#This post was supposed to be a fraction of the length

[erindrifter]

I think that an underrated part of thinking about media is always asking the question "Why?"

For example, why would a movie have a single-shot scene? For those who don't know, a single-shot scene, also known as a "One-er", is a scene that does not have any camera cuts. Or, at least, no obvious camera cuts.

So, why would a movie have a one-er? There are several reasons why a movie would have a single-shot scene. The most common one is for immersion into the scene. Having many cuts in a scene is essentially the movie admitting that what it's showing the audience is fake, so having no cuts helps draw the audience into the scene.

Now, we ask the question of why don't more movies do this? Well, that's because it's actually very difficult to do a single-shot scene like that. You have to have a LOT of cohesion between the actors, director, cinematographer, set dresser, costumer, prop master, VFX supervisor, etc. in order to pull this off, because let's say that the actor stumbles on their line, or some piece of choreography gets messed up. Everyone has to go back to the start, any changes made to the set must be reverted, props need to be reset, costumes need to be checked, everything needs to change back.

After all of this is accounted for, a single-shot actually becomes impressive to see, because it's now a demonstration of skill for the entire production team. It's also still a storytelling device, so it has two important functions now.

Until you start to account for ghost cuts. These are hidden cuts in a one-er, giving the illusion that a scene has no cuts, but there are actually a lot of cuts sprinkled throughout. This allows the team to handle the scene in smaller chunks, and thus allowing for easier resets in the event of a mistake.

So now that the ideas behind a single-shot scene are established, we can tackle the original question: Why would a movie have a single-shot scene in it? Let's look at the opening shot in the James Bond movie: Spectre. Look it up if you haven't seen it. It's actually a very good example of a single-shot scene, and it's got everything. There are at least 3 hidden cuts by my count, possibly just changing the camera rig, possibly also changing between 3 completely different sets. I think I also saw another place where they COULD have done a ghost cut if they needed to but didn't use. The scene overall is over 4 minutes long and tell an entire story which sets up exactly what is going on with very minimal dialogue.

Why was that scene a single-shot? Surely it could have done the same thing with conventional cuts? Well, firstly it gets the audience immediately immersed. Secondly, it shows that the movie is actually going to try to be interesting. Thirdly, it's a cool opening to the movie.

So, what happens if you do an entire movie like that? 1917 did it to great effect. Watch the movie if you haven't, though keep in mind that it's a rated R war movie about WW1, I don't actually recommend it to everyone. So, why do an entire movie that is absolutely RIDDLED with ghost cuts? Easy. The entire purpose of the movie is to get the viewer immersed. It's a movie about a man who has to cross extremely dangerous land in a very short amount of time. Having a bunch of cuts would make the movie just a standard war movie. But, hiding the cuts and essentially forcing you to watch this man make this entire journey in real time makes the audience realize that this is a LOT of unfortunate circumstances in a very short time, because you are there for (almost) all of it. There is a part where the guy gets knocked out, and so there is a blatant cut there, but that's the only actual cut in the entire movie. It's honestly a great use of a single-shot, combining artistry, coordination, and skill to elevate what would otherwise just be a kinda interesting movie.

Anyways. Always ask WHY movies do what they do.

[widebrimmedhatsblog]

I wish you would write a fic where Xaden accidently confesses his love to Violet in a casual conversation

Sure, anon! Have a 1k fic!

(some housekeeping: I don't know what "casual conversation" means, and I wrote this on my phone at midnight, so any typos...you don't see them. Set during the latter half of Fourth Wing, post sex scene #1. I don't actually know what else you're supposed to put with fics on tumblr, but!! here she is! Full fic below the cut)

When Xaden Riorson knocks on your door and tells you he’s taking somewhere, you listen. 

At least, Violet listens. She looks at it like doing a favor to the wing: no one likes a grumpy wingleader, and by hanging out with him while he gets tipsy in Chantarra, she’s avoiding just that perilous situation. 

He’s definitely not grumpy now. Not as he sits, whiskey in hand, eyes on Violet’s throwing stance. Not earlier, either, as he’d covered her in his cloak and coaxed her down Basgiath’s halls. It wasn’t even a Chantarra weekend for the upperclassmen who were allowed to go. Violet had zero reason to be here, in this Chantarra pub with Xaden Riorson. Xaden had his own reasons, but he was keeping them close to his chest, like everything else. 

She cocks her hand back, then throws the dart at the board. A perfect bullseye, nestled between her four other throws. 

She appraises her own work with a smile, though she takes care to keep it slight. She doesn’t need to get braggy now. Still, her cheeks are already pink, and they only grow more so when she hears slow clapping coming from Xaden’s seat at the closest table. 

“Excellent work, Violence,” he tells her, somehow sounding smug on her behalf. Under his breath, he continues, “Excellent.” 

He swirls his whiskey. The amber catches the low pub light. Violet’s eyes track his hands as they stretch around the glass, the veins shifting while he raises it to his lips, the bobbing of his throat that signifies his swallow. 

His glass clanks against the table. It’s rickety and sticky and she can’t believe he’s sitting there. The cheap wood doesn’t look right with him beside it. 

“Go on,” he says. “Give me another show.” 

She scoffs, but even as she does so, her feet march towards the board. 

“You’re ridiculous,” she insists, plucking her darts free. “It’s now a show for you.” 

She spins on her heel and backs up from the board once more. Doing so means she catches a glimpse of Xaden’s face, the upturn of his lips. 

“Can’t I enjoy myself?” 

His voice is rich. He doesn’t slur his words, but something in their quality makes it clear to Violet that the alcohol is making him be more honest, even if only slightly. 

She averts her eyes to the board. Heart racing, she throws her first dart. Just shy of a bullseye. 

“This can’t be your idea of an enjoyable night, Riorson.” 

He shuffles in his seat. She shouldn’t look at him—she should keep her eyes glued to the board. She should perfectly plot her next throw. 

She finds him staring at her, brows raised. He’d been awaiting her attention. 

“Can’t I?” 

She scoffs, refocusing on the board. Her next throw is better, but she’s still setting herself up to encircle the bullseye instead of truly hitting it. 

“You can do whatever you want.” Another throw, this one closer. “I just didn’t think you’d like to sit around and watch me play darts.”

Her next throw is her best. With every second, she gets better. Closer. Her heart has not calmed even a fraction.

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have invited you.” He drums his fingers on the table Slowly, her eyes seek out the source of the sound, but Xaden makes a tsk-sound. “Finish your game, Violence. Let me see what you can do.” 

Her cheeks feel flushed beyond pink, and she hadn’t even had a sip to drink tonight. Xaden had offered—egregiously and at length—but she didn’t have a cent to her name, and she didn’t want to give the barkeep a good look at her hair. 

She throws her final two darts without further commentary. Finally, she gets her bullseye. 

She expects to hear Xaden’s voice. If not his voice, his applause, his raucous, ridiculous encouragement. But he’s silent, and because of that silence, she’s forced to look at him. 

He’s grinning, grinning at her. 

Her heart begins to seize in her chest. She feels it thrashing against her breast bone—it’s the only part of her that moves, that reacts in any discernible way. The rest of her is frozen.

Has she ever seen him grin? 

And suddenly, to top it all off, a chuckle slips through his lips. Her jaw drops, and he shakes his head, just as baffled as she is, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop laughing, and he doesn’t stop grinning. 

“What?” she demands “What is it?” 

“Nothing, Violence,” he insists, but she can hear the laughter in his voice, and the evidence is irrefutable. It can’t have been nothing. Not even close. “Go again. Let me watch.” 

She doesn’t go again. She approaches him, head held high, and orders him, “Tell me now.” 

His lips twist, but they stay upturned. She wants to glue her eyes to them, if not her own lips. She still remembers the searing burn of his kiss, how delicious that heat had been 

“I don’t think so, Violence.” He looks around at the pub behind her, the few patrons that line the stools. “Not really the time.” 

Fine, Violet thinks. She’ll make it the right time. 

She pulls out one of her knives from the sheaths at her ribs. A knife Xaden got her. Poetic justice, really. 

She slams it into the table, in the sliver of space between Xaden’s thumb and pointer finger. The blade sinks into the wood, splitting it. 

“You’ll tell me now.” 

Xaden only grins wider. His face practically glows with it, this foreign happiness. 

“You’re going to threaten me into telling you that I lo-”

His unfinished word hangs between them. Violet waits for those final two letters to come. She wants them out in the open so she can snatch at them, swallow them. 

He doesn’t give them to her. He stares at her face, lips parted. Xaden Riorson, who never makes a mistake. 

Of course, if he thinks that was a mistake, he’s completely and utterly wrong. 

Violet pounces on him. She bolsters herself with her dagger, but she doesn’t have to support herself for long. Her lips find Xaden’s and his arms find her waist, slotting her into the space between his legs. They kiss and kiss and kiss. She tastes his whiskey. He must taste her victory. 

When they part, it is only so that Violet can pant, “I am going to threaten you, actually.”  

She feels his laughter against her lips.

[mylovelies-docx]

Sorry, I Love You - Part 4

Oh, shit. I was supposed to post this today, wasn't I?

Plot: You and Bucky have a good thing going - best of friends that also have more than a little chemistry between the sheets. Everything is fine until you develop feelings for the man who doesn't want a relationship. What will happen when Bucky finds out?

C/W: Feels, anxiety, grown ass adult conversations

Word Count: 2,055

Tag List: NOW CLOSED! If you'd like to keep up with this story, please follow my blog and turn on notifications! ❤️ you :)

[Prologue][Part 1][Part 2][Part 3]

You nibble on your thumb nail, trying and failing to pay attention to the audiobook blasting in your ears. You’re only a few short minutes from touching down at Avenger’s Tower after months away. There’s a nervous excitement bubbling away under your skin, but it is tempered by anxiety of seeing Bucky again.

You can’t help but glance at the parachutes lined up along the wall of the cargo bay you’re sitting in. Shaking your head imperceptibly, you dismiss the impulse as a coward’s way of avoiding an uncomfortable situation. You’ve already come up with a strategy, a game-plan, for how you are going to deal with Bucky and make this situation as easy as possible for the both of you.

You’re startled from your musings when you feel a hand lift the headphone from your ear. You turn wide eyes to Steve as he crouches beside you and tells you that you’ll be landing in less than a minute. 

You nod mutely. You discard your headphones and place them back into your duffel bag while tucking your phone into your back pocket. You take a steadying breath as you feel the quinjet settle down onto the landing pad. Steve and Sam join you at the back of the jet. With a soft jolt and a hiss of pressure, the bay doors open wide.

Standing against a backdrop of glass and steel and the bottom of the giant ‘A’ stands a lone figure.

Bucky.

He’s the only one on the platform, the wind fiercely whipping against his clothing and hair this high up. You can’t help but admire him for a fraction of a second. As you notice that his hair no longer brushes against his collarbones – instead, the short strands don’t even reach his eyes when the wind blows them onto his face. He looks ruggedly handsome with the new haircut, the length helping to define his face and accentuate the stubble growing across his jaw.

The effect he has on you is almost instantaneous, your heart acting as if you hadn’t spent months away from him at his request. It beats a staccato rhythm in your chest, demanding blood to flow to the beat of Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. 

You take a stutter-step off the jet, hoping for composure.

You remain five steps behind the boys as Bucky claps Steve enthusiastically on the back as they hug, muttering something into his ear. Then he lets go to grip Sam’s hand before bringing him in to bump shoulders. You use this time to look behind Bucky, checking to see if anyone else from the team is going to show up to greet you since you’re sure you won’t be receiving as warm a welcome from the man before you.

“Everyone else is out at the moment,” Bucky’s voice calls out hesitantly. You turn your eyes back to him, watching a pained smile spread across his lips as your eyes meet after so long apart. The wind snatches his next words away so you’re not sure if you weren’t meant to hear them or not, but you watch his lips form the words ‘Hey, doll’ as his smile relaxes into something less rigid.

A knife wedges itself into your ribs at the name. You swallow hard and paste a polite expression on, nodding your head in acknowledgement. Taking a deep breath, you hoist your bag higher onto your shoulder and walk inside, bypassing the group of men as they watch you leave.

You enter the building, breathing in the scent of your home and reacquainting yourself with the familiar surroundings. The medbay resides behind glass walls directly in front of you, the easy access from the landing pad having saved you life and limb on a number of occasions. 

