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[httpsserene]

𝐡𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝟑𝐊 𝐕-𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

welcome to the table of contents for my three-thousand followers celebration !!!

i’m amazed that we’ve reached this milestone, and so quickly at that! in under three months there were one thousand more of y'all !!! in that short period, i did succeed in staying active on tumblr and interacting with many of you—i got so many requests that i’m STILL working my way through, i’ve chatted to some of you through my inbox, and dm’s or replies, and i will forever be grateful for the endless support, laughs, and encouragement y’all have offered me.  sending love to my moots: ilysm. thank you for any bit of chatting you’ve had with me—i really do cherish every one of you, no matter how small or large our interaction has been. extremely happy to call you my moots < 3. @biancathecool @barnestatic @ashiekins @saintslewis @lorarri @ham1lton @loomiscorpse @vetteltea @hookhausenschips @shurisasthmaticgf @mauvecherie-writes @omgsuperstarg @justaf1girl @emjayewrites (i'm sorry if i've forgotten someone, i love you dearly, i promise x) and, of course, a huge ily & tysm to the members of the taglists! i would tag you here but there are too many of you (pls i love y'all down < 3) and it would break the post :)

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[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Libations

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm Length: ~4200 words Rating: M, sexual content and a bit of canon-typical violence, with very temporary character death. Summary:

Five and twenty words exactly and Aylin feels like she will expire on the spot, divine heritage and immortality be damned. By the time she has composed herself and her mind into something resembling coherence, excused herself from the meeting with her lieutenants, and started counting out the words of If you wish it, I shall leave my armour on, and— Aylin realises with a curse that her window for composing a reply has long gone.

Isobel, Aylin, the Sending spell, and the twists and turns of a century-long romance reflected in 25-word installments.

But for the most part our girls are simply playful and horny.

Written for day 7 of Aylin/Isobel Week 2025, for the prompts: The road to Baldur's Gate - and beyond | Courtship, romance, letters, bloodline.

I wanted to end the week on something (mostly) happy. A huge thanks to everyone who's taken part in this - I have so much to catch up on, be it reading, commenting, or replying, and it is a true delight. I hope you all enjoyed my own contributions, and I hope you enjoy this one as well.

Also on AO3.

—

Libations

The summer Isobel completes her training is one of the longest and driest in Reithwin's recollection. When it comes to be her turn for a field excursion and initiation mission with the other acolytes, Isobel begs and pleads and argues with her father for days. There is no need for the Lady of Moonrise to go, he claims; no point to Isobel putting herself at risk, or dragging herself through the dusty, sweltering inconveniences of a field campaign. But Isobel will not be deterred, and the cold war of the two stubborn Thorms in Moonrise Towers stretches on for a full blistering tenday.

Ultimately and begrudgingly, likely knowing his daughter is bound to simply leave of her own accord otherwise, Ketheric relents - but not without stipulations and conditions. For one, Isobel is to report back regularly using the Sending spell to keep him personally appraised of events and of her well-being. Second, Isobel is to use the freshly-procured and altogether excessive amount of scrolls of the selfsame spell, in order to make sure she is never straining her own magical resources.

And so Isobel sets out, saves a village, combats bandits, prevents a drought, heals more people than she ever thought herself capable of, and neglects to use a single one of the spell scrolls.

-

The first message is utter torment. Isobel toils over it, scraps so many bits of drafting paper her room starts looking decidedly snowed-in, and as white as her actually ice-locked balcony. At least Squire seems to be having fun batting the crumpled-up balls around the floor.

There is the form of address, to start with.

Dame Aylin seems, to Isobel's eye, proud and honoured by her role and many, many titles, very delightfully certain of her own resplendence, but also not so keen on being singled out for formalities and praise that erred on the side of worshipful. That kind of reverent prayer and supplication, she claimed as she waved it off, was meant for her great divine Mother.

She is striking and intimidating, to be sure - but once one tries it, she is the very opposite of unapproachable. Her smiles are wide, enthusiastic, freely given, and she is just as generous with hands clapped on shoulders or rousing proclamations. It is so easy, standing next to her, to believe yourself capable of grand deeds. A true beacon of hope and the quintessential paladin - Isobel could hardly hide her starry-eyed appreciation after mere moments in her orbit.

And yet whenever the glorious Dame Aylin turns that gleaming silver gaze towards her, when she truly looks at Isobel, all of this is so unmistakably tinged with something else. Something they are both aware of; something that looms, and seems both so unlikely and strange and so inevitable and so right. One of them need only take the first momentous step.

So, Isobel agonises, is this it? Is this the step? It seemed like such a clever idea when it occurred to her, when she knocked over her case of scrolls one unassuming morning, left over from all those years ago. A simple Sending spell: direct, private, with an invitation for the two of them to meet somewhere just as private. Promising a response within seconds, if the recipient is willing. And if not, well… Isobel could worry about that when the time came to face her goddess' literal daughter in the inevitable duty-related context again.

Honoured Emissary, Sword of the Silverlight, Champion of the Moonmaiden, Blessed Moondaughter - Isobel could use twenty-five words and more just getting through the preamble. Nonsense. Missing the point entirely, at that.

So she simply settles for Dame Aylin, not yet feeling quite so bold as to leave the title out, notes down her auspicious beginning on her current and latest little vellum scrap, and stops.

Now: counting out the remaining twenty-three perfect and exact words she wishes to send, to be heard.

Isobel groans and lets her head thunk against the solid wood of her desk.

-

It started with that fateful meeting in the audience hall of Moonrise, threading the first of its tiny roots through them both. But it flourished with the surprising summons that made Aylin's heart beat like a lively drum, and the brief private audience that turned into a long night of confessions - and rather rapidly growing closeness to stave off the cold - in the frost-garlanded gardens beneath Moonrise.

In the warm months since, it has only bloomed.

Aylin finds herself on the receiving end of many a message from Reithwin's wisest and brightest and most mettlesome cleric, after that audacious first one. The invitations take many forms, from mock-formal proclamations to open suggestions for trysts, and Aylin adores and eagerly answers every single one.

Respected Emissary, starts the latest message, arriving just as Aylin is done cleaning and putting away the equipment she had borrowed for her morning training. The smile audible in Isobel's voice implies this one will be a cheeky mix of her habitual styles. You are hereby invited to attend today's solstice festivities at Moonrise Towers. Following supper, your presence is requested on the topmost west-facing balcony.

The entire whirlwind of the past few months has been altogether exhilarating and so delightfully new. Aylin finds herself wishing to leap into the air to twirl and loop at least some her immense exuberance away; to chase and herd clouds until they spell Isobel's name out in the otherwise clear sky.

Instead, she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself, to slow the blood still rushing through her veins after her drills and stretches and let her ruffled feathers settle back down, then replies: I shall be flying past momentarily, my darling. If my presence is welcome and desired this early, leave your window open.

The window, it turns out, is not merely left open as a signal of welcome. Isobel, leaning out of it, all but grabs Aylin right out of the air to pull her in for a kiss. And then another. And another, until Aylin laughs against her mouth and begs for a reprieve long enough to clamber into the room.

Selûnites, diverse and scattered as they are, have modes of dress and raiments just as varied. Aylin respects them all deeply, and regularly feels her heart both lightened and gladdened when encountering familiar insignia, sometimes with an interesting twist on the moon-and-stars-inspired designs, in some remote corner of the world.

Isobel is a highly skilled, well-qualified cleric, and she has doubtlessly earned her vestments well. She wears them with great pride, and on many occasions - never letting those around her forget she is a servant of Selûne just as much as she is the Lady of Moonrise, and Reithwin, and all the lands around it.

Aylin, of course, likes her best wearing nothing at all. But when needs must, when the time is too short, when the day is full of obligations for them both, she makes do. She ducks her head underneath layers and layers of robes with great delight, presses a trail of kisses up one calf, then all along the inside of a thigh, and prays her Mother doesn't mind Her clerical vestments being worn for a sweeter ritual than the one they shall take part in later.

-

Another change of seasons comes, then another, but the sweetness of their time together changes not at all - and neither does the enticing tension of their brief times apart.

Isobel grows well-practised in casting the Sending spell, and makes sure to have the bit of clipped copper wire it requires close at hand. Still, she keeps her stock of scrolls replenished, too. They are pricey - but Isobel allows herself this one indulgence, this one luxury.

She supposes she will eventually stop blushing furiously during her morning prayers, when it comes to the preparation of her chosen rituals and spells for the day. Isobel hopes the Goddess is amused, if anything; Her blessings She gives freely and easily enough.

