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#prompt response
"Come 'ere, bugsy! Mwah!" Silas tosses a sprig of mistletoe in Beetlejuice's general direction, and then leans forward on his toes to kiss the corner of the demon's mouth, with a cartoonish smooching sound. -literallyjustsilas


“Wha-?” The demon didn’t have time to react as some small herb or something was thrown to him before a certain breather came up to him and kissed the corner of his mouth, causing said demon to blush and pink strands of hair pop out from the roots of his head. Beetlejuice blinked, his pale face emotionless for now.

“Y-You… are…”

It took him a few seconds to process the information before he suddenly grinned and licked his lips with his striped tongue. 

“Adorable. And you missed~” He playfully growled. Without hesitation, Beetlejuice practically almost pounced on the man, held him by the shoulders, dipped, and smacked his lips to the others with an even louder smooching sound.

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Your kitty cat is the prettiest character and you are such a sweet mun. We haven't really interacted much, but I love seeing your posts in my feed.


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"Is that my shirt" From Rune to Aspen (probably something airy and silken and golden from Thavnair)

Aspen stopped dead in her tracks as she heard the question, slooooowly swiveling around to look up towards Rune. She smiles, cheesily, and gives a little twirl. “It looks good on me, though, right?” She runs her hands down the front of the shirt, which was the only thing she was wearing, smoothing it down to rest just above fingertip level. 

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« can i get a waffle? can i please get a waffle? »

Who was this random woman in their house? Had Lavada brought someone home? Aspen stared at the Highlander woman curiously before going to the chiller to remove the package of waffles. Frozen, since she didn’t really like to cook. She moves to the oven, warming it and then them up before setting four on a plate, placing it on the table in front of the other woman. 

Fluidly, despite the large pregnant belly, she seats herself as well. “So… who are ya’?” Her head tilts, curious. 

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113: “ Where did all these puppies come from?” For Aran x Cole x Dorian (any combination of the three or ALL OF THEM)

For thee, my favorite stealthy triad of Here In This Moment acclaim:

There were tiny, fluffy black and white bodies wriggling and snuffling all over the main hall. Floppy ears and small, black noses. Dark liquid eyes blinking sleepily. Dorian gently tugged the hem of his robe from a set of sharp puppy teeth as another peal of enthused laughter ricocheted from stained glass windows to high stone walls.

“Where did all these puppies come from?”

He glanced at Josephine with a raised brow. “You didn’t bring them?”

“Why would I pour fifty loose dogs into Skyhold? I just refused a cart load of mabari from King Alistair. We can’t possibly keep these…” She bent down to pet one of the scruffy little pups. “They are sweet, aren’t they? And so soft.”

Dorian glanced over to where Aran was rolling on the floor, overrun by the fluffy little creatures. He seemed inordinately pleased. As did Cole, who was sitting on the dais, hugging his knees to his chest as a small black and white bundle of fluff nuzzled against his hip.

Cole glanced down at the roly-poly fur ball, then looked up, eyes bright, meeting Dorian’s gaze across the hall. ‘She sees me,’ he mouthed, smiling helplessly. Cole’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure, his fingers barely tickling the edges of the puppy’s soft fur. The creature flopped over into his hand, leaving Cole gaping at it in bemused bewilderment. “Well, we’re keeping that one,” Dorian announced, resting his chin on his palm. “What are they, anyway?”

“March Collies. They’re herding dogs, not war dogs, I can’t imagine…” she trailed off, following his gaze to Cole. “He seems happier these days, doesn’t he? More… I can’t put my finger on it. More.”

Dorian forced himself to scan the other pups. Cullen and Blackwall had dropped to their knees amidst the wriggling mass. “I suppose so.” He rose, stepping carefully past the creatures. The balcony would be a better place to watch from anyway. Not so many eyes on him.

“You’re going?”

“To preserve my shoes and my hemline,” Dorian sniffed. “Yes.”

“Dorian!” Aran laughed, lifting one of the pups in the air, “This one had a mustache!”

Dorian sighed, “Best of luck to you, ambassador. You know how attached he gets.”


Did I decide that the Free Marches have border collies because my Aussie/Border mix is the best? Yes. Yes, I did.

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Hello, sweetness! We're hear to get to know Madeline!!! Would you be so kind to relay questions 12, 20, and 31 to her?

12. How skilled at lying is your oc? How frequently do they lie? For what reason? What situations would be the exception?

The protagonist of my hopefully wonderful novel is Madeline De Groot, a former bodyguard turned PI surprisingly doesn’t lie. She may not fully reveal her purpose, but refuses to outright lie. It is not just a matter of morals for Madeline, she has caught too many people out in lies to be happy to tell them herself. That’s not to say that she disapproves of others lying for her when needs must. 

20. Does your oc have any pleasure that embarrasses them so they keep it secret? Or are they open about all the things they enjoy?