Your feet guide you to the elevator on instinct, showing you the way to your rooms without conscious effort. The ding of the elevator doors closing and the hum of Black Sabbath playing quietly over the speakers brings a small but genuine smile to your lips, your first today.

You don’t anticipate many in the coming weeks.

The doors ding once again and you step out into the living quarters. You run your hands along the back of the plush sofa as you pass, then slide your fingers along the textured wallpaper as you exit the living room and head towards the bedrooms. 

You’re halfway down the hall when the stairwell door ahead of you opens quickly. You stumble to a halt as Bucky steps out, slightly out of breath. You watch him as he first looks in the direction you were walking then swivels his head to look back at you where you stand with your hand against the wall.

Your hand rises to clutch at the straps of your bag on your shoulder, now using two hands to keep it aloft instead of one. You fret with a loose seam with your fingernails when Bucky calls your name softly and walks slowly toward you.

He stops a mere foot or so away from you, but you increase the distance with a step back. There’s a flash of something in his eyes when you move away, so fast you can’t tell what it was.

His voice is soft when he speaks. “Can we talk?”

Shit. You hadn’t been expecting to have this conversation so soon. You’d been hoping for a little time to get into the right headspace, get your emotions in check before facing him head-on.

You nod your head and wipe your expression blank, removing your fidgeting hands and keeping them slack at your side. You lock down every emotion inside of you, just in case you can’t say what you need to.

Bucky nods back at you and stuffs his hands into the pocket of his jeans, pulling in on himself. You can’t stand to see him so uncomfortable around you.

“Listen, doll, I wanted to apologize –” he begins. 

If you hear Bucky apologize again for suggesting to sleep together, hear how much he still regrets having spent time knowing you intimately, you will implode. All the feelings you’ve sorted through and the realizations you’ve come to in the last couple of months will burst forth out of your chest and spew all over Bucky. You’ll vomit out the words you held back when you were ‘together’. Then eight letters that would ruin everything between you forever will fall from your lips and land at his feet, where he is sure to stomp them flat underneath his boots again.

You can’t hear it. Not again. So you stop him from breaking your heart a third time.

“Stop.” You raise a hand in the air, palm towards him. You wave it back and forth in an effort to halt the apology in his throat. He closes his mouth and looks at you questioningly.

“We don’t have to rehash our last conversation, James. I get it, you –”

“James?” he interrupts softly, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

Dammit, he’s probably right, you think to yourself, that’s still probably friendlier than he wants.

“Sorry. Sargeant, then.”

“That isn’t what –”

“I did what you asked and got myself together,” you begin again. You stare hard at a blur just past Bucky’s head, unable to meet his eyes and see the anger and loathing again. “You don’t have to worry about any lingering feelings on my part. I took the time away to realize that I only thought I felt that way about you due to our arrangement.” 

Liar, liar, LIAR. You loved this man then, and you love him now. But your love suffocated him, stifled his ability to explore his sexuality and intimacy with new partners in the 21st century after decades under Hydra’s control. He wanted no strings attached to figure out what he needed, and you took the opportunity and ran with it. He gave you an inch and you took miles.

You refuse to do that to him again.

“I sincerely apologize again for forcing my feelings on you and overstepping. I understand if you no longer wish for me to call you Bucky or James, if you still wish to not be friends anymore. I –”

“Y/N, no,” Bucky says. He removes a hand from his pocket and steps forward, barely reaching out for you before dropping his hand again. “I never said that.”

Well, it was implied, you thought bitterly, sadly. “I don’t mind the formality, Sergeant. If that’s what I need to do in order –”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky demands forcefully. The shock of his words finally gets you to look him in the eyes. His jaw is locked tight and you can see his teeth grinding together.

So he doesn’t want me to address him at all? You think. Doesn't want me to speak with him at all?

“Ah. Well that…” You scratch the back of your head, turning your face away from him. “I mean – I won’t bother you outside of missions from now on, but I need at least some way of addressing you during –”

“If you say one more word, I’m going to lose my fucking mind!” Bucky yells at you, finally exasperated enough to raise his voice. 

You flinch and take another step back. “Sorry…” you murmur, looking down at the carpeted flooring under your shoes. All the sudden, you see Bucky’s boots inches from your own and feel his hands grab hold of your shoulders – not rough, but also not gentle. You raise your head, your wide eyes meeting his.

“I never said I didn’t want to be friends,” Bucky says vehemently. “Y/N, I am so sorry for how I acted the last time we saw each other – sorry for how angry I got.” At this, his hands loosen a fraction on your shoulders, his fingers no longer digging into the soft flesh of your shoulder blades. “You’re one of my best friends. I started seeing a new therapist after you left; she’s helped me realize how important you are to me. Helped me realize that –”

His words are cut off as you drop your bag and immediately slam into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his middle. You burrow your face into his neck and squeeze your arms when you inhale the familiar smell of his soap and skin. You’ve missed him so much, missed his company and his voice and his laugh and his smile and just everything about him. Your eyes begin to water when you feel his arms circle around you in return, pulling you tight into his embrace.

You speak into the space between your bodies quickly before he can finish his thought, wanting him to know that you can do this. You can be friends again. He doesn’t need to worry about loving you back. Just as long as you can still be his friend. Just as long as you can still love him in secret. Just as long as you can still secretly hope he changes his mind someday.

“I promise I don’t love you,” you say to him.

Liar.

“Please, doll. Don’t say–” Bucky tries to loosen his grip and pull away, but you hold fast and keep going.

“I promise it was just a crush, I promise I don’t feel that way anymore.”

Lies.

You remove your face from Bucky’s neck, looking up into his eyes. You have tears streaming down, but you give him a reckless smile, “I promise.”

You are such a fucking liar.

Because being in his arms again reminds you just how much you’ve missed them. Just how much you’ve missed loving him up close.

Bucky takes a moment to look desperately at you, eyes flickering between your own, trying to find any hint of a lie. You’re so happy Bucky still wants you in his life as a friend that forcing the love to stay hidden isn’t excruciatingly painful at the moment. 

Taking your words as truth, Bucky nods his head once and crushes you to his chest, squeezing tightly. You feel him sigh heavily when he rests his chin on top of your hair. Nuzzling softly, he places a small, chaste kiss onto the crown of your head before pulling away entirely. 

A sad smile mars his face, and you can’t imagine what caused it.

Part 5

@jackiehollanderr @rabbitrabbit12321 @12345sebby @blackwood-bodecker-housewife @lauraashley93 @themorningsunshine @happinessinthebeing @nash-dara @calwitch @stany0url0calwh0res111 @pono-pura-vida @learisa @introverbatim @kentokaze @marvelogic @kaz11283

[lady-phasma]

Morpheus Returns

Part 1 of 2 (so far) cross posted from AO3

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, general smut and pretty fluffy, p in v sex. Written in first person fem!reader.

Summary a/n: Morpheus returns to find a favorite acolyte has waited 100 years for him. Also a bit of headcanon: I know he doesn’t sleep but the poor entity needs a break from time to time. No beta. 2k words

He lay imperiously on the black sheets of the bed. Their blackness swallowed light, no sheen like satin or silk. Draped over his bone-white body they gave the illusion that any light in the room came from him. The sheet fell across his belly and one leg. His arms spread out to his sides. His shaggy black hair shone with flecks of light as he turned his head in his rest. The King of Dreams sighed deeply.

My every action was imbued with the deepest reverence for Lord Morpheus. Each of us in The Dreaming had our roles and responsibilities, purpose and function. We were each created for a particular role. Although things had changed since his return, I had not. I had waited for a century. As Lucienne had waited. I didn’t leave The Dreaming when others gave up. I had one purpose and my existence was devoted to it. Much like gods and goddesses, the Endless enjoyed worshipers, human or otherwise. I was created to resemble a female human. Lord Morpheus had sculpted me to be perfect for him. Without him I had no purpose. So I waited.

When he returned most of us were gone. Lucienne encouraged him to rest but he had guilt and anger to assuage. I was patient. He saw me once before leaving to find his tools. How I had missed his expressive eyes and perfect mouth. I slid my fingers down his cheek.

“You look tired, my Lord,” I whispered.

“I am, Asteria,” he glanced down at me. “But I will return and I will make good use of our bed.”

My heart ached for his return but I busied myself with helping restore The Dreaming. I especially focused on his quarters. His palace staff gradually returned, as did his dreams and nightmares, but among them all I was cherished. He had given me my own personality, interests, abilities, but I was his design. My very being was sculpted to be his own dream. Each dream or nightmare in The Dreaming was his creation but created for others, for humans. I alone was formed for him, the physical manifestation of his desires. My limbs were long, my skin nearly as pale as his, and my body blessed with ample curves. My breasts were firm and high above a small rounded belly. My hips weren’t narrow but neither were they broad. My entire body was inhumanly hairless like his, except for long chestnut locks that fell, curling down my back. We only possessed human form, we were far from human. He had even named me in honor of the Titaness Asteria, the goddess of falling stars and oneiromancy. She had once had the ability to call him to her at will, Endless or not, to divine meaning from dreams.

I only slightly regretted disturbing his repose. He had previously promised me an audience and given me express instructions when to rouse him. My audiences with Dream were entirely selfish on his part. However, since I was created as a devotee there was immense pleasure in it for me as well.

I stood at the foot of the bed and let my nightgown fall off my shoulders. I climbed onto the bed. My eyes ran up the length of his body, along his exposed leg, his flat stomach, his taught chest, and his perfect collar bones. I sat next to him, my legs curled beneath me. I cupped his cheek in my palm and pressed my lips against his. He moaned into my mouth. His eyes opened just a fraction and he wrapped his long arms around me. I let my body sink into his embrace. This was the first proper kiss we had shared since his return. I wanted to touch every part of him at once. My hands roamed over his shoulders and chest.

“Time to rise, my Lord,” I mumbled into our kiss.

“Yes I suppose it is,” he sighed as he laid back. He placed one hand behind his head and let the other rest on my thigh, his long fingers almost brushing against my sex. His every movement was calculated. It was evident in the twitch at the corners of his mouth that he was enjoying teasing me.

Morpheus sighed again. He briefly closed his eyes. His hand moved slightly on my thigh. It was my turn to sigh.

I propped myself up on one arm and reached to stroke his chest, his arm, anything I could reach. This slight, intentional movement of my hips pressed his fingertips just against my lips. I shivered. He very nearly smiled at my urgency.

I moved to lean above him and began to kiss every inch of him that I could find. I kissed his neck, his chest, his nipples, under his arms, down his ribs. I gradually straddled him as I moved down his body. In doing so I pulled the sheet off of him. He had begun to grow hard at my touches. Oh how I had missed him! But I wanted to draw out my worship as long as possible. And worship I did. I slid my hands over his smooth, marble-like skin. I mumbled praise against his body, whispers of longing and adoration.

He had moved his other hand to rest under his head and lay almost perfectly still. There was a tinge of smile on his pouted lips. He was extremely satisfied. Anyone other than the two of us couldn’t possibly know the praise that was in that close, tight near-smile. It spurred me on. I had waited so long for this and I loved that I pleased him. I trailed kisses down his stomach.

“My Lord,” I said between kisses. “Mmmm… shall I leave you… mmmm… to continue resting?” My eyes shot up to meet his, my lips still on his skin. My grin was obvious.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled. He reached down, placing a hand on either side of my face, and guided me up to kiss him. I spread my legs wider to press our bodies together and he raised his hips up to meet mine. His fingers wound into my hair eliciting a moan from me. His tongue pushed past my lips and teeth. Everything about him was long: legs, tongue, fingers. Another part of him that was quite long pressed against my backside. He had grown harder as I rubbed against him. I pressed my wetness against his belly to force a moan from him.

Morpheus withdrew his hands from my hair and rose up. He lifted me off him, onto my knees. With his hands cupping my ass, he kissed my breasts and my neck.

“You waited,” he murmured. “All these years… you waited.”

“Mmmhmm,” I responded. I buried my face in his hair and wrapped my arms around his neck. I held him close to my chest. I breathed in deeply. “Yes, my Lord. The thought of this moment and memories of the many before kept me warm while you were away. I only wish I could ease your suffering, your hurt.”

He turned his face up to mine and I kissed him, deep and hard. He kissed me back. He maneuvered my hips so that he could guide me down onto his lap. His hardness pressed into me. No hesitation, no resistance, a perfect fit. I gripped and pulled at his hair as the pleasure swept over me. He guided and moved me where and how he wanted. I was attuned to the movement of each of his muscles. His skin against mine felt perfect.