But no amount of flushed distraction or momentary embarrassment can deter Isobel. Not when her beloved is so quick with the replies, so eager to rise to any challenge; not when a cleverly-worded message so often leads to her presence at Isobel's side and sparks such delectable inspiration in her.

Tonight, however, is merely frustrating. An inconvenience at most, in the grand scheme of things, but Aylin being called away on a brief but urgent matter when they'd had an indulgent romantic evening arranged soured both their moods considerably.

Aylin promised to return as soon as she was able that very night, swore the two of them would salvage whatever bit of their plans they could; swore, again, to make up for this ill-timed absence a dozen times over.

So Isobel waits, relieved as the humidity of the day slowly clears, watches the moon steadily traverse the clear summer sky, and indulges in thoughts since all else is out of reach. She hums and contemplates the shapes of a gorgeous, strong neck trailing down to a beautifully corded shoulder, with that one eye-catching line of gold woven across it.

She discards their plans one by one; the dinner, the stroll, tasting the new seasonal ales at the inn, the bath— well, perhaps not the bath.

Isobel goes out onto her balcony, pacing in the blessedly fresh breeze that still fails to drive the nigh-feverish flush from her skin, and sends her message.

I am in no mood for romantic candlelight. I wish to see this firestorm kindled within me illuminate the divinely chiselled marble of your face.

Aylin's reply is as a murmur against her ear, as light as the caress of the midsummer wind on its sensitive tip.

Our Lady of Silver, in all her foresight, has fashioned for my beloved a throne. Soon you shall take your rightful place upon it.

Not an hour later, when the sound of wings finally comes from just out of view, Isobel feels like she could take flight herself.

-

The winter campaign against an unpleasant alliance of Sharrans and Cyricists is long and arduous, and takes Aylin further north than Neverwinter. The cold is biting and the ground hard, particularly after she has allowed herself to get used to the luxury of a high-born lady's warm bed. But worst of all is the gaping wound that her absence feels like. For all the joy Aylin draws from the loyal comrades she has been fighting with, they are simply not Isobel Thorm. Her darling, unmatched in every aspect.

Another day dawns, another map is unfurled upon the camp-table, another scouting party reports their findings. The dark forces seem to be dwindling, at long last, and Aylin lets burgeoning hope wash over her.

My fierce, fearless paladin, Isobel's sweet voice bursts out of nowhere, rich with yearning and just a touch breathy, pouring like honey over Aylin's mind. I often wonder how it would taste, to have a sip of you fresh from battle, eyes still ablaze, raging. Consider.

Five and twenty words exactly and Aylin feels like she will expire on the spot, divine heritage and immortality be damned.

By the time she has composed herself and her mind into something resembling coherence, excused herself from the meeting with her lieutenants, and started counting out the words of If you wish it, I shall leave my armour on, and— Aylin realises with a curse that her window for composing a reply has long gone.

-

She misses her sorely, today. Her Aylin, her angel, off on an important quest that turned into a months-long endeavour. And it is not - well, it is not just the enthralling physical proximity, or the delicious skills of mouth or fingers, nor simply her wonderful warmth during the cold winter months. It is the large, sword-calloused hand always ready to envelop Isobel's, the blindingly bright smile, the eyes softened and gentle and wide in their endless attentiveness, the way she makes even the simplest everyday statements sound like poetry.

The world feels just a little bit emptier, because she is not here. So Isobel does the one thing she can, and weaves a bit of magic to let her know.

My precious angel, from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were meant to be mine, and I yours. And then she pauses - Isobel cannot, in that tiny span of time she has to finish her spell, summarise the enormity of this feeling. So she concludes simply: I miss you.

The reply comes almost instantly, the beloved voice effervescent in Isobel's mind and sending delightful shivers down her spine.

Darling, I yearn for your blessèd presence more than words can say. I shall endeavour to show you most ardently upon my return. Eternally yours—

Isobel smiles at the sudden stop, clutches the thin remnants of her little wire to her chest. She wants to throw herself on her bed and giggle giddily like an enamoured schoolgirl. Wants to flee the tower and leave Reithwin behind immediately, running off to wherever Aylin was.

Instead she takes a deep breath in a room that feels slightly less cold and desolate, and prepares to go about another day.

-

The days have grown long and warm, but the spring showers have not yet begun. Aylin takes advantage of the light and flies back to Reithwin as fast as her wings can carry her - faster, perhaps, as she notes some soreness and a twinge of fatigue that her tireless self is hardly used to.

But it matters little, for she cuts the deliberately unannounced return trip from her long absence by almost half. Awash in self-satisfaction, Aylin sneaks up the stairs at Moonrise on subtle foot instead of flying up by resplendent wing. She reaches the second floor landing when an almost-expected, certainly-anticipated message rings out so musically in her mind.

I have seen this long winter to its bitter end, with nothing but thoughts of you to keep me warm. Will my reprieve come soon?

She knocks at the door, and Isobel opens it, then stares, agape. Aylin smirks, meets her wide eyes shining bright with joyful surprise, and sends her reply, gaze unbroken.

Momentarily, my dearest. I do so love when you spill your sweetness down my throat.

"Aylin," Isobel half-cries, half-hisses, flushed. She yanks Aylin into the room and kicks the door closed in one movement, then locks it in another. Yanks, again, Aylin down for a kiss, quickly followed by several more, frustration and delight mingling delectably.

Aylin grins into the kisses, then chuckles when Isobel nips at her lower lip. "Is vengeance not my most holy duty? Here is but some small restitution, for your… adventurous messaging, darling Isobel. Or is it that you would have preferred me speak the words aloud? I am more than willing—"

"Aylin," Isobel breaks her daze enough to twine her fingers in Aylin's hair and gently pull, urging her downwards. "Put that incorrigible mouth to better use, my love. I'm— it won't take very long."

Aylin follows and obeys, eagerly and happily. On her knees, large hands grasping at the softness of Isobel's thighs tightly, chastised mouth hot and willing and hungry.

-

Summer comes early that year, and stays late.

And so does Aylin. Perhaps it is her Mother's way of repaying her for a prolonged tour of duty. Perhaps Selûne merely wishes to spoil Her dear daughter. In any case, Isobel has no complaints whatsoever.

Aylin, it seems, cannot get enough of any of it. Not the vagaries of mortal life that she keeps discovering, nor the extended indulgence of this honeymoon.

"I have bathed in the silver waters beneath Argentil," she proclaims, "coasted through the timeless Astral Sea… but this… this is a wonder beyond even my reckoning."

The wonder is a perfectly average and perfectly divine day spent alone together. They are in Isobel's room, all of its doors and windows open to allow as much of the sweet-smelling late afternoon air in as possible. Entangled in each other upon an utterly mussed up bed, gloriously happy and sated.

"Nothing compares to this," Aylin murmurs her conclusion against Isobel's damp, tangled hair, and presses as close to her as plain, mundane, material flesh and skin and bone will allow.

Isobel frowns; the sweetness, unbidden, suddenly developing a bitter aftertaste. Her darling is a being of two worlds and Isobel has anchored her to one. When she is gone, what tether will remain, if any?

But that is not a contemplation for now. Not when Aylin's hands, always prone to wandering, start trailing some rather suggestive paths over her bare skin once more.

"Again?" Isobel laughs, though she cannot find it in herself to complain at all.

"Hmm," Aylin hums against her neck, which she now seems determined to entirely cover with kisses. "Call me a glutton, then. Name me… ravenous and insatiable. Dame Aylin has never shrunk from the truth."

"What else is she, this Dame Aylin?"

Aylin pauses and lifts her head to look at Isobel. Then she smirks, always all too happy to play along. "Proud, to be sure. Though not without reason, I should think."

"Oh?"

Aylin nibbles on the sensitive pointed tip of an ear, before whispering into it - and how delightful, Isobel muses, to face an opponent who knows all your weaknesses. "She does not need to weave spells and convey her words directly into her beloved's mind at inopportune times in order to make her blush, for one."

"Is that so? Well," Isobel smiles, turning to face her with a steely look in her eyes, unflinching in her challenge. "Prove it."

Aylin inclines her head, the picture of respectful obedience, save for the cheeky twist to her lip she is failing to suppress, and the telltale way her feathers have ruffled up. "As you wish. Let me first count the words, in the interest of complete fairness."

Within moments, she bends down to murmur against Isobel's ear again. "My darling, enticing within and without," each word Aylin accompanies by a light trail of fingers - under Isobel's chin, along her rib cage, up and then down the inside of each thigh. "Bids me drip upon her sheets my eagerness to receive whatever gifts she sees fit to bestow upon me."

"Not bad at all," Isobel replies, biting her lip to stifle her grin at the delightful frisson the words have invoked, and pressing her thighs together when Aylin's hand tries to venture further. "But why don't you try again?"

