#tags have more words than the actual post…what even is this

[jetii]

So excited you are taking requests! I love your work ❤! Could I request a S(ish)FW (language and innuendos ok, basically anything except actual smut) with Prompt #56? I was thing fem Jedi!reader and Crosshair having a snarky/flirting conversation post mission? Maybe leads up to implied sexy times, I'll leave that up to you.

This prompt was so Crosshair lol thank you for requesting it!

Grateful

Pairing: Crosshair x Jedi!Reader

Words: 3,132

Tags/Warnings: fluff, canon-typical violence, arguing as a form of flirting, a gratuitous amount of swearing, some making out but nothing too crazy

Prompt: 56. “I-I don’t know if I want to yell at you or fuck you.” / “Surprisingly that is not the first time I’ve heard that.”

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Eyes up, General.” Crosshair's smooth voice sounds in your ear. “You’ve got company.”

You quickly pocket your datapad, taking a look around the forest. You don't see anything, and you look up at the tree where you know Crosshair is perched, the tip of his rifle just barely poking through the leaves. 

"How many?" you ask, keeping your voice low.

"Just one, but it's a big one."

You take another look around the trees. "Where is it? I don't see anything."

"You will."

“That’s not helpful,” you grumble, turning back to your datapad, tapping on the screen to wake it back up. The screen lights up, and you go back to your notes, continuing your read through as you walk through the woods, your eyes flicking up every so often to glance around you.

Nothing.

Your eyes focus back on the datapad. You’re still searching for an elusive herb that is supposedly native to this planet, one which is a rare and valuable medicinal ingredient. It’s not uncommon for Jedi and other medics to search for them, though it was a pain to do so. Making matters more complicated was that this planet was so far removed from the Republic that you were risking getting into trouble just by being here. 

The natives had yet to be contacted by the Republic, so your presence was an unknown to them. You don't even know if they're civilized enough to communicate with you, and if they were, whether or not they'd be hostile to you.

What you do know is that you’d be punished if you were caught on this planet without permission, and the last thing you wanted was to be sent to the AgriCorps. Again.

Crosshair, of course, thinks you're stupid for even thinking about searching for this herb. He had made a point to tell you exactly what he thought as the two of you set off earlier this morning. You’d left Tech and Echo behind to repair the ship’s systems, while the two of you went out to explore, Hunter and Wrecker doing the same in the opposite direction.

Crosshair was less than pleased at the idea, but he'd agreed to go with you anyway, even if his reasoning was more to ensure you wouldn’t get yourself killed.

As much as you hated to admit it, the sniper was probably right. Your chances of actually finding this herb was slim. You'd spent several days searching for it already, and your only reward was sore feet and an empty vial. You didn't even know how the plant was supposed to look, other than the brief description provided to you by a Jedi Master who had been on this planet before and some poor quality photos.

Small, white, fragrant flowers. Leaves long and thin, shaped like a star, growing in groups of five.

You were sure there was plenty of vegetation that matched the description on this planet. Hell, it was a forest, and it seemed like everything was green. The only problem was finding the right one.

You had no idea how long you had until the flower stopped blooming, and the plant lost its medicinal value. If you didn't find it soon, you'd have to leave, and then you'd be forced to return home empty handed, without the rare herb and with no explanation as to why you'd returned without it.

And worse, Crosshair would be proven right.

The thought of that alone was enough to make you want to find the damn thing.

You walk a few steps farther, pausing at a small clearing in the forest. You glance at your datapad again, checking your notes, then scan the ground for any sign of the flower.

"It's not there."

You look up. You don't see Crosshair anywhere.

"Where are you?" you ask.

"Behind you."

You turn and look, and you still can't see him. "Well, if you're going to criticize my choices, the least you could do is get down here and help."

"I am helping. By keeping you alive."

You scowl. "Where the hell are you?"

"You should really watch your language, General."

You roll your eyes. "Come down here and help me," you say.

"Help you with what?"

You jump and turn, letting out a surprised yelp when you see Crosshair standing next to you, the butt of his rifle resting on the ground, one hand resting on it, the other on his hip. His helmet is still on, and you're unable to read his expression. You hadn't heard him approach, and it had startled you, enough so that your hand had gone to the lightsaber at your waist.

"What is wrong with you?" you demand.

He tilts his head. "I didn't realize you were so jumpy.”

"Yeah, well, if you weren't always hiding in trees and making creepy comments, I wouldn't be," you grumble, releasing your hold on your saber one finger at a time.

"If I wasn't always watching your back, you'd be dead," he retorts.

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter. "You're the only reason we're not all dead."

"You're welcome."

You let out a sigh and roll your eyes. You’re sure he’s smirking underneath his helmet, and you're not entirely sure how you feel about it. There's something about him that irritates you, that gets under your skin, but he's also the only one on the squad that seems to pay attention to you. And he does a good job of it, too.

It's strange, really, because he seems to notice things about you that nobody else does. He knows when you're annoyed, or upset, or when you need to eat. He can tell when you're not sleeping well, or when you're tired, or when you're distracted. And when you're focused, like now.

The two of you spend a moment staring at each other, neither of you saying anything. You can practically see the smirk on his face, and you narrow your eyes, not trusting him. He's the most unpredictable member of the squad, and he always seems to catch you off guard. He seems to take great pride in it, too, and you don't appreciate it.

"Whatever," you finally say, turning back to your datapad and looking at it again. The description of the herb and its supposed medicinal value was all well and good, but the picture of the plant was very generic. It looked like pretty much every plant in this damn forest.

"Do you actually have any idea what you're looking for?" he asks, stepping up next to you.

You give him a withering look, and he just stares back at you.

"No," you hiss. He chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes your skin prickle. "You wanna tell me what's so funny?"

"Not really," he says, his helmet turning towards you.