With no warning he flipped us over. He let me down on my back gently but that was all that was gentle. I could tell how badly he had missed me. He never needed excess words or expressions of sentiment with me. Allowing me to touch him, to pull him into myself, to hold him, was evidence enough. As emotionless as Dream wished for others to think him he was in fact often brimming with emotion. He buried his face in my neck and breathed deeply. He pushed himself further into me. I gasped and threw my head back, clutching at his shoulders. I felt warmth and wetness on my neck. I stroked his hair. His rhythm slowed. He made no sound but I knew, I could feel the silent tears. His embrace tightened around me, crushing me into him.

I resisted the urge to shush and console him. For far too long his actions had been governed by others. I was created to be the sole entity in his existence that didn’t require anything of him. I loved it. I cherished that he could let his guard down with me, shed all pretense. His muscles flexed within the circle of my arms. His tears stopped as abruptly as they had begun, short lived and rare.

He raised his head to look at me. He cradled the back of my head in his giant hand and studied my face. His expressive, red-rimmed eyes searched my expression for judgement and finding none he kissed me.

He ran his other hand down the length of my body, down the side of my thigh, guiding my leg over his hip. I pressed my heel into the small of his back, taking him deeper. I purred and arched my back. My hard nipples brushed against his chest. With his elbow bearing his weight, one hand behind my head, the other kneading my ass, I was enveloped by love. I was safe, my Dream had returned.

“Oh Morpheus,” I moaned. I stroked his face, his jaw, his ears and neck. I drew my fingertips across his perfect bottom lip. He kissed them as they passed. He held my gaze with his dark eyes. I saw the universe flash in them. That energy, that power, loved me. His rhythm had never faltered. His strokes were small and intimate. He was savoring our time. That connection was secondary to the reunion he so deeply desired.

But the moment passed and his expression became impassive once again. His stern jaw and pursed lips drove me wild. My breathing was shallow and hot against his neck. My hands had found their way back to his shoulders. I moved my other leg to encircle him. His pace quickened. I clung to him as if even momentarily losing my hold would allow him to disappear again.

Dream felt my need.

His fingers twisted and pulled at my hair. He slid his other hand between us to my breast, kneading, and caused me to arch against him. I was breathless, the entirety of my senses were filled with Morpheus. I kissed his shoulders, his neck. I squeezed, tight, around him as he thrust into me. The blunt exhalations he made as I did this sent electricity through me.

I felt his resolve melting. His rested his head beside mine, his shallow breath hot against my ear. I thought I heard him whisper my name. I moved my hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. I tugged slightly. He groaned. His hand slid from my breast to rub circles around my clit as he pushed deep into me, synchronizing his rhythms. My grasp on his hair tightened.

He pressed his entire body against mine, nothing save his arm between us. The pressure on my clit increased. I dug my heels into his ass, demanding he go as deep as possible. I realized I had been holding my breath and as I exhaled, my face still pressed against his, I moaned his name in half a dozen languages. And came hard and wet around him.

“My Asteria,” he breathed against me. “My love, how I missed you.” So quietly a mortal may not have been able to hear him.

A shiver ran over him, beginning at his shoulders and radiating outward. He exhaled sharply and I felt his final thrust deep into me. His cum was warm and slick between us. Though I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew from experience that they wouldn’t show me the universe at this moment. They would be as black as a void. He almost purred into my neck as his body relaxed.

He slipped his arm from between us and let his full weight rest on me. I slid my legs down, still embracing my Lord. His hand in my hair loosened and rested on the bed beside us. He kissed my ear and began to raise his head.

“Please not yet, Morpheus,” I whispered. “We have spent so long apart.”

He raised his head to look at me and truly smiled.

“I will not leave you just yet,” he stroked my cheek and kissed me gently on the forehead. “I would imagine we need to do that a few more times before I do.”

Part 2

[circusinthewalls]

SFW Gaz Ramblings - 18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS DNI

(CW: Therapy Dog Hybrid! Reader | ow ow ow my fuckin' arms 😭) [Masterlist]

You whine as Kyle strokes his thumb over the length of your forearm. The movement is a little too quick, just a fraction too abrasive for your newly sensitive flesh. That familiar searing pain thrums back to life in mere seconds. Heat radiates off you with every pulse of it.

He sighs, setting your arm back down gently in your lap to instead inspect the other.

"You didn't wear sunscreen?" he asks.

You want to lie because you know how utterly avoidable of a mistake this was, but it's not like the truth isn't written all over you. You'd only make a bigger fool out of yourself at this point.

"Didn't think we'd be outside that long," you murmur, avoiding his gaze as your ears pin back somewhat.

Opposed to the chastising tone you expect to receive, he only tuts.

"Gonna have to have a word with those recruits, huh, sweetheart?"

Disapproval laces the question, but much to your surprise, it isn't actually directed at you. This sparks a bit of inquisitiveness within you, those folded ears perking up again. You tilt your head at him, curious.

"What?"

He looks up to meet your gaze now and seems almost amused at your apparent befuddlement, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a cheeky smile.

"Well, they're the ones that took our therapy dog for too long of a walk, aren't they?" he says. "Bet they forgot to put any on themselves."

"But I wanted to go," you interject, leaning forward and nearly sliding off the counter he has you sat on when he steps away to get in the fridge.

You watch him rummage around in it, digging through until he emerges with what smells to you like aloe vera gel. He returns then, already unscrewing the cap on the way over.

"I know," he replies, "but they knew how long that walk was going to be. You didn't. They should've known better than to go without sunscreen on any of you."

Your brow knits as you consider his words, ears pinning back once more.

"Guess so."

Kyle hums, content with your supposed agreement.

"Let me see your arms, love."

You comply, raising both. Another hum sounds from him, this one praising.

"So good," he murmurs. "Just hold still while I apply this, yeah? You'll feel better in no time."

---------------------------------------------------

Little something I wrote back on the first of this month while I was dealing with the most egregious fuckin' sunburn on my arms.

Anyway, sorry for the lack of posts recently! Been busy with work and other life things. My drafts are full up of stuff I've been working on (three larger fics and a number of one-shots + requests), so I really wanted to get something out for y'all. I do have a decent bit of free time this week, and I'm hoping to get back into the swing of writing. There will be more of Therapy Dog Hybrid! Reader in the form of little one-shots over time, but other stuff I've been meaning to get posted will come first.

As always, thank you for your patience! Y'all are delightful. Means a lot to know you enjoy my work. <3

Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or to use with AI technologies.

[fumifooms]

I think you made me start shipping Marchil

Your posts got me thinking about their dynamic then I wrote a fic that was supposed to be platonic but midway through I realized it could actually be interpreted as romantic too and now I'm just sad about how little time they'll have together

First of all, you have a lovely icon, second, I’m so honored… I finally read Not a bad way to go and it was soo so good like. My god!!! Pre-canon is underused and you did so many interesting things with it.

It sounded like a cruel joke, that the one who needed her concern the most was also the one least interested in it.

^^^ go read it go read it

Chilchuck was drunk enough that he needed to hold onto the walls not to fall, but apparently still sober enough to remember emotional vulnerability was his worst enemy, as he made sure to avert her eyes and said: “Namari made me come talk to you ” to make it clear he wasn't being nice voluntarily.

Yeah.

“Of course I'm scared of dying.” He scoffed. Did she really think so little of him? “But if I could choose, I would want to die doing something I love, like drinking. Or maybe fucking,”

Maybe you wish you didn’t know but my new favorite HC because of this is that Chil dies yes prematurely not of liver failure though but during coitus. Especially if marchil, the thought of him busting a nut and his heart giving out makes me laugh so hard. My god. Lmao. Oh god. Lmfao. Worst day of her life

Marcille knew Chilchuck wasn't a kid, but she often struggled to take him seriously as an adult because he was just so adorable and small. In this moment, however, she saw them exactly for what they were, even if it was just a glimpse. A sheltered, naive little girl trying to tell a tired, much more experienced man how to live the rest of his life.

Standing ovation

She tried to find an explanation to give him, but she couldn't even find one for herself. Why would she miss him? He was just Chilchuck, her coworker, Chilchuck who was cold, aloof, sometimes crass, evasive, and even outright mean. He who was level headed, reliable, trustworthy, perceptive and clever. He who had the least time left, even in a best case scenario. “I guess that despite your best efforts, there's still a lot to like about you.”

This fic goes so hard, standing ovation pt 2

“I just think it's better if we don't get too close. Don't you agree?” “I… maybe” she said, uncertain as he didn't know how to feel about that. Caring about people would only hurt her in the wrong run, she knew that, but unfortunately she couldn't help it.

I looove how they can be read to be similar on this aspect. My hand clenching around my phone as I rear up to rant about Marcille and the way she does keep people at an arm’s length subconsciously again my god my goood. Obsessed with this obsessed with this, underused for marchil. Terrified of loss through death vs rejection duo I love youuu

Brilliant ending I’m in shambles. I’m not gonna spoil it

You get marchil so much you truly do. The way they mesh, the way their views on mortality clash and both soothe & bruise… He doesn’t have much time left even in best case scenario (which Mr I won’t eat well I’ll drink and smoke a lot I’ll stress all day every day is determined to not make happen) which makes it all the more meaningful for Marcille’s arc when she learns from him to finally enjoy the present moments… It’ll only be a fraction of her life, but to him he’s giving her the rest of his life. What are some decades of love worth? Worth it, surely, if nothing else

[magpiepills]

Code Duello

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Ezra x Marcus Moreno

Word count: 900

Summary: Marcus and Ezra find themselves in a standoff!

Warnings: SMUT! Frottage, grinding, big dicks, bigger dicks, foreskin, cum play, hand jobs, m/m, weapons.

A word from the author: This is a repost. This shortie is the result of a post asking what would happen if your tumblr pfp met your discord pfp. At the time my discord was just a close up of a glaringly well-defined bulge and I decided that maybe it was Marcus.

The two men are locked in a standoff. A tense moment, neither man wants to make a move, but when Ezra goes for his thrower, the other man charges him and disarms him. They grapple, but Ezra eventually winds up on top of his opponent, straddling his hips and breathing hard, he holds the other man’s wrists in one hand while he uses the other to aim his recovered pistol.

Marcus winces, waiting for the blast, and as he struggles in Ezra’s grip, he rocks his hips against Ezra’s ass.

Ezra feels the way Marcus moves and though he doesn’t say anything, a tiny bulb lights up in the back of his mind.

Marcus doesn’t take his eyes off the gun that is pointed directly at him, but behind it he can see Ezra’s snarl soften into a dark smirk. Sees the way his head tips down as he adjusts his stance and tilts his hips just a tiny bit, a fraction of a degree to better feel the way Marcus’s now hard cock is pressed against his ass. It’s a risk, but risks are all that Marcus has left, so he plants his feet and lifts his hips, biting his bottom lip. He forces himself to look away from the gleaming rail gun to stare back at Ezra.

“Is this how you make a deal? You wait until you’ve been bested and then you play the trollop? You think a little simpering will win you my mercy?” Ezra chuckles and sighs. “You are a lamentable man.”

Marcus is silent save his heavy breaths and, he is certain, the pounding of his heart.

Ezra tightens his grip on Marcus’s thick wrists and slides his hips back to grind against the doomed man’s cock. Ezra is hard in his suit, straining against his tight undershorts, weeping from his slit, throbbing for want of contact.

Both men groan.

“No. No, I think you just know when you’ve been had. You’re a smart man, Marcus. And I think your dying wish is to get your ass filled by the biggest cock in the system. Marcus you are in luck, because you have been fortunate enough to find the biggest cock, but I’m sorry to say I don’t grant wishes. I just know a whore when I see one. So what I am going to do for you is admittedly more out of my own need for relief than for yours so don’t think you’ve got this all parsed out.”

Marcus could only blink and stammer, unsure of exactly what Ezra was telling him.

Ezra rocked his hips, settling himself on the saddle of Marcus’s own. He slid back, giving himself access to roughly unzip the fly of the defeated’s suit. His cruel, smiling eyes never left Marcus’s face as he reached in to free his cock.

“Marcus, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked sparring better than you let on.”

“You’re not immune.” It was risky to backtalk the man who was pointing a gun at you, but Marcus had felt Ezra growing steadily harder against his groin, thick and heavy, grinding into him softly as he held his cock in his rough hands.