-

Your counsel is required on a crucial matter. Come to Moonrise at your earliest convenience. It is of vital importance that you do not delay.

It is Isobel's message, of course, but Aylin is struck by the tone of it. No endearments, and no playful teasing - utter seriousness.

I am on my way, beloved, worry not, Aylin replies, simply and swiftly. Then she frowns, turns to the assembly of merchants and tollhouse clerks Ketheric Thorm had drawn her into for incomprehensible and likely petty reasons, and excuses herself.

A few wing-beats, and Aylin has coasted across the breadth of half the town. A turn and a dash and she is flying up the imposing tower of Moonrise along most of its height, until she alights on Isobel's balcony. She herself is standing there, expectant, but entirely unperturbed and blissfully calm even in the chill breeze.

Aylin sighs, understanding what has transpired at once. "My darling, as grateful as I am for your valiant rescue, you cannot make a habit of this."

Isobel does not pout - it would be unbecoming. Instead she raises a clever eyebrow and smiles just so. "Oh? Whyever not?"

"What if you needed me urgently and I thought it merely one of your jests, your sweet games…"

Isobel smirks, maddeningly close, wildly beautiful. "But I always need you quite urgently." Then, upon seeing Aylin's frown, her teasing drops, and she amends with all seriousness. "If it has become uncomfortable, or if you don't like it for any reason at all, I'll stop, of course. Aylin—"

"No! No, no. It is not that. I enjoy it, I do. All of these delightful reminders… as if you were with me, always, even when I am leagues away. But soon…"

"Soon, there will be no need," Isobel finishes, reiterating that most solemn pledge. As soon as the season turns, as soon as the roads clear, the two of them are setting off on long-promised adventures of their own. Then she gives that little smirk again that makes her eyes glimmer with the most exquisite mischief. "But it can still be fun, regardless."

Aylin nods, then raises Isobel's hand for a kiss. "Shall we go inside, then, and see to this urgent matter?"

-

There are months that pass like days, and days that pass like years, and years that, in their passing, vary their span from decades to minutes.

And there is a period of Aylin's life when she would have named herself blissfully happy. Utterly content, even. But, however long it lasted, it could never have been long enough.

-

The first dagger comes out of nowhere; out of a darkness so complete the warm, diffused light of the hallway torches right outside the room does not even touch it. The force of it and the pain send Isobel to the ground. Her spear is kicked out of her hands, swallowed by the shadows.

She hears the assassin cry out in surprise, then hears Squire yelp.

Isobel seizes the distraction, drags herself along the floor, towards the brooch she has been using as a spellcasting focus, and the bit of wire clipped to it just in case, that has torn off her robes and skidded under her desk. But the assassin looms over her once more, twists the knife out of her back, and kicks at her hand again, and Isobel's lifeline is lost in the darkness, too.

The contents of her desk are strewn on the floor around her, most of them stained by the growing, concerningly large puddle of blood beneath her.

One of them is a scroll. Isobel reaches for it with rapidly numbing fingers, and starts to speak as it disintegrates in her hand.

"Aylin," she gasps out, just barely, "help."

The rest of the words go unused.

Miles away, Aylin is startled awake from her doze, awash in a cold terror that matches the icy winds outside, and knows it is too late.

-

Then there is a century of silence. But this, too, passes.

-

It is a honey-sweet molasses-thick summer afternoon when Isobel finally sees the sea. And as wondrous as it is in all its seemingly endless span before her, at the moment the most fascinating part of it is the droplets and rivulets that cling to and race across Aylin's skin. Gold, gold, gold, wherever she looks.

She presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder, wide, strong, solid, with an ancient oath Isobel herself has sworn: tenderness for Aylin, always, forever, to make up for a century of none and to fill up every crevice of her being. This time it is but a small measure poured from Isobel's lips, in exchange for the salty tang.

The water is a bit too cold for Isobel's taste - she did not go in past her ankles, and swiftly retreated to the sun-warmed sand they'd spread a blanket over. But she still gets a refreshing taste of it when Aylin rushes in up to her chest, spreading her wings and fluffing the feathers, flicking this way and that, working the water into all of her and showering Isobel with a pleasant spray. Her pure, joyful grin is utterly contagious, and her exclamations as she swims out make Isobel's heart swell.

Isobel reaches over to the satchel at her side, plucks out a scroll and sends I love you I love you I love you I love you until the words run out to Aylin, within glorious sight but just out of reach.

Aylin's surprise is evident as she starts, then turns to swim and wade back immediately. Her eyebrows shoot up almost comically as she catches sight of the entire armful of scrolls Isobel has packed away.

"My darling," she begins, as close to hesitant Isobel has ever seen her be, incongruously combined with her ever-impressive broad frame currently on such luxurious display. "Do you not find it beautiful, nay, miraculous, that should you have any desires, you need only ever lean closer and whisper them into my ear?"

"I do," Isobel answers, truthful and heartfelt, and awash anew in appreciation of all their hard-won blessings. "But for the sake of a little fun once in a while, I thought it couldn't hurt. Besides, the young master of Ramazith's Tower and all its endless magical riches owed us a favour, and obliged, no questions asked."

Aylin hums in understanding, and grins. "So," she drawls, in a beautifully and heatingly familiar tone, "does my beloved harbour any wishes of me?"

"Not for the moment," Isobel shakes her head but does not try to hide her sly smile. "Enjoy yourself - I was merely enjoying the view."

Aylin nods, but stays crouched next to her, eyes narrowed, intent. Then with little warning she scoops Isobel up in her arms, and ambles back through the sand and pebbles and into the sea. She effortlessly keeps Isobel above the surface of the chilly water - such casual thoughtfulness - and lets her instead be soaked by the clinging seawater warmed by her own endlessly warm body.

Isobel laughs and laughs and laughs, then throws her arms around her and kisses her sweetly.

Suspended, amber-clad and preserved in all its beauty, the moment lasts forever.

[stellar-solar-flare]

I'm so glad to hear that you enjoyed this! It was a fun challenge to create this dynamic in the space of an oneshot - thank you for sending the prompt and sparking this!

I'm happy to hear that the chemistry came through, too. Guardian devil is such an apt description. She's reeling him in little by little and soon he'll realize that his soul is gone...

Thank you so much for all the generous compliments and the reblog. <3

For your event!!!

Steve + Mob AU + ”Would you really do that for me?” + nefarious

Thank you ☺️❤️

Thank you for sending in a prompt to my event, Siri! This took a bit of a turn in my head but I hope you still enjoy it. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Malogranatum | S. R.

soft dark!Avenger!Steve Rogers x mob boss!Reader | 2,417 words.

Explicit - 18+ only. Dark romance with themes of obsessive love. AU - canon divergence & mob themes.

Story Content Warnings: Explicit sexual fantasies, obsessive/unhealthy dynamics, cold-blooded violence, murder, organized crime, discussions of human trafficking / modern slavery, references to mythology including biblical mythology, soft dark Steve Rogers, soft dark Reader.

Read the tags and warnings and do not proceed if anything about them upsets you. Your media consumption is your responsibility.

Reader is female, no description of appearance beyond a mention of her wearing heels, dress, and makeup. No use of Y/N. I imagine she's somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties, about the same age as Steve - but it isn't mentioned in the text.

Notes: There is something about the dark side of canon Steve that continues to enchant me, and my take on the prompt I got was born out of that curiosity. I enjoyed playing with a darker Reader character and the themes of a more obsessive, unhealthier love that is still born out of shared views of the world. I hope you enjoy, and of course, I am always excited to hear from you so please leave a comment if you can spare the time and energy.

Malogranatum is one of the Latin forms of the word 'pomegranate'

I do not own anything Marvel related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

No one except you could look so perfectly nonchalant when stepping over a dead body while wearing five-inch designer heels.

A woman like you didn’t belong in a dump like this — it had hardly been a three-star hotel when it had been in business use, and what was left now had been deemed unsafe years ago. Now, the lobby was musty and covered in dust and grime, and now, thanks to Steve himself, blood.

As always, you were immaculate; no smudge on your blood-red lipstick, no stray hairs sticking out of your hairdo. A trench coat was draped over your shoulders, revealing a well-tailored dress underneath as you walked towards Steve. You could’ve as well been on your way to attend some upper-crust cocktail party.

“I should’ve known you’d come,” Steve said through gritted teeth.

Your security detail — a colossal blond man whom Steve had never heard utter a word, dressed in a sharp suit that seemed to only highlight his bruteness — stopped behind the body you’d just stepped over. The body was resting with his face down, and the man turned it over with his foot.

