staring at.

“I know, Pumpkin. We can’t keep it.”

“Hm…?” your smile gradually dies out as you comprehend he’s not on the same page with your wishes.

“We can’t keep the baby, it’s very dangerous given you merely survived a severe trauma. I was told it’s nearly impossible for you to have kids, that’s why I didn’t use… Anyway… I admit this one’s on me and the conclusion is… … we can’t keep the baby.”

“No baby?” you sniffle.

“Nope, it would be too harsh on your body. Plus, you won’t be able to use your anti-inflammatory medication if you’re pregnant.”

“I want baby!”

“Are you deaf??!” J slams the desk with his fist, annoyed. “You can’t have a child, it could kill you. Do you want to perish?!” he rises from his chair.

“No… I want you and baby.”

“No way in hell!” he snarls at your defiance.

“Why can’t I h-have baby? Because… because I’m stupid?” you cuddle with your plush toy, heartbroken at his approach.

“You’re not stupid, but I’m beginning to have doubts if what I told you doesn’t make sense!”

“I want baby!” you whisper on the verge of crying.

“I want baby,” The Joker mocks and watches your demeanor change: it doesn’t take a genius to detangle the mystery of how hurt you seem.

“Are…are you making fun of me?!”

The King is a jerk, no doubt about it. Despite his obvious flaws he never ridiculed someone’s disability; it’s simply beneath him. One could say this is a new low for him and he cannot erase it: Y/N’s cognitive impairment is clearly sacred ground he trespassed on a whim when he shouldn’t have.

“If…if you were like me… I wouldn’t laugh at… at you,” you wipe your tears, sobbing. “I’m not smart… anymore but I can m-make decisions, ok? I want baby!”

“I said no!” J yells, fired up you won’t listen to reason.

“I don… I don’t care!” you storm out of the office and trip on the carpet, almost falling to the ground. “It’s my baby!”

“It’s mine also unless you have another boyfriend!!”

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

You’ve been gone for the last hour; it’s a big place yet it shouldn’t be so difficult to find one’s partner.

The Joker dials your number and inquires as soon as you blow your nose on the other side of the line.

“Is this The Preposterous Princess?”

Dead air again; Y/N isn’t in the mood to speak to the man she can’t forgive for his transgression. In addition to him disregarding her intention of keeping the offspring, he made her feel dumb and that’s unforgivable.

“Y/N, where are you?!” J descends the steps leading to the basement, the last area he didn’t searched for his missing woman. He opens the boiler room, nothing. The pantry reveals zero clues either. The janitorial supplies closet is a different story; a box of sponges flies by his ear, immediately accompanied by a hateful tone:

“Go away!”

“You almost broke my nose,” he over exaggerates. “What are you doing here anyway? I’ve been looking all over the house!” “I’m hiding baby from you,” you clearly enunciate without stammering.

“Give me a break,” he drops on his knees in front of you. “I don’t want you to kick the bucket, why is that a bad thing?”

“I want baby!”

“Stubborn mule, you sound like a scratched CD that skips and skips and skips,” he barks at your persistence.

“Hm?” you crinkle your nose.

“Scratched CD!” he brings his face close to yours, pleased an opportunity for his plan has arisen. “First of all, if you want to keep the kid you have to promise not to die; second, I have no desire to become a father and third of all pick a card!” he shoves them in your fingers, perfectly aware that if you can’t process all the stuff he’s yapping at an amazing speed, you’ll get distracted and forget you’re mad at him; including one of your favorite games to the equation should seal the outcome.

“Hm?”

“Chop, chop, pick a card Pumpkin!”

You suspiciously pluck your item and then shove it back in the bundle.

The Joker steals a kiss while figuring out your card and you protest:

“I don’t… I don’t want your four kisses!”

“That’s too bad, I do come with four kisses, it’s a bundle deal!” J dismisses your logic connected to this morning’s algebra lesson. “Is this your card?” he shows you the Jester card and your mouth opens in amazement.

“A-ha!”

He fights with himself if he should disclose the secret: you don’t seem totally diverted and his plot could misfire due to inaction.

It’s not worth it.

“Do you know how I select the correct card?”

“No.”

“Each single time Pumpkin you invariably pick The Joker card.”

You sulk at the revelation since it’s true: you don’t recall sorting another card from the deck.

“I do… I always choose you…”

He doesn’t have a response and the chat is taking a strange turn, not precisely what he was aiming for.

“Yeah, well… good for you, Princess…” he stands and offers his hand to help you up.

Another smooch as bonus for his assistance whilst The Queen pouts at his impertinence: he has such a nerve!

Perhaps because he comes with four kisses.

It’s a bundle deal.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

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