“No, I don’t suppose I am.” Ezra’s voice was a little softer, more glowing ember than raging fire as his gave flicked from Marcus’s eyes to his full lips, parted in a pout.

Without another word, Ezra opened his own suit, stroking himself, rolling his palm over the weeping head before sliding it against Marcus’s length. He admired the similarities in their size, the way their foreskins slipped against each other, the rare reprieve from brutality. He could have gotten lost in it, but reality suddenly snapped him back, This is your foe.

Refocused, Ezra released both turgid members and aimed his rail gun with both hands. “Hold ‘em. Just like I was. Both hands.”

Marcus’s hands shook and he reached to hold them in his warm, smooth grip. He looked at the gun, at Ezra’s dark, glazed eyes, at their cocks, flushed and smeared with their combined precum. He circled his hands around them, and Ezra began to thrust into his hands, against the other man’s cock.

For the first time, Ezra was silent. No sounds but their heavy breaths and the soft sounds of skin on skin. Marcus adjusted his own pace slightly, pushing forward on Ezra’s withdrawal, pulling back on Ezra’s thrust. He whined, arched, drew close to his release. He wondered if it would be better to come first or last. As if reading his mind, Ezra answered, breathless, wrecked. “Together.” Marcus nodded, doubling down on his efforts, flexing his fingers around them, and daring to look right into the dark eyes above him.

Ezra’s head dropped, exhaling harshly as his milky cum mixed with Marcuses, painting Marcus’s stomach, landing messily on his tight black tshirt.

As if released from a spell, Ezra sat back on the ground, shoulders loose and relaxed, mind empty. Marcus propped himself up on his elbows, surveying the mess that had been made of him. Neither spoke for a comfortable few moments, until Ezra sighed wearily, leaning up to lazily smear an upper case E before dragging his hand down Marcus’s thigh, patting it gently.

He spoke, voice regretful. “I’m going to give you a ten minute head start, Marcus. Don’t let me catch you again. It won’t end like this a second time.”

[hyukalyptus]

thinking about yeonjun tapping ur clit with his dick until you cum. right as u start to cum tho, he shoves his cock inside you and fucks you thru it :)

Hp, I am a huge fan of yours and as your reader, I wanna scream more about this post of yours. That's why I wanna just scream about every phrase that had me obsessively malfunctioning.

Note — I am splitting those sentence where I want to scream about and yap a little ( i am just yapping, at your thought please im scared I never have sent such a long ask ever before ), and then yap down it. If that makes you uncomfortable, PLEASE, ignore my ask ( if you ignore or reply to this, I'll get to know you more in a way and I can interact better ). Cause I'm a little scared and Uh, I read your guidelines like thrice now, but still scared. That's why.

"thinking about yeonjun tapping ur clit with his dick.."

Yeonjun who has taken an oath to torment you with his dick tonight, restricting your squirms and struggles just verbally with his command that subjects you to obey. Like, obey seriously. Spreading your legs, he can't help but adore your cunt which is tearing up with slick leaking out, almost begging him to fill it with his dick as the contractions of your cute pussy around nothing but air earn you a chuckle, "want my dick already baby?" He shoots you a teasing yet humiliating look through his eyes and his face, decorated with a sinister smirk. Not even fraction of seconds pass as he raises his eyebrows in mischief as his hands work on revealing his raging cock, you nod to him in sheer desperation with doe eyes which always seemed to work on him, but did he just unnotice your need? Yes, he did. "No baby, not so soon," Yeonjun tsks at your state as he lets his length rest on you clit, barely even moving but your exposed clit which just chilled to cold atmosphere is warmed by his cock and does it not make you whine, you are now extremely longing for his cock. Your reaction is fascinating, Yeonjun couldn't capture that well. He needs to see that again. And so an exhilarating idea pops in his filthy head and in no time, his fingers drape around his girth and he's moving it again, sluggishly tapping at your clit, you're moaning at the teasing pleasure which has your cunt weeping but enjoyed such exciting delight that rushed through you when his cock head kissed your clit.

"..until you cum."

His cock head is not supposed to weaken your rested body, it isn't just tapping but knocking at so many cells in your body which wail at slightest stimulation, every tap having you quiver under him as he wishes to absorb your every reaction, shuddering at every second his dick taps your clit. small and broken moans of both pleasure and plea exit your mouth, as if they are actually helping you beg to him, but it is not working when you chant so many of 'Please fuck me already's and he's just ignoring them. "But I wanna see what trying this can do to you, baby. Let me." You wish to have said he is actually asking but no, he is stating that he will, and that you will have to let him. The summary of his 'trying this' is exactly tapping at your clit to an extent on what would you do, he's examining and enjoying your pathetic state of begging and moaning, it's completely so sexy to see you like that. You can't even tell when those little twists and turns that actually drive you nuts when his cock taps at your clit have turned into some knots more insane, blurring your vision as the butterflies ( which were not supposed to erupt but they do, for him ) along with those fucking knots in your tummy so lecherously do they add to the delight which is so tormenting you when Yeonjun's relentlessly playing with his cock and your clit, sometimes even pressing it for short little while, your clenching cunt and your gripping fists on your sheets contract more and more at that you turn your head to the side, oh no. This is fucking sexy. So his pace of continually tapping at your clit with his cock is quicker, more like trying to extract something. "What are you gonna do? Cum? Cry? Just fucking do everything, so sexy baby." What could you do at that? You are growing close, the realization when his lewd taps effectively pecking at your clit, you know it's not gonna set any peace to your insides and the firework-like knots in your tummy snap and all you see are those electric bolts in dark as you shut your eyes and you feel it, you're spasming around not his cock or anything, it's your clit so oversensitive making you witness an overwhelming pleasure.

"right as you start to cum tho, he shoves his cock inside you and fucks you thru it :)"

You have no serious buisness to be so alluring, Yeonjun is bewitched with your little shivers, whimpers and your little squirms which show no signs of letting him stop, instead they only seem to be encouraging him to continue. His eyes work at rocket speed as they follow your every moment, sweating and reddening at the little thing he is doing to you. Is that even a justice to say it's little when you are whining louder and you keep on repeating that you're close? And just as you arch your back and clench around nothing as you cum, a thick length uh, sheathes- no. SHOVES inside your already tight cunt which is clenching. Oh no. Too tight, his cock might break at this point. His hands grip your thighs tightly as he enters in your cumming pussy, which shows no signals of stopping that squeeze which could dangerously have him cum right then and there. Your cock, didn't fuck but already has you screaming. Poor pussy of your is too overstimulated to even relax; his cock widening your hole. He is not supposed to move but he does, with his drained composure at the tight hold of your pussy around his cock. The pleasure getting only overwhelming as his plump lips part and he's so salaciously moaning at every thrust he delivers in you with your coarse whimpers, following those tears cascading down. His slow thrusts, quicken their pace and force their way in, more. Admit or not, this fucking hot man best not stop, your legs bring him closer as they tangle around his waist, helping him move deeper inside. Yeonjun's thrusting as he knows all the load in him is accumulating at his cockhead, ready to snap at any moment and shower your insides with his cum. But you know, he's fucking as he readies another overwhelming knot in your tummy ready to snap and have you, god knows, how you're even havibg strength to cum again, that too around his cock completely stuffing your cunt at every passing interval. "Baby, I'm c-close, will cum anytime soon." Yeonjun could barely say that without breathing in between, and you're nodding to him so Dumbly, "Please cum in me." Is all what needed and his grip on your thoughts brought your cunt closer to him and your legs pulled him in, so forcefully that neither of you part from the cock-cunt connection as you cum around him once again with your tight shut eyes. His head is thrown back, he lets out a long whine getting coarse so fucking filthily.

"Oh, that was so fucking hot, baby."

Uh, hp... if you have come till here, I'm so sorry you had to listen to me Yap so much about this but your thought did so much to me today taht I had to get this out. Please, I'm sorry. Ignore my long ask if it makes you uncomfortable.

God this is long. PLEASE I JEVER SEND SUCH LONG ASKS HELP WHAT--- IM SO SORRY

hi matcha~ sorry it's taken me a bit to get back to you. i know we've talked to over the past couple days, but regardless, im now getting to ur initial ask!

never apologize for sending long messages. they make me soso happy to get!

and honestly the fact that you thought about that much just from a couple dumb sentences i wrote one night makes me soso happy <3

but honestly i don't have anything to add!! LOVED the "please cum in me..." that is dreamy.

sorry i don't have a ton to add--- everyone just read matcha anon's wonderful thought!!

[idyllic-affections]

HIII!

What are your thoughts on Kaveh's childe being a dancer??

I'm kinda self projecting on this one bcs I like to dance myself (mainly kpop) but I wanted to know what you thought of that ☆(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*

(Sorry if it's not clear/understandable english is not my first language (ʘᴗʘ))

what if kaveh's child wanted to be a dancer?

summary. how would kaveh react if his child wanted to become a dancer?

trigger & content warnings. no applicable warnings.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff. adoptive dad!kaveh & reader, nilou & reader, cyno & reader. 0.6k words. they/them pronouns for reader. this post is an expansion of what if kaveh adopted a child?

author's thoughts. don't worry, dear!! your english is great, no need to apologize <3 this idea is so cute tbh. i love the idea of kaveh's kid being artistic. every time i get an ask like this one, it makes me so happy. it's so cute to me! artistic kaveh and his artistic child <33

in short, kaveh would wholeheartedly support his kid.

that is a given, of course—he's probably sumeru's most supportive father, really. he only wants his child to be happy and healthy. anything his kid wants to pursue, he's right there cheering them on, doing whatever he can to help them research it or gather materials for it. whatever it is that their interest demands, he will do his best to attain it. thankfully, while kaveh is broke, alhaitham has the mora to fund their interests and does happen to have a little soft spot for them, so he gladly does so when kaveh cannot afford to. he doesn't make kaveh pay him back, because really...

alhaitham has long since accepted that he is, in part, responsible for [name]. he is one of their caretakers. it is his responsibility to help enrich their life.

cyno also has the mora to help out. like haitham, he has a soft spot for them, so their hobbies are usually funded by either the scribe or the general mahamatra.

(cyno isn't supposed to fund their artistic hobbies, but we'll explore that idea later on in this post.)

kaveh does worry, however.

i've always imagined that kaveh adopts his child a good while before the sumeru archon quests—several years, at least. if his child wanted to be a dancer... well, he'd do all he could to protect them from the akademiya, sneaking them into zubayr theater so they can watch all the performances that their heart desires (and he also loves watching the theater, so it's something he's glad to share with his child). i imagine that cyno would find out about this eventually. as a matra, it's his job to... stop it, or discourage it at the very least. he has to uphold the akadmeiya's rules. he has to.

...he just cannot bring himself to do it, however. the way their eyes sparkle when they watch the dancers preform... archons, the thought of betraying the trust they have put in him, betraying the trust he's built with them by caring for them in their younger years, it greatly unsettles him.

he can't crush their soul like that. he's very relieved when the sages get overthrown. he would never want to do anything to hurt them, especially when he knows that his actions will undoubtedly be harmful. trust is a fragile thing. it can only be built up after months or years of hard work, yet can shatter in a fraction of the time.

the general mahamatra is just... so, so relieved that he doesn't have to hide them from the sages anymore.

his nibling's (gn alternative to niece/nephew) passion is not something meant to be hidden.

can you imagine nilou teaching them to dance, though? i think it'd be very cute! she'd totally do it if kaveh ever approached her and asked.

she would love them, gently correcting any missteps they make and excitedly praising them when they master a difficult choreography. nilou would think of them fondly, like a little dance apprentice! she's not quite mature enough to be seen as a mother figure, however. she's more akin to another big sister to them, like collei.

(i also like to think that, in a cruel twist of fate, [name] eventually gets a hydro vision, as if the hydro archon's gaze was always cast upon them even after they left fontaine. nilou would be the one to teach them how to use it, teach them how to associate it with better feelings and memories. <3)

when sumeru comes out of its oppresive state and the arts are welcomed as they always should have been, [name]'s lil found family will all attend their first official performance with nilou. nilou wouldn't let them perform prior to that out of concern for their safety.

kaveh, alhaitham, cyno, tighnari, and collei really are their greatest cheerleaders in life.

adoptive dad!kaveh taglist: @kaoyamamegami, @zeldadou, @bebobeboben. send a non-anonymous ask to be added. please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[trueshredguitar]

I've posted the first two vignettes of my little character-study exploration of the Armorer from The Mandalorian as a matter of necessity. I will be cured of my posting paralysis.