Steve looked away. His vision was still flashing in red, wine, maroon. Behind the shield that was fastened onto his button-down-covered arm, he clenched his fist tighter. He, too, was in civilian clothes — it hadn’t been intended to come down to an ambush at all, let alone with just him with no backup. It had been supposed to be a simple stakeout, a covert operation that’d determine if he would come back with reinforcements.

It hadn’t been intended to come down to a dead body and another at the brink of it.  

“I keep tabs on my enemies,” you said, glancing at the still-living man on the floor — now reduced to a whimpering mess curled up in a fetal position on the filthy rug.

“Me included?” Steve scoffed.

“Are we enemies, Captain Rogers?” you said as you stepped closer to him. “I see no reason why we should be.”

“I could have you dragged into the Tower just for the fact that you are here.”

A half-smile curved your lip up. The expensive, intoxicating note of your perfume drifted up Steve’s nose as you reached him. He inhaled it; it covered the thick iron stench of blood.

Blood that still dripped from the edge of the shield that he’d strapped back onto his arm.

“Again? If not even Romanoff can find anything to incriminate me… I’m starting to think you have a crush on me, to be so eager to lock me into an interrogation room and get up, close, and personal.”

It certainly wasn’t a crush, whatever it was that kept him up at night ever since he had started running into you.

“What about this situation is funny to you?”

“In my line of work, you develop quite the sense of humor,” you chuckled.

“Work, you call it?” Steve said, and you gave him a smile full of secrets.

“Pays the bills,” you said, shrugging as you craned your neck to examine the still-breathing man on the ground.

His whimpers had turned into gargled sobs, his shoulders shaking as if he was having some sort of seizure. Steve still didn’t know how hard he had hit him — he had caught the sight of him, standing here and laughing with his henchman, and everything had gone blind, scorching white, a supernova burning down everything from its path.

“What are you here for? I imagine a businesswoman such as you is much too busy to simply be here to chitchat. Did you come to gloat?”

“And why would I do that, when you have solved a pesky problem for me,” you said. “Have been trying to figure out a way to take him out of the game without a risk for collateral damage.”

“To you?” he replied, even as he knew what you were talking about by the tension of your jaw.

“To them,” you said, nudging your head up towards the ceiling.

He wasn’t sure if the people had heard the commotion downstairs — but even if they had, they wouldn’t have dared to ask questions. Steve wasn’t sure how many had been lured in in total, how many had already been sold to the highest bidder, and the thought summoned a newfound cloud of red mist into his head.

“Well aren’t you the beacon of morality, defender of the innocents,” Steve scoffed. “I know how red your hands are. I may not be able to prove it but I know.”

In reply, you rested your eyes on the bloodied shield and the bruises, already healing, on Steve’s knuckles, and he gritted his teeth hard enough to bite through iron.

“What are you doing here?” he continued, grasping for some edge into his voice.

He stepped closer to you, leaning into your personal space, and he heard your security detail shift before you held out a hand, signaling the bodyguard to stand down.

You looked at Steve, your eyes bright, your mouth slightly parted, and Steve remembered the Sunday school stories about the beauty of fallen angels, of the temptation of sin, of the redness of that cursed apple.

How sweet would the first bite of damnation taste on his tongue?

“I’m here to propose a deal,” you said, as if Steve’s presence or the violence that brimmed in his body, threatening to spill over, was having no effect on you at all.

“A deal?” Steve raised his brow. “Let me take a wild guess. You make this go away, and I become your little puppet.”

“I am simply offering to take out your trash,” you said, a smirk dancing on your lips. “No strings attached.”

“What do you get out of it?” he said, and you raised your brow in turn.

“You get to keep doing what you’re doing. He’s not the only one with similar ambitions; there is yet bigger fish in the sea. And I cannot… devote all my attention to this matter, as I do have my business to run.”

“And conveniently, less hands grasping whatever cake it is you’re splitting among yourselves in the shadows means a bigger slice for you. I’m supposed to believe you’re some sort of a Robin Hood, huh?”

The words had a bite to them, but he had poured over your case enough times to know that while you were no moral beacon, no Robin Hood, you did have a code of ethics. It certainly didn’t align with the moral of the law, but the compass that guided you was there. If the intel was right on you, you were good at avoiding what you had called collateral damage.

A sudden chill overtook your features.

“You know there are lines I do not cross,” you said.

Breathtaking. Beautiful, and treacherous, like the night itself. Steve swallowed past his dry throat. He shouldn’t be entertaining any of this, and whatever it was that had gotten him so tangled with you, he should nip it in the bud.

Too late for that.

“He should get a fair trial just like anyone else,” Steve said to bring his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Regardless of if he’s a rabid animal or not.”

You tilted your head, quirking your brow. Steve forced his eyes to stay away from the tendons of your neck, forced himself not to wonder if the column of your throat held places that’d make you moan if he feathered them with his lips.

“Oh no, Rogers. He is quite human. No other species on earth is capable of such calculated cruelty.”

You huffed as if the thought amused you, and Steve knew that you were right. Perhaps that was what today had been. His cup finally spilling over, and all the lava that had gathered over the decades taking down everything that laid on its path.

“And I will face whatever consequences that come for me, too,” Steve continued to avoid acknowledging your words.

He tried to push the sound of breaking bone out of his head, tried to pretend there hadn’t been a part of him that had cherished every punch, gloried in the righteous violence. The SHIELD had been on these bastards for months on end, and he remembered every disgusting detail of their deeds. And when he had finally been given a chance to strike, alone, he had found himself desiring not for justice but for revenge.

“They’ll toss you onto the Raft,” you said. “And what for? For dishing this scum a small portion of what he’s been serving to others.”

Steve jolted; victory flashed in your eyes as he did.

“How do you —”

“I told you, Rogers, I keep tabs on my enemies,” you replied.

“I thought you said we are not enemies.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” you said, and for a moment, your face grew entirely serious. “There is something fishy going on at SHIELD. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.”

Steve drew a breath at that. The warning… He didn’t want to admit it but something about it seemed to hum in tune with some instinctual thought in the back of his head.

“You have people on the inside.”

“You say that like you’re surprised,” you said, and the smile was back.

“I am not,” he said, the words delivered with the smallest hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

You took a step closer, almost close enough for your chest to brush against his. You tilted your head softly to the side, as you spoke quietly almost into his lips, and something just as all-consuming as the rage he had felt earlier shot through his veins. He could barely stop himself from leaning closer, reaching for your mouth with his, as your perfume wrapped around him.

“Our interests align, Rogers,” you breathed. “I would hate seeing my plans fall apart just because of something like him. An unfortunate incident; a little slip-up; an occupational hazard, almost. They might give him a fair trial but you will never get one. Is he really worth throwing away all the good deeds you could do, all the lives you are yet to save so you can rot on the Raft in martyrdom?”

An ice-cold current in Steve recognized the logic; agreed with it. The man that he struck down would never give someone else anything resembling fair — why should he himself get anything better?

“Would you really do that for me?” he asked.

“You look good with blood on your face,” you whispered as if it explained everything, and maybe it did.

Your hand rose slowly up, your warm fingertips gently brushing along the line of Steve’s jaw. A fresh whiff of your perfume reached his nose — musk, dark flowery notes, pomegranates — and it was the part of him that had walked through the battlefields of the Second World War and lived that made the decision.

He nodded, and your eyes sparkled with dark light.

The crisp taste of apple filled his mouth, and he wanted nothing more than he wanted it — to grab the wrist of the hand that was touching him and pull you into a crushing kiss. He yearned for all the ways he could make you sing his name, make you drip and beg and cry out for him — to make you burn in the raging turmoil of lust that had consumed him these past months. He wanted to keep you on the knife-sharp edge between desperation and bliss, he wanted you to ride him with a blade pressed against his throat, he wanted to be deemed worthy of your bed and worthy of sinking himself all the way to the hilt inside you.

Oh, how sweet it would be to fall from grace just to have a taste of you.

“Give me twenty minutes and call in the cavalry,” you said, and maybe you knew where his thoughts were, but nothing about your voice or your expression was betraying it.

“I got an anonymous tip,” he said, and he was still not moving away from you even as the thoughts were forming.

“I’ll have someone call your work number; untraceable, of course,” you continued. “And when you got here���”

“No trace of them; just signs of struggle and bloodstains.”

He didn’t want to feel the smile that was spreading onto his lips; he knew it didn’t reach his eyes, and he didn’t want it to. It was not a true smile — it was how a predator showed their teeth.

He should not have, and yet he didn’t find it in him to feel regret.