"Asshole," you mutter, turning away from him and scanning the ground. He's still staring at you, and the feeling of his eyes on you makes your skin crawl. "Do you mind?"

"No," he replies, his voice low. His helmet tilts to the side as he watches you, and you can feel your cheeks growing warm. He's close, and it makes you feel uneasy, but you don't back down, and he doesn't move.

“Look, if you don't want to be here, you can leave," you say, turning to him, your voice rising.

He takes a step closer, and you have to fight the urge to back away. You stand your ground, and he leans closer, the black visor of his helmet mere inches from your face.

He scoffs. “And get blamed when you disappear and die on this planet? No thanks."

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

He shrugs. "Wouldn't matter to me," he says. "But I like to think of myself as a loyal soldier. Wouldn't leave a comrade behind, no matter how idiotic the mission. Or the person.”

You roll your eyes. He's just trying to piss you off, and he's succeeding.

"You're insufferable," you hiss. "Get lost, and stop following me. That's an order."

He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Can't," he says. "I'm stuck with you."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer, just shrugs.

"Then just leave," you mutter, turning and walking away. You hear him follow behind, but you don't bother to look. You know he'll keep pace with you.

You walk in silence for a few minutes, before he speaks.

"What exactly are we looking for, anyway?"

"Are you actually going to help, or are you just gonna complain?"

"Complain, probably."

"Then leave."

"Not until you do."

"Ugh," you groan. "Fine. Look for anything with long, thin leaves, and white flowers."

"What does it do?"

"You don't care."

"Probably not, but I'm asking anyway."

"It's for an antidote," you reply. "For a poison. It's very rare, and expensive, and the only way to obtain it is by harvesting the flower. If we can find one with roots in tact, we can bring it back with us and grow our own. But the only place it's grown is here, and the blooming season is only a few days and then it's over."

"Sounds like a lot of trouble," he comments.

"It's worth it," you argue. "This could save thousands of lives."

"So, what do I look for?" he asks. You give him a look, and he shakes his head. "What? You asked for my help. Tell me what to do."

"Fine," you sigh. "The flower is usually found growing at the base of a tree or shrub, and the roots are long and deep, and it has a unique scent."

"Unique how?"

"I don't know, it's like..." You wrinkle your nose, thinking. "Like... honey and mint, I think? It's hard to explain. I don't really smell it myself, but that's what I was told."

Crosshair stares at you for a moment, his hands flexing. He looks like he's contemplating something, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he just turns away, walking into the woods.

"Cross?"

"Keep your eyes open, and don't die," he calls back.

"Where are you going?"

"To find your precious herb," he replies, waving over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes. "Just don't get lost!"

He doesn't answer, disappearing among the trees.

You continue on your way, stopping every so often to check the ground for any sign of the flower, and then move on. The day passes slowly, and you feel yourself getting more and more frustrated. Your frustration only grows when you see the sun starting to set, the sky slowly darkening.

"Fuck," you grumble, turning and heading back in the direction of the ship. Crosshair had left hours ago, and you hadn't seen or heard from him since. You had no idea where he was, or if he was still alive.

"Cross, you there?" you ask, tapping your comm.

Nothing.

"Crosshair, come in."

Still nothing.

You let out a frustrated huff. He was probably fine, but that didn't stop the worry from creeping up inside of you. It wasn't unusual for him to disappear, but you had expected him to stay close to you, especially after insisting that he stick with you.

"Dammit," you growl, turning back around. You're about to call out for him again, when you hear a twig snap behind you. You go still, your hand instinctively going to your lightsaber, and you spin around, igniting it.

You're not prepared for what greets you.

You're met by a massive, six-legged creature, easily three times your size, and twice as wide. It's covered in thick, shaggy fur, its legs ending in sharp talons. It lets out a growl, its teeth bared, saliva dripping from its mouth.

You're frozen in place, your heart pounding. You can't move, your limbs trembling, and you try to think, to find a way out of this, but you can't.

The creature takes a step towards you, its head lowered, and you can feel the air around you shift as it inhales. It's trying to catch your scent.

You grip the hilt of your lightsaber tightly, willing your hands to stop shaking, trying to keep the blade steady. You’ve fought bigger, more dangerous things than this. You can handle it.

You swallow hard, trying to calm your nerves. You can do this. You're a Jedi.

The creature opens its mouth, a low, rumbling growl echoing in the woods. It's almost on top of you now, and you brace yourself, knowing you have to act, or you'll be dead.

You move forward, swinging your lightsaber towards the creature. It reacts immediately, lunging at you.

A loud shot rings through the forest, and the creature stumbles, its head jerking to the side. Another shot, and another, and the creature falls, the life draining from its body.

You stand there for a moment, your lightsaber humming quietly, the smell of the creature's blood filling the air. You can feel your heart beating wildly, and you know you should be relieved, but you're not. You're angry, and terrified.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have gotten yourself killed."

Crosshair is standing next to you, his rifle aimed at the creature, his eyes hidden behind the black visor of his helmet. His hands are steady, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, and you can feel the tension radiating off of him.

Okay, now you're furious.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" you demand, glaring at him. "There’s no way the locals didn’t hear that. We're going to be in so much shit."

"That thing was about to kill you, and all you can think about is how much trouble you're going to be in?"

"Yes!"

He lowers his rifle and pulls off his helmet, and you're met with his usual expression of disdain. "You're unbelievable."

"Where the hell were you, anyway?"

"Helping you," he says.

"Bullshit," you hiss. "If you were helping me, we'd have found the damn flower by now."

He holsters his rifle and digs into the pouch on his belt, pulling out a vial and holding it up.

You stare at it for a moment, not believing what you're seeing. It can't be. There's no way.

"Are you kidding me?" you ask, snatching the vial out of his hand and turning it over. Sure enough, inside is a small, white flower, its roots still intact.

"You're welcome."