Read the first chapter below.

PROLOGUE: ME'SUUME

“Look, girl,” he said, and carded his fingers through the sides of her hair. “Use those eyes your mother gave you.”

The girl looked. She extended her hand and formed it into the shape he had shown her, the thumb and pointer fingers extended with the others folded away. The lesson taught was this: use all tools at your disposal, and remember one day all you may have is what’s attached to you.

She brought her fingertip to the bright reddish star a hand’s length above the horizon, and followed the right angle of her extended thumb to find the fuzzing points of light he’d meant for her to name just beside the point of her fingernail. “I found it,” she said.

“Name them.”

“Krownest and Bandomeer.”

“Good, girl,” he said, and her father ruffled the top of her head. “Good.”

She put down her hand and leaned backwards, letting the back of her head knock against the cold metal of the breastplate behind her. His fingers continued to comb through strands of her hair, picking through the little snarls and tangles that came from a day of play. She let the motion soothe her.

Familiarly, he smelled of sweat and dust. The gusts of cool nighttime air around them were not enough to carry it away. In later years sour sweat and dust would become a perfume she both abhorred and missed in equal measure. The circumstance and the emotional attachment would change between the moments she spent here and in the dire straits of her close-quarters Covert, but the scent-memory would imprint upon her forever, an absolute value of impact. In the moment, however, she would think nothing of it except: when would it be his turn to bathe?

“Name the other planets you can see,” he said, and she frowned.

“I know the planets,” she retorted.

Her father only hummed and picked at a stubborn knot by her chin. “Thank the Manda, because I seem to have forgotten them all.”

“Buir,” she said, dragging out the vowels in a halfhearted whine, but all the man did was laugh. The little girl huffed. Always a lesson. All was learning experience.

She jabbed a finger at the fractionated cluster of planetary shards on the far right of their heavenly sphere. “Concord Dawn,” she identified.

“Full of?”

“Farmers and pilots,” the girl said, and moved the finger ever slightly more to her right to point in the direction of a faint greenish suggestion of light. “Phindar.”

“What’s Phindar full of?”

“Phindar has Phindians on it.”

The man let out a single chuckle. “I’ll accept that answer.” He hummed. “I seem to remember a big trade route being…” — he gestured vaguely across the breadth of the dark sky — “there. Can you remind me what it’s called?”

“The Hydian Way,” she replied after a hesitant moment.

The man tsked approvingly, giving her a pat on the shoulder. “That sounds right. You’re pretty smart, owlet.”

Another gust of wind came, and with it a wall of cold. A shiver ran through the girl, and she curled further into her father’s lap. He readjusted and brought her into his arms, rubbing her upper arms with his hands. The blanket of stars and planets above them burned brightly, but without warmth.

Suddenly, she felt tired. “Can we go inside?” she asked.

“What? Go inside?” her father gasped incredulously, mouth dropping open in mock horror. “We can’t yet, you’ve missed one! How am I supposed to go inside when—”

“You know it, Buir!”

“Please?” He loomed over her head and looked down at her pleadingly.

The little figure in his lap with her neck craned backward rolled her eyes dramatically. The display made the man smile, crinkles showing beside his eyes.

She threw her head forward and pointed carelessly to the shining yellow sphere hung dead center in the sky, massive and brighter than all other objects, thin clouds swirling on its surface. “Big ugly Mandalore,” she said, short with the temper of impatient children. 

She could not see it, but the expression left his voice; the man’s smile dropped from his face. “Be respectful when you’re being taught,” he said, hard. The girl huffed but did not argue. “Try it again. Without the attitude.”

The lightheartedness was gone. The girl’s frown deepened, but she schooled her voice into the tone she knew would be accepted. She pointed at the planet again listlessly. “Mandalore. You and buir were born there. You lived in a place called Tene Malek. In the south.”

“Good, cyar’ika,” the man said stonily.

She said nothing else, now nervous to provoke another admonishment. All her father did was exhale, however, and squeeze her arm. “Alright. Inside,” he acquiesced.

In one smooth motion he lifted the girl off his lap and stood, shifting her to perch her on the hip opposite his holster. He let her loop her arms around his neck and press her cheek against his stubble — rank with dust and sweat, comforting in this moment. He stood there, unmoving. Another gust blew strands of her hair into his face; his stance remained unbroken.

“You will see it up close one day, you know,” he murmured. “I’m taking you there. It’s prettier on the surface. You’ll see Keldabe, Sundari, the mines and the living waters. Even the dead desert is beautiful in its way.”

“I like it here,” she said into his shoulder. Concordia was full of her family, purple-leafed and green and bulbous trees, birdsong, laughter from the gut over tabletops in the tents. Mandalore was a mythical pale mass, lurking over her horizon.

He bounced her gently, a motion years of child-soothing had ingrained into him, and gave no reply. He only swayed to a silent rhythm.

“Remind me what Mandalore is full of?” he mumbled against her ear after a measure or two.

“Cowards,” she answered quietly against his armor with the cadence of well-taught words, “because all the Mandalorians are here.”

“Good, girl,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to the part of her hair and turned, leading them back towards the copse of trees that obscured the entrance of their warrens. “Smart girl.”

[Read more on AO3.]

[misc-obeyme]

This was amusing to me so I feel like sharing it, CC lol I hope you don't mind the newspaper I'm about to print out here :P

So, I've recently read a couple of smut mangas and seen the titles of others while I was at it.

When I first began playing Obey Me in 2019, I thought that the titles of the mangas Levi talked about were crazy and MUST be exaggerated for comical purposes. Even during my #? replay last year I still thought, 'no way the silliness and these long-ass titles are legit in the real world.'

I wasn't curious to delve deeper or research to check whether or not the aspects I deemed to be attempts at comedy were like that in reality, so I ignored it in belief that it's a part of the humour.

Man was I wrong.

Because lo and behold, this many years later I suddenly get image recommendations from mostly smut manga on my dashboard even though I've never interacted with similar posts or accounts before maybe because I used to play 'What in "Hell" is Bad?' or perhaps I was probably just destined to find a silly answer I never looked for. Anyways, I end up liking a portion of what I see and reading the corresponding mangas as a result—only to then make the hilarious discovery that certain titles can indeed be insane in both content (many are as weird as hell) and length (how much longer can one title get?)

After that I wondered why such standards get applied to manga titles and did an immensely brief, fraction-of-a-minute skim on the information: the titles help make the mangas stand out in the saturated market, give readers a sort of 'summary' on what the manga is about, and higher the chances of anime adaptation. There was also something about how title choices will eventually run out since there are so many mangas out there, so longer titles take the cake.

Well...as a writer I thought, 'I could never.' I mean, though I know it's not the same thing at all and this a completely different scenario, I can't so much as imagine choosing for my fics such a lengthy and weird not-in-a-good-way (in my opinion) title.

No offense intended to anyone, of course, but here's the thing: the manga world is a world on its own, with its own themes and norms.

As such, while some titles may be entertaining to read, as writers there are certain things/words that don't tickle our fancy or match our linguistical preferences, so our 'writer side' doesn't deem them satisfying in general or fit for our work in specific, if that makes sense, and we hence can't bear to choose them for or include them in the fics we write. It's almost like I mentally shudder at the thought of titling my writings with a manga-style sentence or a near mini-paragraph lol

I tend to suck at expressing my thoughts, but since you're a writer yourself I suppose you get what I mean, CC?

Now I babbled a lot and announced my belated discovery, I'll see myself out :P

You know quite honestly my favorite thing about those titles is coming up with some whenever I write Levi in a fic. Like it's clearly just for humor and there is no story attached to it, but they can be fun to come up with.

HOWEVER, titles in general are the absolute worst. I find them very difficult because it's like you want something that embodies what the story is about, but you also don't want anything too cheesy? I don't know, I always struggle with the feeling that my titles are cheesy lol.

It's always I either don't come up with anything and post the fic sans title, something comes to me like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, OR I spend untold amounts of time agonizing over it before finally picking a single word.

But I have read about the trend of naming manga with basically an entire sentence. I think it's a little silly to suggest that all the titles will eventually be taken. There are so many words and word combinations in any given language that I think you could have them all be a two word titles and not end up with repeats.

Though this kind of thing tends to be dictated more by the market and how well things sell rather than how much sense they make. If manga publishing companies are seeing a spike in sales due to manga's with a sentence for a title, then they're going to keep on doing that.

Anyway, I think I do understand what you mean! Titles are tricky and if I can avoid coming up with one, I often will lol.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Cerimonia Compedum, Part 1/2

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Isobel Thorm/Dame Aylin, Ketheric Thorm; featuring a supporting cast of Absolute cultists, and the BG3 ensemble making a brief (for now) appearance. Length: ~7000 words Summary: Isobel is reunited with her father.

The Isobel stuff I posted here wouldn't leave my mind. I also found it frustrating that Isobel cannot be saved if she gets kidnapped and tadpoled, even with a perfectly good Mysterious Artefact right there, so I wrote a little fix-it AU - for the Bad End route I already wrote about here, even. Split in half because it got rather long.

Warnings for canon-typical violence, tadpoling-related body horror, and mind control.

Also on AO3, if you prefer.

---

Cerimonia Compedum - I

Her makeshift altar is within sight, bathed in the one beam of moonlight she and Selûne have managed to painstakingly cultivate and maintain. The lifeline for so many, made real by a goddess and a mortal vessel working in tandem through long, long nights of focused communion. It is right there, little more than an arm's reach away.

Isobel can't move. 

A ghoul's paralytic claws carved into her side as she tried to escape to the balcony. The burning turned to numbness within moments, running down her limbs to the very tips of her fingers, freezing her in place. 

Thus taken out of the fight for her own life, she can do nothing but watch with mounting horror as Marcus - the traitor, how could they have all been so complacent, so blind? - rushes towards her with single-minded purpose burning in his eyes. Shrugging off the scorching swirl of the Sharran's spirit guardians, dodging the wide swing of a greataxe, he is upon her.

The club comes down on her head, and, in a reprise of Isobel's past hundred years, once more there is only darkness.

-

She is flying, held tightly, borne aloft, great wings beating on either side of her, and they climb, climb, climb, higher and higher. A giggle escapes her, dizzy, heavy-headed - one drink too many at the inn, and Aylin, ever the embodiment of chivalry, is taking her to her room atop Moonrise to safely and comfortably sleep it off.

-

"...a concussion? Explain the bleeding?"

"Alive, h-he said alive-- she--"

Several voices are spilling in and out, clashing above and over her in a grand melange of murky sound as Isobel feels some degree of sense return to her. She is on her back, lying on something hard, and she is very cold.

"She was supposed to be unharmed, not at death's door! What have you done, you incompetent fool? The General will--"

"She fought back, what was I supposed to do?"

"Leave. I will do my best to fix your mistake, for all of our sakes."

Her head feels liable to split into two, and she can't hold back the moan of pain as someone prods at her, then forces one of her eyes open, allowing light to stab in like a knife.

"You're in luck, Marcus. It is fixable. Now leave. I won't ask again."

Preening idiot, a murmur comes from Isobel's right as a door bangs closed, followed by an incantation. The magic that washes over her is utterly unfamiliar; a strangely creeping energy that makes her hair stand on end. Still, the pressure in her head lessens to become something nigh-bearable, and the burn of the worst of the lacerations dims. 

A bit of shuffling as another wave of magic starts, somewhere near the shoulder that took the brunt of the force when her spear was wrenched from her - but then it abruptly stops, replaced by a dull, unimpeded ache once more. 

"General," whoever was hovering over her not moments before sounds surprised, bordering on panicked, as heavy steps reverberate all the way into Isobel's spine. 

"Where is she?"

The voice sends fresh ice through Isobel's veins. She tries to force her eyes to open, tries to will any part of herself to move - without luck. Her lungs haven't worked right since her return from an early grave, and with the beating she's taken she can barely stand to draw a fraction of a breath.

"Right here, General." 

"Why was I not informed of her arrival immediately?" 

As the chilling presence stomps closer, Isobel feels her feeble breaths grow even shallower, faster, each seeming more futile than the last. Her head spins, and pounds, and she feels weak and ill and scared when what she needs to do is run--

A hand - cold, metal-clad - alights on her shoulder. Another one grabs her chin with such gentleness Isobel wants to cry out at the twisted wrongness of it all.