Her secret passion is creating art, though she hides it from her friends. When she needs to think, truly think, she will close her office door, light her pipe and sketch the hours away whilst the thoughts percolate through. 

31.  What time of day is your oc most awake? What about most tired? Do they get up at the same time every morning without need of an alarm, or is their sleep schedule all over the place?

Madeline manages on little sleep, running her own detective agency means that she needs to be awake during the day, especially as her secretary prefers to sleep the afternoons at her desk. But the night is when Madeline is most happy; when she can roam the streets solving crimes, killing criminals and avoiding the guard. She wouldn’t sacrifice the late nights for all the sleep in the world, and when the bells toll in the morning, she greets the day refreshed with a sense of purpose. 

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A : AFFECTION. how does your muse show affection?

[ Valentine’s Day Prompts ]

“I’m very physical, much like an affectionate feline, as stereotypical as they sounds. I snuggle and nuzzle and purr, I gift randomly and occasionally can be assed to cook a dinner or lunch- very rarely breakfast, though.”

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G : GIFT. is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

[ Valentine’s Day Prompts ]

“I’m pretty good at gifts, when and if I give them. I’m… kind ov a space cadet when it comes to holidays, and it’s not until I’m given a gift do I realise that there’s somethin’ special goin’ on. Typically I give gifts at random, doesn’t matter the holiday, y’know?”

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jaskier falls ill while on the road and geralt tends to him? yes please :)

Thank you so much for this prime angsty prompt! I love some good sick!Jaskier, so I hope you enjoy this!

    The silence should have warned him. Jaskier wasn’t one to be quiet, even when they were trudging up the side of a mountain in the cold drizzle of rain leaving a misty haze behind. On any other occasion, he’d have found a way to work on his songs, either humming a few lyrics ad nauseum or plucking a few mismatched notes on his lute in between steps. But at the threat of water damage to his precious instrument, he’d foregone the musical accompaniment in favor of quiet contemplation; or so Geralt had assumed. 

He’d slipped near the bottom, splattered his entire back in mud before he’d clambered to his feet again on Roach’s other side. With not a word as to the state of his clothes or the amount of time it would take him to get the stains out, Geralt had thought the sheen of sweat across his brow was more a symptom of his exhaustion from the day’s climbing than anything more; he’d even been impressed by the lack of any complaint when the grade of the slope turned steeper. 

By the time they caught sight of the cave up ahead, Jaskier’s breath had turned to a ragged wheeze hours ago. Once they reached the entrance, Geralt tethered Roach to a lone survivor of a tree and returned to find Jaskier’s huddled form slumped against the wall, shivering. The half-lidded eyes with their glazed stare finally triggered a realization. 

Having grown up surrounded by witchers and never encountering much openness or tenderness amongst other people in general, Geralt hadn’t had a lot of opportunities to become familiar with what sickness can look like in humans. Or what care is needed to survive it. And so when the impossible first occurred and he was in the extended company of a certain bard, he’d missed the signs. 

Crouching beside him, Geralt saw the flush high on his cheeks even as his body shook with a chill that surpassed the mild, if rainy, night. He got to work on the ties of Jaskier’s doublet, soaked and knotted tight by the wet conditions, finally resorting to slicing through the last few in the name of freeing him from its sodden constraints. 

None of Jaskier’s clothes were really meant for retaining warmth, most if not all of them had the sole purpose of being vivid and elegant, meant for the balls and feasts of queens instead of caves high in the hills. 

“He couldn’t have even one pair of thicker pants, could he, Roach?” Geralt growled, hauling the saddlebags from her back in a haphazard rush to find something that would work. He needed to hurry, to be faster than his worry and the concern rearing its head inside him that Jaskier’s rasping gasps were feeding. 

Grabbing his cloak, old and worn but still dry and big enough to wrap Jaskier thrice around with, Geralt bundled him into it until his trembling subsided just slightly. The mop of brown hair plastered to his forehead and the way he’d curled up as soon as he lay down made Jaskier look young, and defenseless in a way that Geralt didn’t often see in him. Sure, the bard wasn’t the fighter of the pair but he wasn’t one to be cowed by a bared blade or two, more often than not he’d be the reason for it, with insults more colorful than his clothes. 

“What now?” he asked, glancing back at Roach as if she’d have an answer for him. Jaskier would usually be the one to fill the silence, but without him it felt wrong to leave the quiet unbroken, as if that heavy stillness would stifle him while he battled the tremors that wracked his body. 

After starting a fire and setting their dinner to cook, Geralt couldn’t stop trying to pull the folds of his cloak tighter with Jaskier’s every move, a need to do something, anything, gnawing at his bones. He dragged Jaskier’s pack closer and dug inside in search of an answer to his question. Charcoal, sheaves of notes and bundles of strings littered the bag, along with old dried flowers and a few pebbles he must have had some reason for carrying even if Geralt couldn’t understand why. There was even a scrap of frayed leather near the bottom that he would’ve sworn was a piece of the strip he used to tie his hair back.