"This can't be real," you murmur, your eyes widening as you stare at the herb. It's everything you'd hoped for, and more.

"It is," he says.

You turn to him, your mouth hanging open. “I…”

"It's okay," he says, taking the vial back and handing you his helmet. "You can say it."

“I—I don’t know if I want to yell at you or fuck you.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you cover your mouth with your free hand, your face burning.

His eyebrows shoot up, and he tilts his head.

“Surprisingly not the first time I’ve heard that," he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"It just slipped out," you protest. "I didn't--"

"Sure you did," Crosshair cuts in, taking a step towards you. He's close, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, and it makes your knees weak. "I've got that effect on people."

"I hate you," you whisper, unable to look away from him.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, leaning in and pressing his lips against yours.

You gasp, but don't pull away, your eyes fluttering closed as his hands rest on your hips, pulling you against him. His lips are soft, his kiss gentle, and you can't help but kiss him back, your arms wrapping around his neck, his helmet dangling from your fingers.

The two of you are pressed together, his warmth surrounding you, and you melt into his embrace. You're not sure how long you stand there, your lips moving against his, your heart pounding in your chest.

You can't seem to think straight, and all you can focus on is him, his touch, his scent, his taste. He takes a step forward, and you gasp as your back hits a tree, his body pinning you there. He takes advantage of the opportunity, his tongue slipping past your lips, exploring your mouth. You moan softly, and he deepens the kiss, his hands gripping your hips tighter.

Your knees are trembling, and you have to wrap your arms around his neck, afraid that you'll fall. He seems to sense this, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His armor is hard, digging into your skin, and you let out a soft whimper, a sound that makes him smirk against your lips.

He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his breath hot against your skin. His eyes are dark and hooded, his cheeks flushed, and he's breathing hard. He doesn't speak, just stares at you, his gaze intense.

"Thank you," you finally whisper.

“For the flowers or the kiss?" he asks.

"Both."

He smiles, and it's one of the first genuine smiles you've ever seen from him. He's beautiful, and you can't help but stare at him, his sharp features, his piercing eyes.

"Come on," he says, pulling back and taking your hand. "Let's get back to the ship before the locals figure out we're here. You can show me how grateful you are later."

Your cheeks burn, and you quickly look away, trying to hide the blush that's creeping up your neck. 

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, rolling your eyes, though you can't help but smile as he takes your hand and tugs you towards the ship. The two of you walk in silence, his fingers laced through yours. He's surprisingly gentle, his touch light, his thumb brushing over your skin.

You're still not entirely sure what to make of him. He's cocky and arrogant, but he's also protective, and attentive. He notices things that others don't, and he does what needs to be done, even when he doesn't want to. And he doesn't let anyone else tell him what to do.

But most of all, he's the one person who's always been there for you. He's the one who's always watched over you, even when you didn't want him to. And even when he's a pain in the ass, you're glad he's there.

You steal a glance at him, and he's looking at you, his expression soft.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing," he replies, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just wondering how grateful you're going to be."

You flush, looking away, and he chuckles, squeezing your hand.

"Shut up," you mutter, trying, and failing, to hold back a smile. You can’t deny you’re looking forward to it.

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[itsonlydana]

I saw you opened requests and thought if you were inspired could you do a little sequel to "I Didn't Know That I Was Starving Till I Tasted You". I absolutely adore that story it is SO good!

Midnight Meetings in our Kitchen | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader👑

The night before the reopening of his restaurant, Thranduil is feeling antsy - you try your best to coax him back into bed.

warnings/tags: none

word count: 2,7k

an: This has taken me months to write and I apologize for the delay! My mind was just as frazzled as Thranduil's.

requests: please check pinned post

+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

You woke up alone and to the faint metallic sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. The hand you blindly reach over to the other side of the bed comes in contact with a cold mattress and rumbled sheets, no residue warmth of the person that held you until you fell asleep nor any sign that he actually slept and not gotten back up immediately as soon as you had closed your eyes to his even breathing.

This is not the first time Thranduil snuck out of bed – in the weeks you now shared one it has become all the clearer how often he actually strayed through the apartment while you were deep in a slumber – but it is the first time he did it after he promised to stay. 

It would be easy to let the anger and frustration fester, let it grow either in a thoughtless fight or in weeks of unspoken feelings, and if this was anyone else you would holster these moments like munition. Keeping them close to your heart like ivy holding on to cracked walls. 

Thranduil however, is not anyone else. 

The blanket is pushed aside, your feet step into the slippers by the bedside and in passing of the desk by the door, you grab a cardigan to throw over your shorts and the top you slept in. The moment you open the bedroom door, the sounds from the kitchen grow louder. You quietly creep around the corner, passing by the room where you hardly ever sleep, and find your boyfriend in a familiar stance – leaning over the stove, a spoon in his hand and one in the mess of long hair bundled up in the nape of his neck, barely holding it together; your boyfriend as well as the spoon.

He doesn’t seem to realize you are there, your shoes did a good job silencing the steps, so it is no wonder Thranduil flinches as you wrap your arms around his stomach from behind and press your face against his back. He catches on quickly, snaps out of the murmuring of ingredients and a “Oh,” escapes him in a sigh. “I’ve woken you up, haven’t I?”

“No,” you mumble into the loose shirt. Thranduil is comfortably warm, not by nature – his hands are a blessing in the summer and he made it a sport to tickle you awake with his icey tips as soon as you spent the nights under mountains of blankets – but by the heated kitchen and the many pots boiling in front of him. Lips against the soft fabric, you continue: “But you said you wouldn’t do this. Not tonight, Thran.”

You feel his spine curve as Thranduil sacks into himself slightly, as he stops holding himself up on the counter and instead hugs your arms closer to his chest. His whole body rumbles at another sigh. “I know,” he is tired, his voice drips sleep more than he realizes, “I know, Darling. I will come to bed soon, let me just finish this recipe.”