"There was… an altercation, during her recovery. That is, she tried to escape and the… ghouls… were a bit too rough. I thought it prudent to provide some healing first."

"You thought? Have I not made my priorities in this matter abundantly clear, acolyte?"

"My apologies, General. It will not happen again."

"See that it doesn't. Now leave us. And let Disciple Z'rell know to dispose of the ghouls - they are clearly unable to abide by basic instructions and so unfit for purpose."

"Yes, General."

Isobel loses a few moments to jostling and rapid movement. She is being carried up several flights of stairs, and she lets out a feeble sound of protest as the steps resound in her aching head. The familiar voice shushes her, murmurs something that gets lost in the buzz.

Then she is being laid on a bed. 

"Isobel?"

The unmistakable presence of the man who was once her father. Just like then, in the mausoleum, when he pulled her out of her own tomb.

He tilts her head up, and Isobel groans at the surge of dizziness this prompts. A potion is poured down her throat. Mostly bitter, thin but sticky, with a distinct salty tang - the taste of alchemical healing. She swallows, laboriously. Some of it spills. She coughs, and the terror of the familiarity of it all washes over her, threatens to drown her.

Another potion, another spell. This time it feels icy cold, sinking deep into her marrow, knitting her back together in a way that makes her want to crawl out of her own skin.

The blurry mess before her eyes clears up, but she still can't move her arms right. She realises she is sitting on her old bed, in her old room atop Moonrise. It is a dilapidated, eerie shadow of exactly how she left it a century ago.

When she blinks and looks down, she realises her wrists are bound. The surge of pure rage with terror encroaching on the edges wakes her up faster than the potions and magic ever could, and Isobel writhes, struggles upright, tries to pull herself away from him.

General Ketheric Thorm, commander of the armies of the Absolute, a twisted facsimile of the father she knew, kneels next to the bed and refuses to look away from her. If not for the necromantic chill radiating from him and suffusing the room, or the clawed, fanged, cruelly sharpened spines of his death-march armour, one could almost imagine he is here to read his little daughter a bedtime story. 

Isobel pulls on the restraints, ignoring the ache in her shoulder, and ignoring the obvious futility. "How dare you--"

Ketheric sighs, weary and long-suffering. "It is for your own safety, Isobel. Last time you ran right into the worst of the shadows, confused, unthinking - you could have died again."

"And who put them there, the shadows?" Isobel retorts, biting, furious. Tries not to think about the 'again' nestled right after the 'died', so very matter-of-fact. 

Ketheric merely sighs again, and it is maddening, the visible way her words aren't truly being considered, the way they might as well be bouncing off of the steel of the bone-emblazoned plate. She wants to claw at this imposter; she wants her spear and her spells; she wants to tear him to pieces herself. But a part of her so desperately wants him to be someone else's burden, while she flees and puts an entire world between the two of them, to never see his face again.

"This is it, then? This is what you want? How you would treat your own daughter?"

"I do not want any of this, Isobel, but you insist on leaving me no choice," Ketheric speaks, finally, with some emotion. And he sounds like he is tired of explaining a simple mathematical problem to a frustratingly dull child. 

Then he takes a deep breath to regain his calm, as Isobel fruitlessly plucks at what knots she can reach with clumsy fingers. "Too stubborn for your own good. But that is all fine," he seems to be talking to himself more than anything, convincing himself of some new fantasy. "It does not have to be a problem - it will all resolve itself in time, just like your little excursion with the Harpers did. It has always been your way, after all, the price of your brilliance. You have always loved to challenge me." He smiles a wretched horror of a smile and affixes Isobel with an intent, grim, almost hungry gaze of endless weight. "Such is the glorious, agonising burden of a daughter. Make no mistake: it is one I am all too happy to bear."

The Harpers. Isobel sucks in a breath and it sticks in her chest like a knife. She twists around, trying to see out the windows, to catch sight of what lies across the lake - but her room faces the wrong way, and the magical lanterns hung around the tower's perimeter drown out any view beyond the murky, cracked glass.

But she doesn't need to see it to know, to feel the absence. Without her, the haven at Last Light is no more, and the last pocket of resistance is gone, fallen to the ravenous shadows. Everyone there is lost, and the monster that wears her father's skin is smiling over it.

"Moonmaiden help me, can't you see yourself, what you have become? What you have turned our home into?" Isobel cries in mounting despair, thoughts of escape briefly forgotten amidst the sheer weight of disbelief. Dark roots and vines and shadow pustules line the wall of her childhood room, pulsing in time with the necrotic veins on her father's face and the pinpricks of eerie light in the murky abyss of his eyes. It feels like a nightmare - no, it feels like madness. "How could I do anything but challenge this? How could you? Ever since I returned, all I can ask myself is… what happened to you? Where is the man who raised me?"

Ketheric remains terrifyingly calm, unshakeable in the face of her obviously growing distress. Dead, a terrified part of Isobel's mind supplies. Dead like Reithwin, dead like the Harpers, dead like Aylin, dead like you. 

"I am well aware of what I am doing and why, Isobel. And I persevere knowing I am doing it for you, for our family. So do spare me your hand-wringing - I assure you neither my sense nor my capability were tied to my service to Selûne." The disgust in his voice as he says the name is palpable, another rare flare of genuine emotion. "You would do well to consider showing some gratitude - your precious Moonmaiden did not lift one holy finger in your aid. If it were up to her, you would not even be alive to have this increasingly tiresome conversation with me."

For you, for you, for you…

"Well, perhaps," Isobel's breath hitches, "perhaps I shouldn't be."

Ketheric looks at her with an unreadable expression. Then he gets up and takes a few brisk steps to the door. Opens it - unlocks it, first, Isobel notes, keen on extracting every detail that might aid in an escape, with a key he keeps on his person - and summons one of the guards from the landing with a quick wave of his hand.

"Take the other two on duty with you and take the cleric below. She must be introduced to the glory of the Absolute. Do not let her come to harm, or it will be your head. Am I understood?"

She can hardly see the man from her position, but she catches the gleam of a helmet as he nods, curt and determined and utterly unquestioning. "Yes, General. In Her name."

"Make sure to tell them she is of the very highest priority. They will know what to do."

The guard nods again, then disappears to fulfil his orders.

The Absolute. The True Souls. Jaheira's little detector in a jar. A fate which makes death look like a kindness.

Isobel all but leaps off her seat on the bed, tries to run towards the door, but her legs feel like jelly and she stumbles. "No, I… no, no… father!" It is the first time she has called him that - a paltry, desperate attempt, she is well aware. And it achieves little. Ketheric does not turn to look at her again.

"We will talk after, Isobel, when you have had time to get your thoughts in order."

He leaves.

The guards come for her before she has a chance to take another step forward.

The entire tower is abuzz as she is led through, led down, down, down. Daughter, she hears whispers, some awed, some intrigued, some horrified - disgusted, even, with openly dirty stares at her moon-emblazoned vestments. It would seem her father kept the true identity of the Absolute's coveted Selûnite Cleric Isobel a secret from most - not unlike what she was doing herself, among her Harper allies. Evading the association in their respective circles, oh, how quaintly ironic. Isobel's mouth twists in a bitter little grimace, and she stumbles as a guard drags her onwards, downwards. 

But she certainly knows her home, even now, even ruined, better than they ever will. She prepares to call a small flame into her hand, behind her back - carefully timed to surreptitiously burn away the ropes around her arms, then scorch her captors, ready to make a break for the western exit as soon as they reach the main landing. 

Two of the cultist zealots hold her by the arm on each side, and a third one has his hand clamped tightly around her wrists tied behind her. The moment she tries to perform a gesture, the grip tightens and twists, and the tiny blue spark she has managed sputters out, along with Isobel's last hope of escape.

Three of them, one of her, and enemies and monsters on all sides, around every corner of her home. She doesn't know if she feels like laughing or crying. Her father may seem to love speaking to her like an unruly child, but he still knows not to underestimate her.  

Bright, brilliant, a glorious burden.

-

What lies below are horrors beyond imagination, right underneath her home. Flesh and sinew, bulbous and bloody, an organic, squelching maze. The stench that hits her with the first of the damp, warm air makes her double over in her captors' hold, heaving. Disgusting cannot begin to describe it, a nightmare of viscera made real to match the ones of bone haunting her already.

Bone-wrought Myrkulite symbols abound, too, in the dead ends of the hallway-entrails that twist and turn and pulsate. But this is something else, a plot reaching beyond one dead pretender-god. It makes no sense to Isobel, not yet, how it all comes together. With her father at its head, and the sheer scope and scale of the operation unfolding before her eyes, suggesting, terrifyingly, that all of his considerable tactical acumen has been applied--

It is far worse than anything Isobel - or Jaheira - or anyone thought.

She is taken past rows and rows of strange, otherworldly pods that at one glance resemble mechanical contraptions, yet at another seem like living things. Some are occupied - with men, with tieflings, and, gut-churningly, with mind flayers. When they finally stop in front of a rare one that gapes open, Isobel barely has time to try to twist away before she is pushed into the maw of it. Armlike protrusions tighten around her until she can do little else but squirm in place and cringe at the feel of unidentifiable secretions seeping into her robes. 

One of the Absolutists, this one unarmed and unarmoured, reaches over to tilt her head up and move her hair away from her face with surprising gentleness. 

Her father, brushing her hair into something resembling tidiness as they prepare for receiving guests, tucking ever-rebellious wisps of it behind her ear.

The guards, she notes, eyes darting everywhere in search for an opening, have left.

"Hear me, Moonmaiden," her throat is dry as grave-dust again, words barely scraping by, but she has to speak them, has to try forming a prayer to Selûne, who guided one of her escapes already. Surely, surely another is possible, even if the circumstances are so much more dire.

"She won't help you here," the cultist arranging her in the contraption sounds almost pitying. "But it doesn't matter - the old gods, their time is at an end, at long last."

A hand is laid on her shoulder. The man sounds so soft, so comforting, for someone who just finished tightening more restraints around her arms. "The Absolute is here for us - for you. She listens. She hears. And She will give you everything you desire."

Isobel meets his eyes and comes to the horrifying realisation that he really, truly means it. Then he turns away with a smile to tinker with something behind him, something just as ominous and slimy and wet as the rest of this hell.

Her father, Isobel notes, is nowhere to be seen. She vows she will not let him wash his hands of this, however she is able.

For she will keep something of herself. She has clung on, stubborn, through life and death and the journey back from the grave. They can take much, but they cannot take all of her. She will not let them.

Her injured shoulder burns with the effort, but - there - her right arm is almost, almost free--

"None of that now," the man says, and the claws of the pod tighten even more. He is cradling something in his hands as if it is precious, and each slow but steady step he takes towards Isobel feels like the approach of an unfathomable doom. "All you need to do is let Her in."

The parasite looks much like the one she's seen Jaheira brandish in a jar, only far less bloated. Because - her stomach lurches with the realisation - it hasn't yet had a chance to feed.

The disgusting creature now dangling from the man's fingers draws inexorably closer, and Isobel closes her eyes. Withdraws, first physically, as far as she can go in the pod, then tries to breathe and ensconce herself within the sanctuary of her thoughts. Works to settle her mind and her soul - she is well-trained, well-practised, an accomplished cleric. A moment of meditation, of recitation of familiar, comforting words. Of eternal, inviolable cycles. Waxing, waning. Low tide, high tide.

But the hand that was laid so gently on her shoulder before now grabs her face, pulls and holds her eye open without hesitation or mercy. The grip smears mucus on her cheek, mixes it with the black of her makeup, digs into her skin until all she can see is uncanny undulating and tiny teeth, razor sharp, round and round and round--

The nascent scream dies choked in Isobel's throat.

-

Isobel has been an insufferable wreck the past tenday. She knows this very well, and has tried to keep to her rooms in order to minimise lashing out in frustration at people who have done nothing to deserve her ire. 

But she oscillates between rage and sorrow and endless, endless, endlessly frustrated questions. Trying to recall every detail of every recent moment spent with Aylin, trying to pinpoint something, anything that could explain this. Could something have happened to her, after she left? No, surely word would have made it back to Reithwin by now. Was it an inadvertent slight that went unaddressed somehow and bloomed into resentment like a choking weed, or could it have been an unfortunate choice of words on Isobel's part? But her mind comes up blank, no matter how many agonising hours she spends musing.