You took a step back and turned towards your security detail, who nodded, understanding some wordless message, and gave the whimpering man on the floor a sharp kick in the ribs. The impact was enough to turn him over — he had no strength for anything other than a pathetic gurgle — and Steve saw your brows rise just a millimeter when you looked at the bloody mess. Another one of those tiny smiles tugged your lips, and then it was gone as you reached inside your coat.

A picture of cold wrath; a goddess of destruction.

The gun you drew was a black pistol with a silencer screwed onto it; an elegant weapon, looking almost sophisticated, and yet deadly like a viper. You extended your arm with the ease of practiced routine, aiming straight between the man’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. Every movement had come with the indifference of inevitability.

You put the gun back where it had come from while your bodyguard threw the body over his shoulder and grabbed the other by the lapels of its coat — as if he was doing a task no different than dragging out two heavy bags of potatoes. He started making his way towards the door, and you turned to Steve.

There was a sleek white business card in your hand, and you slipped it into the chest pocket of Steve’s shirt. Even through the fabric, he could feel the warmth of your hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Captain Rogers,” you said, granting him one last smile of a seductress before you followed your security detail out of the door.

Steve stood there for a few minutes, staring at the new stain in the musty carpet. Then took the business card out of his pocket, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling deeply.

It smelled like you.

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[charmwasjess]

you know what this is about. so, without further ado: i'll let u pick between

Jocasta + tikken (tooka kitten)

and

Rael + shrimp cocktail

RAEL + SHRIMP COCKTAIL IT IS

Furthering my beloved "Dooku wouldn't know SHIT about fancy rich people stuff in his Jedi era" agenda. I got the idea for this because I literally watched a friend do the thing at the end.

*

“Finally.” The two Jedi crash into the backseat of the airtaxi, tangling as a pair of very long legs and two shorter, albeit slightly more intoxicated ones try to find room in the tight space. The droid driver acknowledges their Temple destination coordinates, and, with a lurch and swoop, they join the Coruscanti traffic and leave the heat and noise of the event behind them. 

“What an utter, unconscionable disaster,” Dooku, usually the architect of such disasters on missions, announces before Rael can even put his standard distracting-him protocols in place. “A complete farce.” 

“Aw, Master, it wasn’t so bad…” 

Rael’s both lying and stalling, of course, trying to figure out which point of failure Dooku is even so upset about. If it’s related to Rael’s own misbehavior, or some social misstep of Dooku’s, or both. 

“Really?” Dooku’s voice rises incredulously. He’s going wide: his internal targets expanding beyond the particulars into the concept itself, his exhaustion warring with his need to deliver a scathing monologue about the very existence of such fancy political events. “An egregious waste of taxpayer resources with no purpose but pageantry, overindulgence in liquor and ego in equal measures. And both tedious and invasive! For a Jedi of my position? The delegation from Mandriss clearly felt they were entitled to my entire life story.”

“Hmm.”

“And,” Dooku’s tone is aghast now, detailing the worst of the worst, “why do they even have that fork?” 

Rael’s been doing the dutifully-listening Padawan bit, since it seems Dooku is just upset in general, not mad at him specifically, but the fork thing makes him snort. Too bad he wasn’t there to see whatever Dooku did with the fork. 

“And you?” Dooku rounds on him. “Where were you? You left me trapped with that governor!” 

Whoops. Distraction protocol. “I thought the whole thing was that you needed to talk to the governor. Fact-finding stuff. I was giving you space to work your magic!” 

“Talk to him? Yes. I needed a single piece of information from him. But our good governor would simply not…” shut up is the sentiment that flashes like heat lightning behind Dooku’s clouded presence, but of course, his dear Master would never say such a thing, so he simply groans into his hands and continues his internal combustion. 

It’s a little funny, or would be, if Rael didn’t actually feel bad for Dooku. Tall and elegant with a holostar’s velvet voice and a legitimate family connection to royal governance on Serenno, his Master makes an obvious choice to represent the Order at the occasional high-end political function. Except Rael knows Dooku’s heart is made for the battlefield, not the banquet hall. He actually loves that about him.

“I feel wretched,” Dooku admits, massaging his temples. His righteous outrage seems to be collapsing into ennui. 

Odd. When they first started together as Master and Padawan, Rael thought Dooku was a complete stoic: an unfeeling mountain. Once you got to know him though, it was actually amazing how much bitching the man was capable of. Maybe it was that Dooku treated Rael differently now than he had when he was a little kid. There weren’t actually so many years between eighteen and twenty-nine. 

“Yeah, yeah, you feel bad ‘cause you didn’t eat hardly anything.” Rael doesn’t have to guess: Dooku has that exact flavor of cranky that has the aftertaste of emptiness and unacknowledged need that always just made everything worse.

Dooku glowers at him. 

Rael slings an arm around his shoulders, affection –or possibly the several atomic sting shots he’d taken with the bridesmaids - bubbling up in his chest. Hell, he loves this old man.

“Here,” Consoling now, Rael fishes into his robe pocket. “Want some shrimp?” 

“Shrimp?”

He holds out the upsettingly pink offering for Dooku. Five nice, plump cocktail shrimp. Only a little warm from his body heat. Better that way, really. 

Dooku is quiet. 

“Got the cocktail sauce in the other pocket.” 

Rael can’t decide if it is awe or horror dawning in his Master’s eyes. Hell, maybe it’s both. 

“They weren’t… even serving shrimp?” That deep, polished voice of Dooku’s is oddly faint. 

Yeah. Maybe not at the event Dooku was at. Now, at the wedding party taking place on the event space’s lower level, on the other hand… Rael fixes on his widest, most appealing grin. 

A Master may keep a few private secrets, Dooku is sometimes fond of saying, usually about something totally obvious to Rael, like the source of the occasional mark on his collarbone, the one that's always the exact same size and shape as Sifo-Dyas’s mouth. 

Well, Rael figures, a Padawan can keep some too. 

Dooku glances between his open palm and his smile, calculations happening behind his eyes. 

It doesn’t matter. Rael already knows he’s going to eat the shrimp.

[lazybakerart]

a cute harringrove thing for you: billy being in the middle of trying to do something but he keeps shaking away bits of hair that get into his eyes and steve just comes up behind him, puts his hair into a bun, then casually goes back to where he was while billy's stunned and blushing before he returns to his task with a big grin on his face

The AC's out.

Billy's cracked the unit open with a flathead screwdriver he found under the sink and a few choice words. July hit hard. Sweat drips down his nose as he tries to fix and not kick a heavy metal box down three stories.

In the small kitchen just a few feet behind his hunched back, Steve's popping more ice out and yelling at the radio - a Dodgers game has gone to shit.

Billy swipes his sweat-stuck curls back just to have all of them tumble right back in the way again.

Summers always leave Billy regretting growing out his hair.

He hadn't meant to. A couple months without a haircut grew into a couple years where a couple of half-assed snicks with the scissors he uses for zip ties and toe nails were all he made do with. Every year he forgets how much of it there is when summer arrives to remind him.

Snapping back up, screwdriver in a vice-grip, Billy yanks his hair back with both hands and yells FUCK YOU at the stained popcorn ceiling and his own mane fried with West Hollywood humidity.

"What's wrong now? What happened?" Steve has the honest nerve to say after over an hour of this.

"I'm shaving my head."

A deep sigh and Steve's opening some cabinet that creaks and needs to be oiled - the deal when they first moved in was Billy dealt with the electric shit and Steve got everything that wouldn't have him sizzling when he got distracted.

Plumbing means rock, paper, scissors comes out and goddamnit if Billy doesn't lose every single round.

He and the plunger have built a relationship.

Billy blames dying and coming back with fried nerves and a second-rate case of stigmata making his every joint he's got stiff, his hands getting the worst of it. He'd be a lousy second coming anyways.

"That time of year again, huh?" Steve says.

He stands behind Billy, swatting away his frustrated steel-grip to comb through Billy's curls, pulling them back and away.

"There are these things - they're called hair-ties," Steve gently pulls Billy's hair through elastic, "And I know you like using rubber bands because you're a freak," Slowly he winds Billy's overgrown hair around, "But these are, like, at least twice as good. Now, we just twist," He twists, "And twist some more and - boom! Done. I'm awesome."

Steve spins Billy around by the shoulders twice, his sweaty feet squeaking on the scratched up oak floors. He holds Billy in place, sweaty hands on Billy's sweaty nape, sweaty thumbs running circles, and it doesn't seem to matter much to him that the AC is broken and they're reaching the peak 90s on the thermostat.

Steve's looking at him.

All tender.

All sweet.

A little tipsy from better beer than they chugged in high school. It's been seven years since they hit the highway and left Indiana for good. Three more months and five more days and they'll hit eight.