You lurk past his right side into what you think is a pot of soup? 

“Do you plan on serving it later?” you ask and let your fingers trail over the bunched-up shirt, over the soft hairs on his lean stomach. 

“I’m not sure. It lacks something and I can’t figure out what exactly. Spices I used plenty, the broth is perfection and the vegetables have been in harmony every other time I thought of them.” – Thranduil is the only person in the world who you know can taste a dish without even cooking it, all that happens in his brain is a mysterium – “I need to find.. whatever it is that’s missing before I could serve it.”

“So, you will cook dozens of portions with a tiny thing changed?”

It is meant to be a joke though Thranduil nods. 

He could be unreadable and stubborn, especially these last few weeks. His restaurant ‘The Green Leaf’, is known as the best spot for fine-dining vegan food, praised high and above by the critics for excellent taste, extravagant and beyond thinking of known dishes taken to another level in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom. Thranduil is precise, cutting dishes that fail his standards and not adding new ones till he reaches perfection only known to him. 

The turn to autumn brought not only harsher winds but it took one of Thranduil’s suppliers to sell out to ‘Oakenshields’, another star restaurant across the street and a thorn in Thranduil’s eyes ever since the press fueled heavy competition between two restaurants that are no were near the same category. They have close to nothing in common, except for two petty as fuck owners with their heads stuck that far up their arses, that they couldn’t see further than their rage. 

Thranduil, mature as he is, reacted to the news of his supplier changing sides – literally and metaphorically – as any normal person would, and decided on a night similar to this one, that he would change every meal that he had previously cooked with the ingredients of ‘the traitor’. Out with entrés made with apples, gone are the burgers simply because the cucumbers are no longer accessible. You realized quickly that going with the flow meant outings to farmer's markets testing fruits and vegetables, negotiating deals with you hanging on his arm, and new recipes he cooks for you to try. The work and effort of many nights waking up to find him in the kitchen all lead to tomorrow, the first day after the restaurant’s summer-closing and the presentation of a completely new constructed menu. 

To say Thranduil is spun tight is an understatement.

“Thranduil –” you sigh, your hot breath slightly wetting his shirt and your lips move against his spine. “This is nonsense and I don’t say this to be mean. You’ve been up the whole day, going through recipes you’ve been sure about and that you know by heart. Trying this won’t do no good; it will only exhaust you.” The tips of your fingers trail through the hair, higher up to lay a flat palm against the firm skin, feeling his intake of breath. You let your touch be gentle if he misunderstands your words. 

Communication between you had never been the problem – well, except for the obvious misunderstanding of the feelings you both had harbored for each other in complete ignorance that the other packaged them up in love languages such as cooking a meal or throwing out flowers of your dates – and you two had gotten even better at speaking your mind to avoid confrontations that could have been cleared up by a simple discussion at dinner or before going to bed. You never went to bed mad at each other, that is the rule you agreed on. You would talk it out and then make up. You have learned that Thranduil’s cold demeanor came on the second he felt vulnerable and alone which is exactly why you lean into the subject with your hands holding on to him.

“I get that this is important for you,” you continue and your knees nudge the muscles of his calves, “but you need sleep. Your greatest weapon is your brain, so, let it rest. I’m sure this will work out without a new dish.”

For a while, there is the boiling of water, the steam of carrots and celeriac drifting through the air. Thranduil’s hands continue to hold onto you, drawing figures onto your wrists to signal you that he did hear you and is thinking of an answer, not ignoring you. Then, he lets go with one hand. The stove clicks off, and the gas flame disappears, dipping the kitchen into more darkness now that the blue flickering light is gone. 

Other than that movement, Thranduil stands still. 

You opt for another lighthearted joke to break the tension that is obvious in his shoulders, the wings of them have the shirt stretched tighter at his hunch. You take the spoon out of his hands and fish in the soup, yes definitely soup, carefully balancing it around his stiff body and closing your lips around it.

“Mhmm, what excellent boiled potatoes,” you hum.

Thranduil's expression shifts ever so slightly, as if your words have finally pierced through the mental blockade, where he’s no doubt been sifting through countless possible events. An amused snort escapes him, his spine curving closer against you as he chuckles softly. “Did you have another Pride and Prejudice marathon this week?”

“What?” Your voice jumps an octave, betraying you instantly. “No! Of course not! Me? Nev–er. I don't even know that movie.” The words tumble out in a frantic cascade, and in the middle of your denial, Thranduil abruptly turns to face you, his sudden movement drawing a helpless grin from your lips.

One eyebrow arches in quiet amusement as he begins to crowd you against the kitchen island and leaves you to stare up at him. “If you didn’t watch it – and I certainly didn’t – how do you explain the ‘continue watching’ notification I saw at the restaurant?”

“Wow, uhm,” you fumble for an excuse, fingers toying with the strings of his silken pajama pants. “Maybe your brother decided to give my recommendations a shot?”

Thranduil lets out a scoff, his disbelief evident. “Las? When has he ever taken our advice on anything?”

True, his brother is going down the full teenager-who-listens-to-no-one-route like he’s doing a marathon but you are just as determined. Coyly you flutter your lashes up at Thranduil, pulling at the strings and twirling them around a finger. “Maybe that’s a sign of the universe, then. That you should stop banging pots and start bang– showing attention to your girlfriend.” 

Thranduil laughs so low in his throat, that you feel it swooshing straight into your stomach, the vibrato of his voice and the rasp of the few hours of sleep undoing every thought of getting him back to bed because this, Thranduil in just a loose shirt standing in the silver light of the moon in the middle of the kitchen and staring down at you might be the most attractive thing you have ever witnessed. 