The truth is that Aylin is gone, perhaps forever, and Isobel, without even the grace of a parting explanation, is left to wallow in her abandonment.

And perhaps, her mind supplies, hollowly, cruelly, as she sits submerged in her own misery, perhaps it was nothing she did at all, but rather what she was. Perhaps Aylin merely realised she was wasting her time, as endless as it might be, on a creature as utterly limited and irrelevant as Isobel Thorm.

A bitter little sob escapes her, and only when she reaches up to angrily swipe at her eyes does Isobel realise a hand is on her shoulder.

Father.

He sits down next to her in front of the embers in her fireplace, quiet, solid, simply present, and opens his arms. Isobel gladly falls into them.

"I have said my piece, many times over," he begins, after a long silence. "I know you know my thoughts on the matter of this entire courtship."

Isobel wants to groan in exasperation and disappointment, wants to push him away; him and all the salt that is about to hit her wounds.

"But I also know…" His voice grows softer, and somehow far more hesitant, stopping Isobel's rage in its tracks. "I know very well that it is not given to any of us to control the heart." The words rumble in his chest as Isobel rests against it, a steady and comforting and warm reverberation. "I am sorry, Isobel. If it were within my power, I would spare you every pain this world dared to offer."

Miserable, sniffling - Isobel truly feels ridiculous, reduced to a moping, lovesick wreck, hitting new lows whenever she stumbles across another silvery feather in her room. But she allows herself this much, and indulges in the misery, at least for a little while. "Do you think she'll come back?" 

Her father hums, pets her hair in gentle, regular, soothing motions, and - in a pleasant, welcome surprise - refrains from any more traces of 'told-you-so' and 'good riddance'. Instead, he takes her face gently between both of his hands - large, warm, safe - meets Isobel's eyes with an open, endlessly loving gaze, and brushes away her tears. "If she does not, she is a bigger fool than I thought."

-

She is alone when she wakes up.

A good thing, Isobel finds, upon brief reflection. She does have a bit of contemplation to do - a bit of soul-searching, if you will. A little time to take in all she has learned, all that the Absolute has chosen to impart, in Her great generosity. Even if the accommodation does, admittedly, leave something to be desired.

But first: a quick healing spell, to stop the stubborn pain around her shoulder and her left eye, likely a remnant of Marcus' well-intentioned but still somewhat… misguided attempts to bring her here. Isobel knows she owes him for the part he played in this reunion, and wants to find him, to settle matters between them. Exchange apologies, indulge in a little clearing of the air, just to make sure everything is fine.

It wouldn't do to mar new beginnings with unsightly grudges or misunderstandings, after all. Not when Isobel has so much to be thankful for.

It all seems too much like when she was small, and not yet a strong swimmer, but still stubbornly insisted on wading into where one of the offshoots of the Chionthar widened into what could pass for a lake. When the cold, murky, merciless waters closed above her head, it was her father who jumped in after her and who pulled her to safety. Who dragged her back to the light, put solid ground under her feet, and allowed her to breathe again.

Her Papa has changed since, yes - but so has Isobel herself. It is only natural. And besides, how could he not have, after everything he has been through, and all that he has done for her?

And then-- there he is, as if her thoughts summoned him to her side.

He is clearly in a hurry. Likely rushing through tasks, juggling many important duties as the culmination of his plans approaches - it is not a new sight to Isobel. And yet still he makes time to come down and greet her, now that she is sensible enough to listen. She throws her arms around him as soon as he opens the ridiculous pod she was ensconced in. It might not be appropriate for his public image of a fierce general, but nobody need see her here.

It still feels unreal, even with familiar arms returning her embrace. After all this time, her Papa is by her side. A family, reunited - a true wonder. It seems the Absolute has been raining such blessings upon Her faithful. Unlike--

Isobel winces as the inside of her elbow catches on an unfortunately-positioned sharp edge of her father's armour.

Unlike the endless demands on her own will and body from a distant, uncaring, unresponsive goddess. If she allows herself to think about it, she can almost feel the burn, the radiance coursing through her as she is made to channel it to protect the ruins of an inn, scorching her from the inside out - a useful vessel, and little more.

And to think, the Absolute was here, patient, right under Moonrise of all places, all along! Ancient beyond counting, looking out for Isobel and her home from long before the moment of her birth, all through her misguided childhood and youth, simply waiting until Isobel herself was ready to hear Her voice. True divine providence on display.

"Isobel, my dearest daughter," father says when he manages a half-step back, looking her over, alternating between rapidly mounting concern and strikingly pronounced relief. He cups her face in his hands, turns it this way and that, peering at her intently. "There you are. How are you feeling?"

He lets go of her, but only for a moment, quickly taking her hands in his instead.

The treatment seems a little excessive to Isobel, so she attempts to reassure with as bright a smile as she can manage. "I'm fine, Papa, don't worry. I just have a bit of a headache, is all. In fact, I was just thinking of talking to Marcus, if he happens to be here--"

"Worried for your winged saviour?" Father smiles a rather grim but satisfied smile, flush with some odd amusement Isobel does not understand. Then he waves the thought off with a hand, the other one refusing to let go of Isobel's. "Forget about him, for now. It is time for us to go."

"Go? Where?" Isobel barely manages to ask, before she is being pulled by the hand and out of the room lined with strange pods.

"I am expecting some important guests," her Papa now sounds oddly strained when he speaks, leading her along quickly through the winding, moist tunnels Isobel would have no hope of navigating on her own. A rush of warmth fills her. How lucky she is, to have her loving father by her side to show her the way!

"Is everything alright? Can I help you prepare for their arrival?"

Her father pauses, mulls something over. As he does so, Isobel allows herself a moment to catch her breath and to gape - just a bit, trying not to slip into being completely uncouth - at the creatures that inhabit this place. All sorts, coming together under one god, uniting for one purpose; it is utterly awe-inspiring. Has any alliance of gods, let alone a single deity, ever achieved such harmony? Even with the fairly extensive breadth of religious texts she has pored over through her years of study, Isobel knows the answer to be a resounding no. The Absolute is something different: something real, something truly special, and something so longed-for and long-awaited as to be readily termed a miracle.

Isobel is so thrilled by this realisation and immersed in this thought that she finds herself jolt back to her surroundings only when the ground under her feet itself jolts into motion. Father has led them to a large platform, and they are descending into an immense, cavernous chamber, housing what could pass for an underground sea. It is impossible to see the ends of it, no matter how hard Isobel tries to, even with her twilight-honed eyes.

When they approach the bottom, he stops to consider something once again, looking towards the corner of the vast chamber they have descended into. Isobel spots it too, then: a circle of sigils and runes, sputtering with magic and half-fed, not yet fully active.

Her father seems to stare at it thoughtfully, until he finally, finally decides on something.

"I do not need your help with the guests, Isobel, but it is kind of you to offer. You can help me with something else, however. Balthazar is gone, but…" He shakes his head. "Yes, I know you will do nicely. You are quite the clever spellcaster when you wish to be."

A smile of fatherly pride. Isobel smiles back, basking in the praise. "Of course, Papa, I'll do my best."

"The binding - do not concern yourself too much - it is almost done, we only need to finish a few final runes. But we need to work quickly, so please, Isobel: another pair of hands is what I would ask of you."

He takes the aforementioned hands between both of his. She nods, and follows, stepping a bit awkwardly through the squishy ground, climbing up an oddly soft and rather unpleasantly damp mesh after him.

Then… Aylin. Sprawled on the ground, right next to the incomplete circle. She is clearly out cold, her armour dented and bloodstained and one of her wings twisted at an awkward angle, but unmistakable even so. Isobel blinks once, twice at the sight of that familiar gleaming figure. Wonders idly how she forgot all about that little hurdle in her and Papa's relationship, when once it had seemed so all-important. So dramatic, the arguments they had. Laughable, now.

The rush of gratitude Isobel feels is heady. She has been forgiven for every moment of foolishness and naïveté, and she is loved. A second chance of such magnitude, and a true divine miracle, all hers, theirs.

Her father is looking at her expectantly, with a hint of a concerned frown marring his brow, and a clear tension thrumming through him. 

"What would you have me do, Papa?" Isobel asks, and puts a gentle hand on his elbow, earning herself another small, tired, but approving smile.

What her father needs is a simple spell completion indeed, with the complex but sturdy foundation already laid out before them. With both of them applying themselves all is solved in a flash. It is a near-forgotten joy, and one Isobel knows she never should have fled from, or doubted: the two of them, working together, building their little life piece by piece, as it always has been. And now, perhaps, finally always will be.

As their work reaches its conclusion, the tension in her father's body visibly melts away into nothing more than what the stern duties of a general unfortunately require. Isobel makes a silent vow to herself to never add to that anguish again.

Finally, he reaches over and pulls Aylin into the circle with a strained grunt, then murmurs something unintelligible to trigger it. "There," he says, nodding at Isobel as the magic at their feet hums to life. "Safety, and more besides. But we can discuss this later. I'm afraid I will be needed in a moment." 

Isobel nods back, a bit distracted. She understands the binding - not yet to any great detail, but can grasp the general outline and purpose. The multiple underpinnings of it that seem tethered to father himself, however, are not as straightforward to make sense of. She stays on the platform for a little while, studying the runes, the glyphs, the intricate spellwork of the fascinating cage. Its occupant, thankfully, does not seem to be close to awakening.

The guests do indeed arrive within minutes, so Isobel reluctantly tears herself away from her puzzling and goes to her father's side in order to greet them. Lord Gortash is the polished and well-spoken city politician Isobel would have expected, but something about the intent, discerning, almost familiar way he looks at her is a bit… odd.

The other… the pale-red woman. Orin, Papa calls her. She is… terrifying, frankly. Blood, blood, blood, it is all she talks of, what she reeks of. Her red knife dances and glistens in the dim light, and her eyes keep returning to Isobel, as if they want to dissect her alive.

Isobel tries to stay well away from her.

The Grand Duke, on the other hand - what a glorious occasion, to have such high-ranking folk passing through Reithwin once more! The signs, perhaps, of her and her father's fortunes returning - or growing. The world renewed, reimagined, redesigned, and sleepy little Reithwin with it. A crown jewel of importance, thanks to the Absolute.

And to think Isobel was wasting so much time and energy on a bedraggled bunch of Harpers. It feels almost absurd, now.

The honoured guests leave soon enough. Isobel finds herself hazy on the details, lost in thought as she was for a while there - chalks up this recurring fog to a side effect of her injuries, and makes another note to talk to Marcus when circumstances permit. She hopes they had no need of her, hopes she hasn't embarrassed herself and her father somehow--

A roar of blistering divine rage fills the vast space and interrupts the jumble of Isobel's thoughts.

Aylin has woken up. And has apparently, as her first act upon coming to, settled on throwing insults around, incensed at the very sight of Isobel's father.

"It would seem I misjudged you from the start. Traitor, oathbreaker, rotten to the core, if you would so befoul the bonds of kinship and service. My Mother's favour, so freely given to you and yours, as was my aid in Her name. Yet this is how you deign to repay us?"

She doesn't seem to notice Isobel from where she is held, straining against her bonds, so embroiled in her fury and pointless raving she is.

"Now is not the time, Aylin." It is impressive, truly, how calm her father is keeping.

"How dare you dismiss me? You, who have so much to answer for?"

Instead of any answering, he makes a gesture with one hand, at which a spectral facsimile of it makes a grab at Aylin, seeking to silence her - and failing, as she ferociously dodges its grasp.

"Craven!" She cries, somehow even more incensed. "Coward enough to never dare to come face me, sending your lickspittle necromancer and an army of misguided children in your stead. Would that I had seen you as the backstabber you are from the start, Ketheric."

He scoffs. "I would note, Aylin, that I faced you and defeated you quite decisively not an hour ago. Or did your fall on the rooftop scramble what little sense you had left?"

"Fiend! I shall repay you in kind! I shall--"

But whatever it is Aylin plans to do dies on her lips as her gaze finally, in all its wild, incessant flashing around and attempts to seemingly burrow like a blade into Papa's very heart, lands upon Isobel.

"Isobel? How…" Wide eyed, awash with sheer disbelief, she gapes. Then she takes stock of the situation, truly: the way Isobel now stands by her father's side, where she belongs. The comforting, reassuring hand he has placed on her shoulder upon his approach. Her next words are almost a growl, feral and rough. "What have you done to her?"