"Oh no." Steve croons at him. Smile turning cotton soft. Those sweaty hands move to cup Billy's face and those running thumbs rub just under Billy's eyes. "Why are we crying?"

"It's hot." Billy says.

Pinching his ears around his piercings, Steve tells him, "You're hot."

Billy sniffles. Snot drips, meets his upper lip and Steve wipes it off - eight years worth of tears and snot and blood and spunk and so much sweat.

And so much fucking good shit.

From an open window in their cramped apartment, a slice of warmed July breeze catches on the back of Billy's newly bared neck. He tosses the screwdriver somewhere.

"And," Steve pecks him on the lips, bites at his nose to make sure Billy gets heat-stroke, "You've got a great ass."

The AC can wait a little longer.

[startanewdream]

A while ago you wrote older jily telling Sirius about their 2nd and very unexpected pregnancy. As it was on fool day Sirius didn't believe them.

Could you write a sequel with Sirius understanding it's not a joke? (If you think that a caustic remus should be a witness of this all, i wouldn't mind😁😘)

For you, Zin , hope you enjoy this pure *chaos* down here❤️ (first part)

***

With a flick of his wand, James sends all the dishes to the sink. "I'll take care of them in the morning," he promises.

Lily nods lazily; she stands up, moving to the liquor cabinet. James beats her to it, waving her to sit again. She almost laughs; hopefully, in a few days, his overprotective care will subdue.

In front of her, Tonks—well, Lupin, technically, but Lily still sees her as Tonks—winks at her.

"This one was the same," she says, nudging her husband. "Usually made a mess because he didn't want me to do anything."

"You were nine-months long, it didn't seem natural that you could move at all."

"I couldn't be more clumsy than I usually am—I nearly broke your front vase, Lily, sorry."

James chuckles. "It was a gift from Sirius, we wouldn't mind."

The man in question lifts his eyebrows. "You said you had loved it."

"No, what I said is that I could see you loved going for shopping in IKEA."

"I'm man of good taste."

"I find that hard to believe—how is the refurbishment of Grimmauld's Place?"

"That place improved a lot since I took down my dear mother's portrait."

"You mean since we took it down—two hours worthy of charms and I didn't get offered any beverage—"

"Speaking of," Lily begins, deciding that interrupting them is the best course; it's late after all. "Weren't you going to offer our guests a last drink?"

James flushes. "I don't think Sirius can be considered a guest anymore. He's part of the furniture by now."

"The nicest furniture," Sirius agrees, unashamed, accepting the glass with liquor that James offers him. He tastes the drink, then looks at James finishes serving Remus and Tonks, before closing the liquor bottle. "You forgot yours."

"Oh, I'm not drinking. Solidarity and all." He winks at Lily, who blows him a kiss in answer.

"Not drinking? Lily needs her sleeping juice."

"I do not," Lily says dignifiedly. "And I should drink in my current state."

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Are you two still keeping that joke?"

"What joke?" Tonks asks, curious.

Lily sighs. "Dear Padfoot is under the impression I'm not really pregnant."

"You cannot be pregnant," declares Sirius, as if it's obvious. Tonks snorts.

"Well, for the things I've unfortunately witnessed between them, I'd say she can be pregnant, no question."

"Yeah." James holds the back of his neck, his cheeks red. "Sorry about that, we thought we had locked the door—"

Remus laughs heartily. "That's how you know you are part of the family," he assures Tonks. "It's a tradition to catch them...ah... making babies, I guess."

"To be fair, it only happened twice," Lily notes.

"People catching you two or the babies?"

Lily nods gravely. "If I had a child for every time someone caught us, we could have our own Quidditch team by now."

"Your own Potter's Playground," sniggers Sirius. Then he throws a reproachful glance at Remus and Tonks. "Since when are you two into this prank?"

Remus smiles innocently. "Since James promised me I would be godfather—mind you, I had to wait twenty years—"

"I am the godfather!"

"You can be Uncle Padfoot now," Remus suggests, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"No one ever called me uncle—James! I'm okay with your fake pregnancy, but fake uncle is too far."

"Sirius," Lily insists. "It's not fake. I'm three months pregnant now."

Sirius blinks; twice. "You cannot be," he says reasonably. "I would have noticed it."

"Is it?"

"I'm an Auror."

"A lousy one," Tonks teases. "Let's see—there's that glowing aura, James hasn't let her hold anything heavier than a fork, Lily didn't drink wine the whole dinner—"

"And," Remus adds, "there's the fact that she told us. To use your Auror terms, she confessed her crime."

"Repeatedly," James whispers; Sirius ignores him. He kneels suddenly as if the weight of his body is too much, and he stares at James and Lily with awe.

"Pregnant—you two are really...?" They nod. "There is another Potter coming?" Another nod. Sirius' eyes widen. "Good Godric, I can't believe, I... I am going to be a godfather again!"

"Er..."

"Not now," Lily whispers to her husband, patting Sirius' head; he is actually crying. "We have six months to get him used to the idea."

[heytheredeann]

if u want, for the whump wheel - burned + illya? -@set-phasers-to-whump

Here you go! Thank you for the prompts, I love that I immediately got a bunch of Illya whump requests looool <;3 Ao3 link

He wakes to the sound of crying.

Or perhaps ‘wakes’ is a bit of an exaggeration, with the way his eyelids flutter uselessly a couple of times and eventually manage to open less than halfway, allowing him a glimpse of his surroundings.

There’s a lot of light, and a figure hunched next to him blocking most of it out.

Cowboy, he recognizes, just as he registers that he’s lying on his stomach, his head floating and his body awfully heavy in contrast. He can’t put his finger on what happened, at first, but it ceases to matter the moment he fully realizes that Solo is crying. He’s hunched on himself, stifling his sobs in his palm, his full body shaking with the force of it.

As alarmed as Illya is, shock running through him in a wave, he can’t manage to do anything about it, his lips parting slightly and his fingers twitching, but the rest of his body staying locked in place.

He’s sorry, Solo is saying, choked out between a sob and the next. Illya can’t imagine what on earth he’d have to be sorry for: they are both clearly alive, aren’t they? He can see ugly bruising looming on his eye, swallowing a good chunk of his face, but it will heal.

“I should have talked,” Solo is saying, his voice shaking as he hides his face behind his hands. “I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot.”

Illya remembers it now, if vaguely. The burning pain, his own screams tearing through the air, the shock setting in as the pain kept coming and coming without reprieve. He remembers Solo pleading, screaming for them to stop, with a level of desperation that he had never seen him display before—Illya wasn’t the one with the information they wanted.

Gaby was the one tasked to go with their target, keep him safe until the extraction arrived. Solo was the one tasked with smuggling him out to begin with. Illya was just the diversion.

Don’t be stupid, Illya wants to say. He wants to get up, gather him close and let him know that it’s alright, that he understands and he did the right thing. He wants to say as much, but his mouth won’t move and he can’t gather enough air to speak anyway. We would both be dead if you had talked. Gaby too. You did well. We are okay.

Solo sobs harder, like he somehow heard him and he’s expressing his disagreement. Illya feels phantom burning pain on his back, hurting from every involuntary shift of his body, and he thinks he understands.

It’s okay, he still wants to say. It’s okay, I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse. It’s not your fault.

He’ll tell him, later. Once keeping his eyes open won’t be so hard and his head won’t weigh so much.

spin the whump wheel and send me a prompt + a character!

[stunie]

Hello there!^~^

I’m new to tumblr so Idk how making a request actually works but could u write some scenarios/hcs with multiple characters (u can choose them but plz add Suo too:) in which the boys are jealous because reader (which they have a crush on) is spending way too much time for their liking with another member. Little do they know that reader is actually asking their friend about how to confess to the boys ;)))))

So later the boys come and confess to the reader and tell her how they love her:>>>>>

hiii there nonnie my love!! 🤍 no worries at all thank u for being here 🥺 my requests are closed right now but i just told another anon that i’dd still add their prompt to my wips (u can see the list here!)

so ima add yours to it too! i always update it so u can check it whenever u want (:

[noworneverphantom]

hey could you do the "holding them while they sleep talk" prompt for Willex for the fluffy laying in bed prompts???

Alex was holding Willie close to his chest as Willie slept on top of him. They had enjoyed a day of Willie trying to teach Alex to skate, ending in disaster a few times, and had decided to crash back in the studio when they were done. WIllie had curled up on Alex's chest like a cat, snuggling up to him. He had shortly fallen asleep, and now Alex was gently stroking Willie's hair and watching them sleep with a fond smile.

Willie mumbled something in his sleep and shifted his head so that he was nuzzled closer to Alex. Alex just smiled and looped an arm around Willie's shoulder to hold him closer. Alex had found out very quickly that Willie mumbled lots of incoherent things while they slept, but Alex adored it.