His hands wander from your waist up to your shoulders, sliding up further to cup your neck in his large palms and gently tilt your chin up further. Your breath comes to a full stop, instead, your heart takes on the job of pulsing twice as fast at the gentle touch of his thumb moving over the underline of your jaw. The day you realized he cradles you just as gently as his favorite knives was surely one to process but now you lean into the lingering taps of his fingertips, the pad of his thumb pressing slightly into the plushness of your lower lip. 

Thranduil slots one leg between yours, casually and with an ease that you wouldn’t believed him to be able to when you first met him. “Have I recently told you how thankful I am that you’re you?” he asks and you shake your head slightly. His lips curve downward, as do his eyebrows. “I may have gotten lost in my work again, haven’t I?” 

You nod, never one to pour a lie into this intimacy. “But that’s fine. I know this is important to you. The restaurant opening and all can’t be easy.”

“That’s no reason to push away the one person that makes this journey bearable. You shouldn’t have to put up with my nightly disappearance out of bed simply because the restaurant is a large focus on my mind right now.” 

“It has become quite the habit of yours,” you agree quietly and slip one hand under his shirt again. 

There’s nothing sexual about the way you hold onto his waist, tracing the bones and muscles, all breathing softly and singing under your touch. Being this close to him grounds you the same way he needs physical touch as a reminder that he is still important in arguments and fights. That no matter how far apart your opinions are at that moment, your bond is still there. 

“I am truly sorry for this habit. I will work on it and I think once we have gotten through the worst of the press and critics I can rest easier but it’s nothing I can one hundred percent promise. The last time we closed for a month I slept barely after reopening.”

You tilt your head. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“No, everything you do makes me a better person already,” Thranduil says and leans down to finally catch your lips in a soft kiss into which you melt like butter on a hot pan. Every nerve ending is sizzling and burning, sighing as he holds your face close and kisses the breath out of you. “Or would you do me the favor and never watch your movie again?”

You laugh and bite down on his lip, “Never. Try something more realistic.”

He agrees with a huff of laughter, “Of course not,”  and pulls you back into another kiss. 

“Can we go back to bed?” you mumble against his lips. As much as you enjoy the loving kisses, the slow and languid draw of his tongue, the playful nip of his teeth in the lull of the night, his full body cornering you against the counter – oh, there’s this low sound of his throat again – but unlike Thranduil, you had a few hours of sleep already and you can feel the urge to hop back under the covers in the cold around your bare ankles.  

Thranduil’s head swirls around, seemingly taking in the state of the kitchen without the haze of a restless man dreaming of the perfect dish clouding his judgment and he raises a hand to tap against his lips, loudly exhaling. “Shit. I can’t leave this lying around and while it’s no good for the restaurant, I can’t just throw it out.”

You shrug your shoulders, sneaking past him to open the drawer meticulously sorted with plastic boxes. There are certainly enough of them to store the soups and their different varieties. Once Thranduil starts working on a new recipe, his tendency to fill the kitchen and run tests leaves its traces in the way you now look out for good lunchbox offers and Tupperware parties, always being mindful of having enough of them to stack up the freezer. Thranduil may be opposed to frozen food – and not only storebought, he would not eat something he didn’t cook fresh even if the whole idea of freezing food he cooked meant that it was still good and full of vitamins – but you don’t mind popping them into the microwave on a long day at work and relishing the soul food of your boyfriend weeks after he abandoned the thought of that particular version.

“We could pack them up and bring them around to the shelter tomorrow. Ah, wait, no. You have to be at the restaurant early for the deliveries. I can drop them off then, get home to change and still be there on time for the opening, oh! Thran–,” you are interrupted by the warm weight of Thranduil hugging you close from behind, surprising you the same way you had earlier, only that the height difference allows him to mouth a kiss into your neck. 

“I love you,” Thranduil says, digging his fingers into the wool of your cardigan. “All I’m doing is keeping you up at night and you’re still here, thinking about bringing the food to the shelter and my schedule. You’re brilliant, my love.”

The compliment goes through your heart like molten honey, sticking in all the slowly healing cracks that Thranduil mends each day he is there for you. The change from being roommates to best friends brings the risk of disrupting the carefully built balance yet Thranduil and you made it work and in times like this, standing in the darkness of your shared kitchen in the night before the re-opening of what Thranduil loves third-most in the world, every effort is worth the risk.

You smile, resting your head against his chest and looking up at him. His grey eyes are already on you, framed by long lashes and the strands of hair shining silver. “Love you too, most ardently,” you stand up on your tiptoes for a quick kiss upside down. “Soups can wait, let’s go to bed.”

[cocktailjjrs]

So......

Since I've been suffering with these angsty thoughts... i though i would invite you all suffer with me...

It's about Chuuya...

I was doing some research for my fic (mainly going through bsd novels, blogs, tags and all) and came across this one Insta post in passing (sorry, i don't remember the name).

It was about BSD's cycles.

First, cycle of abuse, going from Mori-Dazai-Aku-Kyouka

and Second of rescue, going from Natsume-Oda-Dazai-Atsushi-Kyouka.

And then they highlighted a third category, the one's who are not saved - including Chuuya, Aku and Q.

At that point i didn't think much about it, just another post while scrolling Insta.

But now it's keeps bothering me, a constant reminder, whenever i read something BSD.

And It's so heart wrenching.

It also hit me, Q and Aku can still be saved.

Q, while we don't exactly know where they are right now, there is a chance of them getting their own arc, backstory and then being saved.

Aku, while still in Mafia, his partnership with Atsushi is his saving grace already. He is making an effort to not kill, just for their deal/bet. By the end of it all, he will be in a better place than he is now.

But Chuuya. (Spoiler's for light novel's if you haven't read them)

I remember very clearly, when in Stormbringer (don't ask me why i remember this byheart), when Murase dies Chuuya says, "Hey Detective, Weren’t you gonna arrest me?! Weren’t you gonna bring me into the world of light"

Don't get me wrong, I still believe Chuuya belongs to Port Mafia, the darkness suits him better than light.