“There’s buttercups and beetle casings in here, but no fucking medicine.” Geralt swore under his breath with every empty passing second, the wheezing at his back serving as a tortuorous measure of how much time he was letting slip by with no solution. 

“Pocket… Side,” the bare whisper was accompanied by a weak tug on his shirt as Jaskier shifted an inch closer to the fire. 

“At least you’re talking, that means you can’t be dying.”

“Who says… I can’t do both at once?” Jaskier nodded his head, ruffling the tuft of hair at his ear that had poked out over the edge of Geralt’s cloak and tempting him to tuck it back underneath. The bottle in Geralt’s hand was fogged up with a label that had peeled off partly to leave only ‘erwort’ written in scraggly handwriting. 

“Witness the marvelous… talking dead.”

“You’re not there yet, bard,” shoving a pinch or so into the pot of water he’d collected from the rain outside, Geralt took the small victory of the sight of a fragile grin stretching Jaskier’s lips, “Don’t compose a dirge before they even find the body.”

“Those aren’t… my style.” Lapsing into silence again, Jaskier stared at the curling flames for the slow minutes it took for the water to grow hot. In between stoking the fire, Geralt kept his eye on the slow rise and fall of his chest, counting the seconds and cursing his oversights. He could tell a drowned dead from a common drowner just by the squelch of its footsteps and yet he failed to catch the signs of what was happening right next to him. 

After pouring a cup full of the concoction, he propped Jaskier up with a careful arm under him, nigh cradling his head across his lap from the need to keep him steady. 

“Heard you talking to Roach… Miss me?” Watery blue eyes met his, the glee glimmering there even amidst the glassiness from the fever. 

“Haven’t had a chance to catch up with her in a while.” Geralt pushed the rim of the cup to Jaskier’s mouth. “Drink.” 

I see… how it is,” Jaskier muttered between sips when Geralt refilled the cup. “Playing… favorites.”

“Jaskier, are you jealous of a horse?” The relief that flooded through him at the scrape of a laugh from Jaskier’s throat had Geralt’s heart lighter than a bird. 

“No… That’s not fair… to Roach. Ugh, I forgot how… distasteful that stuff is.” 

His eyes slipped closed, body relaxing into Geralt’s hold though he was still hot to the touch. Finding himself loathe to disturb Jaskier’s fitful sleep, he stayed still, stiffly so at first and finally bracing his back against the cave’s wall with a last look at Roach as his hands stayed resting on the folds of his cloak and the warm body inside. 

“Had you worried, right, Roach?” He frowned at the mist outside, mind set on the next time and what he’d do when the silence came. 

prompts open

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Admonished w/Lee please!

tw: captivity, swearing, dehumanization, general creepiness 

Lee’s been scolded his entire life.

Sometimes it was a mild scolding, just a few sharp words and raised voice. Sometimes it was screaming in his face and rough grips and pain.

Lately, being scolded felt like the sting of a fucking riding crop whipping against whatever part of him was most convenient, closest.

“I told you, no fucking swearing,” Leon hisses at him, gripping his jaw in a sudden vice. The hypocrisy is not lost on the man, Lee knows, rather he enjoys taking liberties that Lee himself cannot.

“Fuck off,” Lee bites back, baring his teeth in a snarl.

“Do you ever learn?” Lee is fairly sure Leon is just talking to himself now, wondering aloud and all, because he draws a breath to respond and the man shoves a piece of cloth into his mouth. Lee grunts, and Leon slaps him. “You look great with something stuffing your mouth like that darling.”

There’s that creepy bullshit Lee’s been waiting for.

“I mean, you really do run your mouth far too much for your own good,” Leon admonished. “I’m just trying to help you learn.”

Right yeah, this is just a case of a teacher being a little strict, hm?

He was taught by the professor for four years and then had to learn to be the man’s secretary, he knows what fucking strict looks like.

“No, no, no,” Leon tangles a hand in his hair and rips at his scalp, suddenly vicious, “don’t fucking think about him. I can always tell when you’re thinking about him and your little boyfriend and not me and it’s just insulting, don’t you think?”

Lee doesn’t answer, shifting his gaze away from Leon and settling on a speck on the wall instead. Leon, predictably, slaps him.

“You’ll learn, love,” the man promises, “you’re going to be so fucking good for me when I’m finished with you.”

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Based on this post.

The first person Ev calls is Dory, the team leader. 

“Who is this?” Dory asks, and she sounds so much older than when Ev had left the team all those years ago. 

“It’s Ev.” Ev grits his teeth against the pain from the wound in his side. “Look, I-”

Ev? Oh my God,” says Dory, letting out a sharp laugh. “You better have a good reason to be calling me.”

“I’m dying. I got shot, and it’s too late for me. Now shut up. I need to tell you some things.”

Keep reading

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