Neither of them were quite used to affection like this with each other, but it felt so natural when they did curl up close. So when Willie reached out in their sleep for Alex's hand, Alex got a little flustered. He tangled their fingers together, and when Willie let out a little content hum, his heart melted a little bit. Willie was just too adorable when he was being wholesome, especially when he was being wholesome in his sleep.

Alex nestled his head on top of Willie's, and inhaled deeply. Willie smelled like safety and love, and he could never get enough of that. It was one of his favorite things in the world. Alex closed his eyes as he felt the pull of sleep. He gave Willie's hand a squeeze and kissed the crown of his head. "Love you," he whispered softly.

And right as Alex was beginning drifting off, he heard Willie whisper, "love you too."

Yeah, Willie sleep talking was definitely one of Alex's favorite things.

[https-furina]

my fingers are typing. they have never typed so quick before. taptaptaptaptap i love u all

[flockrest]

nonverbal prompts / accepting / @gloryseized

aid help them with a task. from Link to Tulin

     A good warrior always pays attention, and always closely observes their surroundings for potential scrimmages. Not that he's being a warrior right now — or that he needs to be at a time like this — but he figures the ways of the effective warrior, as decreed by Dad would apply here, too.

     It's with wide eyes and a beak shoved in too-close that he watches Link go about his culinary doings, noting all the motions he makes with the cooking pot and the ingredients he throws into the cooking stew. A faithful student, 'cept maybe he's also being an annoying one; not for the first, second, or even sixth time, Tulin finds his feathers brushing up against Link's side again. Oops.

     "Sorry!" he strains to whisper, withdrawing. Just for a beat or two, though. He's back to pushing himself into the process in a way that is definitely not helpful before long.

     How else is he gonna learn how much rock salt he should be adding, or what colours the soup should be turning, or how many times he should be stirring, and so many other cooking things he'd totally mess up ( has totally messed up ) 'cause the most cooked thing he's ever made involved— like— four steps!

     This is an important dish, for an important person! Botching it once alone is fine, whatever, but botching it when he's got the amazing chef that is Link here to learn from? When he asked for Link's help in the first place? Embarrassing to the highest degree.

     He tries reviewing all the steps he's seen so far in his mind's eye, determined to commit them all to memory, only to hit a snag every time he tries going past the fifth one. Then it's past the fourth step, 'cause he's suddenly confused and doubtful. Then it's the third step.

     "Uhh, Link?" he cheeps, high and warbling. He can't help the wince that pinches his beak when the whole recipe, even unfinished as it is, falls to its last pieces in his head. Why is remembering archery rules and forms and tips and basically everything 'bout being the best archer ever easier than this? "I know I said I only needed help learning, but— d'you think we could just," he shakes his wings at what will no doubt be a real delicious stew, "use your food?"

     Mum would at least have a chance of recovering something from her sickness with Link's cooking. She's only lost stuff like her guts with Tulin's.

[sapientiiae-a]

@matriarchsdevotee asked: “ why should i trust you? ” question prompts | accepting

That was a hard question to answer. It was no secret that the relationship between the Gerudo and the Hylians was strained, to put it lightly.

Now Zelda stood before Nabooru, claiming that the Gerudo King had turned against his people and threatened to bring calamity to ALL the races of Hyrule. Even if Nabooru had an inkling of distrust in Ganondorf, it must have been a hard pill to swallow — especially when the Princess of a detested race was the one bringing the news.

“As a child I experienced multiple premonitions that lead me to believe that Ganondorf intended to betray my father and the rest of Hyrule. It was something I warned Link of, but we were forced to flee the castle before he could return. Ganondorf attacked and took over the throne. I would not have requested that Link go on his mission if it were not for those prophetic dreams,” she explained, hoping she would be able to convince Nabooru to trust her. “And I would not have the gall to stand before you now if I thought Ganondorf had the best interest of your people in mind.”

Ganondorf’s rule did not mean freedom for the Gerudo. No, Zelda felt certain if he were to gain control of the rest of the triforce it would lead to the damnation of all — the Gerudo included.

“I know the wellbeing of your people means as much to you as my kingdom means to me. Help me restore balance to Hyrule and I will do everything in my power to help you restore the peace your tribe deserves.”

[vulpinesaint]

classmate who told me that they thought i might be a poser bc i wore "too much black" a couple weeks ago told me this week, slightly horrified, that they thought i might be "kind of a dark person" after i delightedly scrolled through stick figure violence images to show them + our other group member. no matter what at least i am still fucked up and strange in the eyes of normal people...

[oculusxcaro]

What are Khare's favourite dishes to prepare and why? Are there any dishes she would like to learn how to make?

Liking this post for a question ~

Khare's favourite dish to prepare is none other than the traditional fried breakfast! The American version of this meal is a little different from what she's used to back home, but it's so quick and easy to make that it's no big deal. Crispy bacon with sunny eggs? Pancakes with syrup and hash browns on the side? In they go, prepared how the customer likes though she often wishes she could add beans as a proper fried breakfast is supposed to have. She's picked up how to make a variety of meals since starting work at Pauli's Diner, many of them quick and easy so currently there aren't any dishes she'd like to learn ASAP unless it's a special request or for somebody she really cares about. Unfortunately her diet has become somewhat limited since her physiology mutated, leaving her unable to enjoy things she once used to.

[pillowsickfics]

i have started writing exactly two (2) fics but i just don’t feel inspired by my ideas so if anyone wants to request…

sickness prompts send a prompt, get a drabble.

right as rain: [character] says they’re fine right before collapsing.

in plain sight: [character] does everything to hide their cold.

snoozeville: [character] falls asleep somewhere that isn’t their bed.

bed bargain: [character A] won’t stay in bed. [character B] convinces them.

please be okay: [character] isn’t feeling well, causing them to act differently.

conversationalist: [character] rambles in their sick state.   

shut up: [character] doesn’t want any reminders about being sick while they recover. 

so dramatic: [character] complains about their cold.

careful care: it’s hard for [character A] to accept help. [character B] knows which care methods are “acceptable”. 

speechless: [character] can’t talk because of a sore throat.

dreamer: [character] talks in their sleep.

vacancy: [character] forgets where they are.

oh no: [character] gets sick at the worst possible moment. 

by your side: [character] is sick and wants company.

whatever: [character] reluctantly accepts help. 

health bar: [character] doesn’t get sick? think again!

moo: [character] isn’t very sick and milks it anyway.

double trouble: [character] is sick and injured. 

manner minded: [character] remembers their good manners while sick. 

all about me: [character] loves the attention they receive while sick. 

error 404: [character] refuses to admit they’re sick.

got germs: [character A] and [character B] are sick.

play the part: [character] pretends to be sick.

but it’s true: [character] has been known to fake being sick, but this time they’re actually sick.

[luveline]

I wanted to know how Aaron Hotchner would react to discovering the existence of a daughter (something from college perhaps), she would be his copy both in appearance and personality

—Hotch has a surprise visitor and the world spins on a new axis. daughter!reader, 2.2k

readers physical traits like hair and skin colour are not mentioned, but she is described as looking like her mother (also not described) and as sharing some characteristics with Hotch!<3 I also altered canon so that Hotch and Haley take a break at college 

“There is a kid in your office.” 

“Morgan?” 

Hotch pulls his phone away to check. D. Morgan blinks on his phone screen. It’s a slightly absurd sentence. 

“There’s a child in my office?” he asks, returning the phone to his ear. 

“I’m standing with her right now. She won’t tell me who she is. Anderson let her in.” 

“How old?” Hotch asks, scratching his cheek. God forbid he steal two minutes of peace in the bathroom. 

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m twenty two,” a feminine voice says. 

“You said kid,” Hotch says, frowning. 

“Anyone under twenty five is a kid to me. Are you on your way?” 

He sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and hangs up, dropping the small body of his phone into his pocket. Twenty two isn’t a kid, it’s a year younger than Spencer was when he started at the BAU; Hotch doesn’t underestimate the intelligence of young adults. Why you’re in his office is another thing. He can’t have one day without inconvenience. 

Hotch makes his way into the BAU office and up the stairs to the half level where his own office resides. Morgan leans against the door with his arms crossed, standing to attention when Hotch passes. 

“Thanks, Morgan,” Hotch says. 

Morgan nods, sending a curious gaze at you before he leaves. 

You’re dressed very formally for someone your age, but it’s not as though this is different from the norm of the building. You have on a dark shirt with a starched collar and a fitted blazer, a crisp skirt, and leather Mary Jane heels, one pressed flat to the back of the other. 

You stand when he comes in. 