But that does not mean he never wanted to get out of that darkness. This one instance in SB was proof enough. Makes me wonder, if things had gone even slightly differently, would he be in a better place than he is now? Is there still a chance?

What's even more tragic is that after the whole SB thing, no one seemed stick around enough to help him fight his own demons.

And he definitely has MASSIVE DEMONS.

His whole life seems to be one catastrophe after another! Don't believe me?

His first group, whom he called friends, betrayed him. Classic stabbed by poisonous knife in the back.

Hardly a year later, his second friends group, Flags, was killed by an emotionally unstable man-child seeking validation, insisting on calling him brother.

He went through a horrid ordeal, having to learn he was a lab experiment, seeing your clone vaporise to nothing but bones in your own arms, having to fight those same bones. And as if this was not enough, then fighting the monstrosity of a singularity and in process loosing the only chance to determine your humanity. (Actually whole of SB is dreadful, i don't think it'll ever get worse than that - i really hope it doesn't)

Then, given by the timeline, another year later, his third group of friends was killed by Shibusawa.

And again a year later - his partner, who brought him in all this madness, just fucking leaves without a word. This is the least tragic thing that has happened to the boy, i swear.

And I'm sure it didn't end there.

There must have been so many things going on behind the scenes in those missing years, hell even after the series began, Chuuya has been out of scene because something or the other was going on.

Now you have Fyodor fucking shit up for no apparent reason. With this shitshow, many mafia men, some of whom Chuuya might have developed a relation, are definitely dead. Not to mention the mental gymnastics going to trying to at least be on the same fucking chapter as the two geniuses.

AND ALL OF THIS IS JUST IN THE CURRENT TIMELINE. Don't get me started on BEAST VERSE!!! (That's a can of worms I'm really not ready to open at this point)

The thing with Mentally strong individuals is, they have abnormally high emotional intelligence, they are unnaturally resilient, they can compartmentalize their grief, they empathise with great deal of people, think rationally at any given point and think of ways to make things better.

What many people fail to understand is that no one is born Mentally strong, it's the circumstances that make them as such.

It can happen even through small things.

No one being there for you to express your deepest fears. No one just listening to you, even if they have a solution to your problem. Or having seen other's nightmares come to reality and feeling your own are much smaller, or having made to fell that way.

It creates the mentality of never sharing your fears, your insecurities, your discomfort - because at the back of the mind you keep telling yourself - oh, this person has gone through so much more than i have, my fear is nothing compared to it. I can handle it on my own, they have their own problems to handle. Everyone is busy, i don't think they have time to listen to the same problem I've been facing for years now. I've manages so far, i think I can manager just fine.

You start to undervalue your own feelings and start to fell like you'll burden them. Start to feel like you NEED to handle it on your own.

Now, i don't want to go into a spiral of mental health, but when you look at Chuuya, you can't help but marvel at that kids Mental resolution.

His first action after being stabbed in back was to make a deal with a demon to make sure he doesn't harm them, because they are just kids.

His first reaction to being provoked into revenge was to say Fuck off to his manipulator, not falling for the temptation and doing what he felt right.

He even forgave the killer of his friends (And also the one who tried to kill him) for gods sake! Understanding what he was going through.

He even walked away after knowing his parents are alive (oh the irony) not wanting to put a target on them. (I'm actually on fence with this, the chances of it being a manipulation tactic from Mori is just as high as it being the truth)

He had tremendous mental fortitude.

But you still see the cracks in his emotional state,

He was desperate to know if he was human or not, inclining towards the later.

He didn't know, that your friends can do some nice things without expecting anything in return. They can go above and beyond your regular stuff just because they are your friends, there doesn't need to be of anything at stake in friendship.

Hell, there was a point he believed having a Heart was too sophisticated for him, that he can't be that human!

I can go hours and hours about this.

What i can say for sure is, he has demons in all sizes, shapes and forms, something that he has stuffed in his closet only to deal with them himself, not letting them see the light of the day.

i just don't see anyone actually being there for him long enough for him to trust them fully with his demons.

No, not even Dazai. Dazai himself was a walking cry for help, like hell Chuuya is adding to that pile. He may have found a constant in Dazai in three years, seeing as all other's met their end in one. I believe in those three years, somewhere Soukoku began to feel like his safe place, somewhere he didn't had to think about his demons only by the virtue of dealing with one made of flesh and bones. But then even Dazai left.

I don't think even Kouyou was there for most part. And considering her obsession with a flowers of dark with Kyouka, i think it pulled Chuuya more in her own tragedy. Afterall, she also was never saved.

Mori is there, but Mori is a Demon in his own rights. What we've seen is their interactions have been those of a boss and his close confidents, nothing personal or emotional. Which also makes sense when you think of Mori's theory of running an organization. Chuuya, all things considered, the most powerful member of PM and he is treated as such.

The other significant members of PM, the guerrilla squad, black lizards or Kajji - all of them may know him better than most, but he is still their executive. If a 15 and younger kid took the title of being a protector of his rag-tag group seriously, being a responsible and dependable executive comes with higher stakes. He will carry out his role as one, even if it's the last thing he does.

.

.

.

That was me rambling.

My point is, i wanna give Chuuya a big hug, tell him it's okay to fell tried sometimes. To let himself be vulnerable. That his fears are not invalid. That he is not invalid. That he isn't the problem, never was.

That he will still be valued and wanted, even if he one day looses his ability or he is no longer the strongest.

Can someone please save his boy?

[starrodent]

*taps mic* um. vampire reference in a minor key. hezekiah…wakely…

[angelnumber27]

violently forcing myself to have better days

[monsterbisexual]

the silt verses: chapter 34

chapter 38

[seventh-district]

not even gonna tag this properly bc i don't wanna get Involved but i do have some Thoughts i need to get out into the void so here we go

(aaa quick edit: CW for mention/discussion of Boothill leaks)

[sammygender]

im new here- is dean abusive?

imo yeah. smarter people than me have written dissections of the way he treats sam & others (he’s also Awful to his psuedo-son jack, but i haven’t gotten to that season yet), i’ve probably reblogged a bunch of them.

he certainly doesn’t mean to be & i don’t say it to condemn him as a person or as a character & i’m still very attached to him & he loves sam very much (not that that makes a difference in whether u abuse someone or not) - but the way he treats sam a lot/some of the time is emotionally abusive and sam is clearly badly impacted. s4 and s8 come to mind as his worst moments also ofc moc era - after that there’s less interpersonal conflict (up to where i am at least) but that’s because sam mostly stops disagreeing with dean not because dean actually gets much better <3 spn is cycles of abuse show after all. family is hell. dean’s learnt pretty much everything about how to behave from his abusive father and as a result. well. cycle continues

[batsplat]

casey also talks about sepang 2015 what do you think of that

oh in that podcast? uh... lemme listen again...

yeah idk it's not really anything new I'd say? he's said basically all the same stuff in more interesting and extensive ways elsewhere. I think casey inevitably has a very 'well feuding is bad and helps nobody' point of view, has expressed that before in the past, does it here again, and he's also drawn a parallel between himself and marc on several occasions. which... well, of course there's similarities in terms of public discourse or whatever, but the parallel really falls apart whenever casey argues the feuds cost valentino. like, I do think it's sometimes important to just. keep in mind. it's interesting that casey draws this comparison in his mind but that doesn't necessarily means he's right about this. I'm not sure how you'd argue that starting a feud with casey cost valentino anything competitively? you can argue it didn't help him I guess, and then we can have a debate about the ins and outs of the 2008 season. we can also have an argument that in a hypothetical world where casey isn't ill in 2009, valentino doesn't break his leg and casey isn't on a piece of junk in 2010, and valentino isn't on a piece of junk in 2011-12, then actually maybe valentino sparking open animosity with casey COULD have cost him. but we don't know that! didn't happen! I wish we could have found out, but we never got the chance! as it stands, the tally on this is pretty straightforward: casey won the title when things were reasonably civil between them in 2007, and valentino took control of the following season at the exact moment he worsened the relationship between the pair of them in 2008. obviously, it's all more complicated than that and casey would of course argue laguna didn't negatively affect his subsequent performances... but it certainly didn't help them. like, at the very worst valentino escalating tensions in 2008 is a complete net neutral. after 2009, them being bitchy to each other every other tuesday was completely competitively irrelevant beyond maybe affecting how they approached occasionally fighting for a podium position. hey, maybe casey used that feud to fire himself up through sheer spite throughout the later stages of his career, but that doesn't actually support his anti-feud stance - it's basically the exact same thing as what valentino does. they're both quite similar in that regard! always so hungry to prove a point, to show how someone else is wrong. kinda half the point with this feuding business is to get yourself going, get yourself motivated, yeah. he straight up openly admits to using yamaha's repeat rejection of him as a way of giving himself motivation, and at the end of the day that's really not all that different?

anyway, what else does casey say... oh yeah, that him and the other aliens were already kinda prepared for this and had learned vale's tricks. that valentino had only been able to get into the minds of the previous generation. welllllll *wiggles hand* sure, I mean, he did clearly have to change his approach... he couldn't just use the exact same playbook to get to them, either on-track or off-track. but that's why he did change up the playbook... again, whether you want to believe valentino won his final two titles 'in the head' rather than just through pure pace kinda depends on how you assess the evidence, but it is at the very least a debate. and, y'know, it's always worth remembering that valentino's most important mind games with casey didn't happen in a press conference... it was on the track. and the on-track stuff really is just embedded in how valentino approaches winning. speaking of aliens, this is what dani and jorge have said:

like, valentino's entire approach to his riding, even to the way he's setting his bike up, is deliberately about directly fucking with you... he's not actually always trying to be faster than you as much as he's trying to give himself the tools to make your life miserable, to pressure you into mistakes, etc etc... and again, especially with casey (if anything because he was so mentally sturdy), the off-track stuff was really just window dressing. (I know they bicker a lot after 2009 but it's just so fundamentally irrelevant to actual on-track competition.) so you can be aware of those tricks, but it also doesn't necessarily help you when someone's being nasty to you on-track in a way you just fully do not enjoy. which is what it was like for casey! for casey, a lot of this comes back to the truly unpleasant context of how he was perceived by the public, how he was treated as mentally weak or 'broken' or whatever partly because he had the misfortune of coming up against a bloke who had the reputation for breaking rivals. I think it's quite natural to end up with a bit of a hardliner 'actually I've never been mentally affected by a result in my life' stance - and of course casey is a lot tougher than a lot of people give him credit for. that being said. sometimes your rivals affect you, shit happens, it's part of the game. it's fundamentally a nice idea to think that valentino's tactics weren't just morally wrong but also ineffective, which is kind of the appeal of this narrative, right? you want to believe you're above that, you want to believe you were adequately prepared and wise to valentino's tactic. it's unsurprising and understandable that casey does tend to tell the story that way, but again it's *wiggles hand* also hard to describe it as completely factual

uh. what else. oh I'm thrilled casey does canonically know valentino and marc were friends, he has said he wasn't following motogp too much during that time period so you couldn't be sure of that. does this mean anything? does it tell you anything? well, no, but it's just a pleasing thought to me. I like that. oh also 'provoking particularly aggressive riders isn't a good idea' is kinda a funny take from casey? like, he of all people would hate the idea of being cowed by someone's reputation like that... casey's right that provoking fast riders can potentially be dangerous, but y'know I do think that's probably not news to anyone almost nine years later. um. that's all I've got I think

[mazzystar24]

Uk fans of 911 are sat here crying laughing over how many things people claim British slang to be used as vs what it actually is used like

[aria0fgold]

My headcanons for the named trio in The Cursing of Chateau Castle series:

Josephandre is a big bear. It just fits for him I think! He gets he/him pronouns, and as a way to make him a liiiil more relatable for Mira, he'd have two craft types (Rock type being his main one and paper craft for the other). Battle style wise, I think it fits him to be more of a self-sustaining tank. He buffs defense, heals, and puts up shields. For his weapon, he'd use his fists like Isabeau. He'll be the second fastest in the trio.