“Mr. Hotchner?” you ask. 

“Yes?” he asks. 

You have a small file in your hand. Paper with worn edges pokes out of one side as though you’d been looking through it and put it hastily away, and the Manila file itself is fresh.

“Do we know one another?” he asks. 

You look familiar. It’s possible he would’ve known your parents —it could make sense. A colleague or acquaintance assumed he could help you with something, and you in your naivety you made your way in. 

“I think you know my mother.” 

“And she was?” he prompts. Not impolite, but needing to move forward. He’s very busy. 

You take a small step back. “Mr. Hotchner,” you say again, something nervous in your eyes as you lift your chin, “I don’t want to waste your time. I’m aware I might sound foolish, or that this… might not be something you want to hear, but. My mother told me you met in college, and that…” 

You bite your lip. 

He’s incredibly confused now. Not one to let a stranger suffer whether in real pain or awkwardness, he opens his hand. “Can I?” 

“Yes, sir,” you say.

You don’t want to pass it over, but you do as he’s asked. 

The photograph is a shock, held with a paperclip to a magnolia sheet of paper. It’s of Hotch, undoubtedly, a much younger Hotch sitting on a bench with a woman he recognises immediately. He only looks at her, and he knows why you’re here, and he knows exactly what you’re thinking. 

“Do you remember her?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

“She says you’re the only man that could… possibly be my father.” You hold your hands behind your back. 

He lifts the photograph. There’s not much else to look at, only your photo ID, your birth certificate where he is glaringly not listed, as well as your mother’s birth certificate, and proof of her enrollment at George Washington University. 

You look a little teary. Trying very hard to be sober, as you have been since he laid eyes on you, but clearly getting more and more upset as time goes on. He’s feeling a similar ache, a searing pain in his chest, staring at you from over the Manila folder to really, really look at you. He swears he can see something of himself in your face, though he’s not sure what. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking. 

There’s certainly some of him in your frown. 

“I think you should sit down,” he says softly. 

You sit down immediately in the chair you’d inhabited a few minutes ago. 

He’s not sure what to say. Are you sure it could only be him? Is your mother? But you’re looking at him with an expression he practically trademarked, whether he wanted to or not, and the proof is in his hands: you’re your mother’s daughter, and Hotch would have slept with her almost twenty three years ago. He doesn’t need much time to do the math. 

“I realise my word alone isn’t a lot to go on, sir, so– so if you’d want to, I’ll of course submit for a paternity test. Or if you want nothing to do with me, that’s okay too.” 

“It’s not okay,” he says, closing your folder. 

Your eyes widen just a touch. 

“Can I sit with you?” he asks. 

You push your chair back to make lots of room. He sits in the chair besides yours, cautious that being across a desk from you is insensitive, or cold, at least. 

He looks at you and he’s sure that you’re his. The longer you sit there, the more sure he becomes.

“I do want a paternity test,” he says, watching your tight nod. 

He believes you. And truly, if he was unsure of what you’re saying he’d still give you grace now, because the first time you meet your father should be full of love. He should’ve been there to hold you in one arm twenty two years ago, he should’ve been there for you through everything he’s already missed. 

“But I believe you,” he says.

“You do?” 

“I’m a very good judge of character. I know that you believe what you’re telling me completely,” he says.

“How?”

“When you’re nervous your hand drifts to your chest, but you didn’t move when you suggested I’m your father. You haven’t once checked the door or looked toward the camera in the corner of the room.” And the full truth. “I want to believe you.” 

“Why?” you ask.

“You look like your mother, but…” He lets himself smile. “You sound like me.” 

You laugh under your breath. “Hopefully not so deep.” 

“I’ve had it described to me as mellifluous.” 

“I’ve wanted to hear your voice since I can remember. My mom didn’t talk about you much, but I’ve always wondered. She told me she didn’t know who you were, and…”

“And you believed her. Any child would do the same.” 

“She’s made mistakes.” You look to him with eyebrows gently pinched, asking him to understand. “But I looked you up. When she told me your name, I looked for you online, and… I always thought I never needed you, even if I wanted to know you. I thought you might want to know me. I thought that a man like you would want to know.”

There’s something you’re not saying. Hotch doesn’t mind. “Of course I want to know you.” 

You chance a smile at him. “You really believe me?” 

“You were expecting me to turn you away.” 

“No, just– I’m not a kid, even if your colleague said so. And I’m not an image of you, I don’t have your eyes. All I have is that photograph. There's not much evidence to go on.” 

He sees no reason why a young girl like you would walk into his office and tell him who you are. Self preservation insists on a paternity test, and soon —UnSubs haven’t ever done something so conniving as imitating a family member yet, but there’s no prediction for evil— but Hotch has an inherent sense of the truth.  

“What do you do?” he asks. 

You frown. “Sorry?” 

“What do you do?” he asks again, “You’re dressed like a lawyer.” 

You nod with a smile you’re pushing into a flat line unsuccessfully. “I’m at GWU. For law, like you and my mom.” 

“She only just told you who I am?” He speaks each word carefully. 

“The photo fell out of an old album, and I had a funny feeling. I asked her about it and she said I’m too much like you. She admitted it like the secret had been eating her alive.” You look at your hand on the armrest. “We aren’t getting along right now.” 

“I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell you. Or me,” he says honestly. 

“I don’t know either.” 

Hotch is expecting a lot more awkwardness than he feels as he puts his hand over yours. You stay very still. 

“Thank you for coming here today.” He gives your hand the barest squeeze and stands. “Have you eaten? I could take you out for dinner,” he suggests. 

You stand with him. “Are you serious?” you ask, gentle and pleased at once. 

“I think you have a lot to tell me, and I’d love to listen.” 

“You’re not working?” 

Sometimes, sometimes, there are things that can be worked around or held on the back burner. You and Hotch go for lunch. 

—

Aaron Hotchner knows many important people. Your paternity test takes a day, less than twenty four hours from the time you both submit samples, but you have a class you can’t miss and he’s sure you’re nervous, so you don’t meet again for two days regardless. By then, you both know the results. (And Aaron’s had to have a very strange conversation with his wife, in which she doesn’t believe him, and then has to sit down.) 

He can admit to being far more protective of you once he knows the truth for sure, though he knows it before the results come back. You’re his daughter, and he’s left you without a father for two decades of your life, your formative years, time he can never get back. 

He doesn’t even know what to do. How can he make up for it? Twenty two years of birthday cards? He feels like buying you a diamond necklace with a stone for each year, and then he wants to buy you a house, but mostly he wants to give you a hug. He thinks about it for so long the morning before he’s scheduled to meet you again that it makes him as upset as he’s ever been in his life, desperate to say sorry to you and your mother and furious with her for keeping you a secret. 

He thinks of all those years without an inkling of your existence, and now you’re the only thing he can think about. His remorse makes him sick. 

You’re smiling when you see him. For a millisecond, you look like Jack. 

“Hi, Mr. Hotchner!” you say, standing from the table, your formal dress and cardigan pressed neatly, your hands held behind your back.

‘Mr. Hotchner’ will need to be fixed quickly, though he won’t force you to call him anything else. He can’t help himself, however.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says softly. 

You pause, and you laugh. “This is weird.” 

He doesn’t mean to make it weirder, but he opens his arms, and he waits for an indication that you might not want a hug before he leans in to hold you. You’re still so young. There’s still time for him to be a good father to you. 

He can’t say everything he needs to in his hug, and at the end of the day he’s a stranger to you; you probably don’t want him to hug you for too long. But he rubs your back, and he promises himself that he won’t let you down twice.

Your arm curls tentatively behind his back. For a second, you press your face to his shoulder and breathe. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, pulling away. 

Your lip twitches to one side like his would when presented with such heavy sincerity. “I’m okay. How did, um, Haley take the news?” 

“She just wants to meet you, okay? You’re part of my family now.” 

You give no indication you’ve heard what it is he’s saying to you, or whether you like it as you sit down at the dinner table. He quite likes that some way, somehow, you’ve become like him, but he wonders if he might not love it so much when he asks how your mom is taking this new development and you just smile. 

“We’re going to tell Jack about everything this weekend,” he adds. “He’ll be excited, if no one else.” 

“And Haley doesn’t mind?” 

“She’s not going to ask you to babysit anytime soon, honey, but no, of course she doesn’t. He should meet his sister before she’s too old for legos.” 

You actually laugh. 

Dad humour transcends age, and for that, Hotch is grateful. 

—

only after I finished did I wonder if I misinterpreted the request and this was supposed to be x reader with a shared daughter so if that’s the case I’m sorry original requester!! and I can totally write that if that’s what you meant 🫶❤️