Lady Irene-Janine-Kanine looks like an elegant noblewoman on the outside but she has vibes similar to Euphrasie! She gets she/her pronouns. Her craft type is Paper. Battle style wise, she's more on the offensive side, a main dps kind of thing. Most of her skills focus on buffing attack and speed, she'd have an item that helps regen her hp a lil bit and her chosen weapon is an umbrella. The tip is a sharp blade so it's used like a spear that has a hidden sword in its handle. Open it, and it becomes a shield! That'd be one of her skills too, although it's only applicable to her. She's the fastest one of the trio.

Pierre-Jacques-Erneste looks like a nobleman and carries himself as such! He gets he/they pronouns. Their craft type is Scissors. Battle style wise, he's more of a debuffer, skills focusing on weakening the enemies, slowing them down, poisoning them. Their weapon is a sword dagger, though he doesn't seem to be able to handle it well, how clumsy! But he Is a nobleman so it makes sense! Oh but... why doesn't he have a title? They're the slowest one of the trio, how strange, he seemed to be faster than Lady Irene-Janine-Karine that one time though.

[daz4i]

how and why is there discourse about whether or not certain queer identities exist/if people should be allowed(???) to use them. why is "people know their own identity better than you ever could, and they're the only one who get a say on what they are" such a tough concept to grasp

i think if you find yourself offended by the label someone uses (especially if they're a stranger) or think it invalidates your own, it's a good idea to look inside yourself and question why that may be. more often than not, it's a result of insecurity or uncertainty of your own identity (or many other things, but i won't make a whole list here). whatever reason it is, until you resolve it, you shouldn't take it out on people for having an identity you don't understand

many have said it before but it's worth saying over and over. infighting only helps our oppressors. conservatives don't care if you're a cis gay or a xenogender aegosexual aplatonic lesbian, they hate all of us either way. trying to fit in by going for people who are easier targets for them isn't gonna help you, it'll just alienate you from your own community, and you're never gonna please them. the momentary rush you get from hearing you're not like "one of /those/ gay people" is not worth it and is gonna do more harm in the long run, i assure you

also, it is important to me to say this, but having some less than nice kneejerk reaction caused by confusion about an identity you don't understand doesn't mean you're a bad person or anything. as long as you aren't mean to that person, and you take a second to think smth along the lines of "wait a minute, this isn't any of my business" after having said reaction, you're good 👍 a lot of reflexive reactions we have to things are ingrained into us simply by. well. living in a society 🤡 and you're not terrible for having those thoughts. it's your actions that matter, and your second thought (the "wait, why did i just think that?") is more defining of your actual character and morals than your reflex. i know that having thoughts like this, even tho they're unwanted, can very easily make one spiral, so it's important to me that whoever needs to hear this knows this doesn't make you a bad person 🙏 you're good, keep taking actions to be good, accept other people even if you don't understand them, and you're on the right track :)

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

My parents and I watched the season 3 finale of Star Wars: Rebels tonight and I can't believe my mom was the one who was like "WHY ARE THEY* ALL DYING?!" and I was the one being all, "don't worry I'm sure it will be fine." this is the most role reversal we have ever done.

(*to clarify I mean the rebels in general, the main cast was fine)

[starscreamingg]

Looking back on Detroit become human in the wake of the ai craze is like. The most morbidly funny thing to me One of these days I have to write something on how the story of that game just gets HORRIFYING when you view it through a (more) modern lens. Man

[orcelito]

I always find it kind of funny what some other ppl consider "slow burn". Like I've been reading a fic that the writer repeatedly said was slow burn, but some 40k words in and they've had their first kiss...

I'm not complaining, but that just doesn't feel like that slow of a burn to me lmao. But Then Again, this is coming from the person who writes some of the slowest of burns... not the slowest, mind you, but like. In discacc, I'm pretty sure their first kiss happened around... what, 400k words in? Something like that. And they hadn't even officially Met (in person) until like some 70k words in.

And Then there's ITNL. Currently 74k words, and Wolfwood hasn't even officially entered the story yet.

We're in for the long haul, y'all :]

[unproduciblesmackdown]

hell yes my "deniably casual sexual encounter in taylor's apartment babeyyy" wip is over 7k words already and i haven't even gotten to the part where anyone's kissing yet. so far it's all In Effect taylor going "is there like, an energy here or is it just me" (there is) in this 7k< form via my classic move of providing wildly extensive introspection that Could be pared down a ton i'm sure but if i was thorough abt editing myself & my verbosity & taking thousands of words to say something, including the same things repeatedly in slightly different ways, writing anything would be all the more difficult / rarely manifested. playing to my strengths / weaknesses w/fiction out here like, see that last billions fic scene that's Supposed to be largely winston somewhat going in circles stuck in his head and also sexual activity. seizing the premise for this one like, taylor being all I'm Extra Pensive Atm But What If That Sets Me Up To Be More Spontaneous When I Go Back Into The Living Room And Quants Have Something Going On. i've triumphantly managed to get taylor out of the living room in the first place and now their being able to return any minute now as soon as i wrap up their thinking about how their quants are sure like special little guys (extraordinary) (least veil of neutrality; readily positive)