"What your mother refused to do," he answers, matter-of-fact. "Where she denied both of us, my lord Myrkul provided."

"Monster! What have you done?" Aylin repeats, strained, as she pulls and struggles against her bonds, furious futility incarnate. Isobel feels a small burst of pride at seeing the magic hold. Her and her father's work, pristine and flawless. Oh, if it was a sign of what they could achieve together…

Her father remains collected, choosing to answer rage with sensible explanation. "Don't you see? Was a century not enough? Do you still believe she listens, cares, beyond what use we can be to her? Pathetic whelp," he shakes his head, seeming almost disappointed. "I would pity you, if you were not so wearisome - for all your boasting and posturing, you are no less a pawn than any of us."

Aylin looks to be preparing to attempt a pounce, the way she suddenly stills and tenses. But then she directs the full blistering intensity of her attention towards Isobel.

"Isobel," while her voice has certainly taken a turn towards gentleness, she is still… very loud, and Isobel winces at a sudden pain in her head, behind her eyes. "Darling Isobel, my most precious love…"

"Stop," Isobel cuts her off, annoyance mounting, compounded by the bothersome ache. "Be quiet."

"What has he done to you? Speak freely, as you always could to me. Ever a sanctity between us, was it not, my love? Trust, and care, and patience to share, to listen, to hear..."

"Quiet," Isobel repeats, louder this time, rubbing her temple.

"Do you not know me?" The silver-burning eyes are wide now, not in anger, but in pure, bone-deep sorrow. The voice has become a breathy murmur, barely above a whisper, but still it seems to grate against Isobel's every nerve. "Do you not know your Dame Aylin, your most devoted knight, your angel?"

"Oh, I know you very well," Isobel snaps, irritation lancing through the very last of her patience. "Devoted? Where were you, then, when I… when I died?" Even in her anger, it feels so odd to speak aloud. "I don't remember much, but I do remember I was alone, frightened and in pain. Why did you and your divine mother abandon me, abandon us? Why was my father the one to toil so relentlessly to bring me back, all by himself? Why did he have to sacrifice so much?"

The hand upon her shoulder tightens, and her father pulls her closer, half-embracing, comforting. "Do not let her distress you, Isobel. She is merely desperate, clawing for any chance at freedom after her sound defeat. She can't yet see she is far, far more valuable, far more significant like this. When we are done here, we will build upon Balthazar's soundly-laid foundations, and extend the binding to include you. Then her purpose will be divine and glorious indeed."

He looks directly at Aylin, a smile playing around his lips. "She can have her wish. She can be close at hand, at our side, and protect you. Forever."

"Good," Isobel replies. Cold, perhaps, but satisfied.

Aylin burns. It seems, for a moment, the fury in her will tear her to brilliantly radiant pieces. That she will shatter along the golden lines that mark her skin. But it all sputters out as soon as it lit, and her face - her eyes - dim down, subdued at last.

She falls to her knees, the magical restraints still gripping her, hunched over as if a knife has been driven through her very heart and then twisted. And there, perhaps - the shine of a tear, and a sob that chokes any further words from her.

Finally, blessedly, silence. Isobel turns away, and all is well once more.

-

"Say farewell, Isobel," her Papa prompts, and Isobel does so, of course, perfectly polite and well-bred.

Before them, below them, stand a fearsome-looking drow commander, a man who must be some sort of tiefling, and the Sharran Isobel once indulged in some bickering with - all pointless, of course, both of them deluded into caring so much for goddesses who would never care in return. The fourth member of their party vanished during their approach, before Isobel could get a good look at them, and remains nowhere to be seen. It is something she feels a twinge of concern at.

She remembers some of these people, if rather vaguely, and slightly regrets not getting to know them better. It is almost a pity that they need to go now, their roles played out.

The fight begins soon enough. Isobel flings spells, invigorated, renewed at long last, with none of the burden of holding up protective rituals or the malaise of the grave clinging to her anymore. Instead, a green-tinged guiding bolt flies almost effortlessly from her fingers and sears into the Sharran, who screams. Isobel cannot help but smirk at the sound, grimly satisfied at the effect she has produced. Well-deserved, that, for her abysmal choice of patron. Then father's warhammer rings out in a devastating blow, a panicked cry of Shadowheart! comes from somewhere, and Isobel laughs, because it is all a thrill, and because the name is truly ridiculous, and because her father is leading them to glorious victory.

In all the commotion, Isobel doesn't see when and how exactly it happens. But a battle cry announces Aylin has broken free and Isobel hopes so very hard it wasn't due to some fault of her own spellcasting. Aylin shouts a challenge, takes flight awash in bright-hot moonlight, and rushes towards the centre of the battlefield. Isobel winces, staggers on the platform and catches herself on her spear - feels, for a moment, like the light is piercing directly into her brain, burrowing deeper as Aylin draws closer to her.

But then it stops - or at least stops getting worse - and Isobel squints, peeking through the fingers that have covered her face almost of their own volition. Aylin has stopped her violent charge, frozen in place, sword hanging limp at her side, her blazing eyes wide, rounded in concern and… fear?

The distraction proves to be Isobel's undoing. The drow approaches from one side of her and the tiefling man from the other - so like the duke, his features, and Isobel can't help but pause, wonder.

"Sorry," he mutters, confusingly. The drow grabs her from behind, immobilising her, and he uses this opportunity to hit her with the pommel of his very intricate rapier.

Isobel sinks into darkness to the sound of her father crying out her name. It is oddly familiar.

[deepspacedukat]

Refill Required

I...have nothing constructive to add to this, so I’ll just say that I hope you enjoy this dirty-talking android villain mans. 😇

Day 12: Coming Dry

SoC prompt list here. SoC Masterlist here. Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Lore (ST:TNG) x Reader

[A/N: This is smut, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: Interspecies sex, Human/Android sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, coming dry, choking, slapping, rough sex, captor/captive (but they were already an item, so...more like an impromptu, unauthorized vacation?), established relationship, jealousy, degradation kink.

~*~

“How long do you think it’ll take them to fix the sensors and the engines?” The warm lasciviousness of a tongue caressed my neck, punctuating his question with a jab of arousal. “How many members of your pathetic little species do you think it’ll take to find you now that I’ve stolen you away?”

I couldn’t seem to make my tongue work. My mind had turned to mush about five orgasms ago - around the time my android lover showed me how his fingers could move with such speed and precision that he became a living vibrator.

The crack of bioplast on skin was followed by a small, involuntary yelp. Lore always did enjoy getting rough, but he was careful about my limits. He didn’t want to break his favorite little organic toy, after all. The occasional slap was more than welcome for both of us, though.

“Answer me,” Lore ordered, and I felt myself fluttering around his length again. He’d always been devastatingly good at making me fall apart for him. Given his fascination with me in particular, I supposed it had only been a matter of time. Lore taking me off the Enterprise at a whim was bound to happen eventually, and now that it had, I couldn’t find it in myself to be disappointed or angry.

“I-I don’t know. The senior officers, at the...at the very least,” I stammered, struggling for coherence under my lover’s harsh ministrations. “Th-the only way it would take less is if y...”

I realized what I’d been close to saying before it could even leave my mouth. If his brother got involved, we likely only had a few hours before we were found. When I trailed off, one of Lore’s hands secured itself around my throat like a lethal sort of necklace. He’d undoubtedly worked out where my thoughts had gone. Lore hated when I compared him to Data - even unintentionally.

“Speak your next words carefully. I may be fond of you, but it would be easy to crush the life out of you.” His threat had me tipping over into yet another wave of pleasure. Trembling and gushing around him, I felt his grip on my throat loosen by a fraction as a moan tore from his vocal processors. “This is why you’re my favorite organic. Even when I threaten your puny little life, you just can’t help but fall apart for me. Gorgeous little slut...”

As foolish as it might be, I’d fallen in love with the android, insults and all. He didn’t mean them. Not with me. He just enjoyed a bit of cruelty in bed. I’d figured that out early in our...could I really call this a relationship, in the traditional sense? He’d taken me out to dinner once, seduced me, and had been involving me in his mischief ever since, including a rather unfortunately timed tryst in the Captain’s Ready Room. We’d barely righted our clothes in time to avoid being caught in the act, though we did have to come up with a reason for being there rather quickly.

Now, as his hand collided with my ass and his teeth clamped onto my shoulder with enough force to bruise me, I smirked. It was worth it. Every single bit of trouble we’d gotten into and every measure of discipline he’d earned us was so worth the hedonistic pleasure we pulled from each other.

Data knew about us, of course. He’d assumed that I would be a good influence for his brother, but the opposite turned out to be true. If I’d smoothed any of Lore’s rough edges, then he’d chiseled a few into me. With him, I took more risks than I ever had on my own. Maybe the knowledge that he was so capable of protecting me was what made me feel as though I could get away with being more reckless than was probably wise.

A moan of my name drew me out of my thoughts and back to reality.

Lore let out several rough grunts as he came inside me, but...this time I couldn’t feel the accompanying gush of synthetic cum. Was I really that thoroughly-fucked?

A hungry hum of appreciation vibrated against my neck.

“Naughty girl. You’ve emptied my reservoir,” my lover whispered against my neck as he gave a few slow, grinding thrusts. He sounded almost proud. “Mmm, it seems your depravity runs deeper than even Soong could’ve anticipated, that old pervert. Such a good girl. After I give myself a refill, it looks like I’ll have to reward you for draining me dry.”

The gentle kiss he pressed onto my lips felt like both a blessing and a curse.

~*~*~

Taglist:

@akamitrani @android-boyfriends @attention-bajoranworkers @bigblissandlove1 @darkmattervibes @emilie786 @horta-in-charge @live-logs-and-proper @slutty-slutty-vulcans @starrynightgardens @toebeans-mcgee

[eowynstwin]

It’s going to sound mean but you seem so pressed over Umiko’s alleged earnings, it’s worrying. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that seeing what she probably earns could make you feel hurt, but you sound jealous and not in a ‘I wish her well and I hope I’ll be able to earn as much or even more’ but more like ‘why the hell people pay her for her art if they don’t pay me for mine?’. And mentioning her specifically couple of times in your recent posts??? It almost sounds like you have a problem with HER and that SHE is being paid for her art and not you. I both write and draw, I know how much work, effort and time it takes and I am happy for Umiko and other artists, because it seems that people are willing to pay for what we create, you just have to know how to sell your product and it is not Umiko’s fault that it took you this long to figure something out. I’m happy her success motivated you and you decided to talk to your friend who can help you with your art, but seriously your recent posts made me feel like you have a serious problem with that girl. One more thing, you mentioned that she earns more in whatever amount of time than your mom in a year like what about it? Is it Umiko’s fault? People per her because they want to support her and they want to have access to her art, and I guess she wouldn’t earn as much in a normal job.

So first of all, I welcome you to quote directly (not paraphrase--highlight, copy, and paste) where I said or even implied that I think that Umiko should not be paid as much as she is.

Second of all, I mentioned Umiko as often I did because she is one of my favorite artists, not because I dislike her. I adore her work and believe she deserves every dollar she has made. She works very hard and is one of the few artists who I think is actually getting adequate compensation for that work. In addition, she seems to be a very kind person, and I will never resent the success of good people.

Thirdly, am I like not supposed to be jealous of someone making nearly $1million a year off fandom work????????????????????????? Sorry, but I think I'm allowed to feel envious that someone in my community is making more than twenty-four times the money I make, especially considering that I've been making fandom work for cod for about as long as she has. Maybe not as much, but I've been pretty consistent for the past year, despite the fact that I've been doing it for free.

I'm allowed to be salty that fandom culture permits her to ask for payment but fanfiction is just taken for granted as free content. Fandom does not bat an eyelash when artists ask for a subscription fee to access fanart porn, but writers can barely get readers to kick them an occasional $5 through ko-fi. Umiko didn't "figure something out" before I did--she has been allowed to monetize her work every step of the way because fandom has collectively agreed that it is acceptable for her to do so.

Umiko is not the only artist, either--Bluegiragi and Wombywoo are both making a significant amount of money off of their fanart. This is not guesswork on my part; the number of these artists' paid subscribers is available publicly on their patreon pages, and if you went to fourth grade math you're probably able to multiply that by the average fees of their tier lists. It is not hard to figure out that these artists are making a very comfortable living, or at least an extremely lucrative side hustle, off of work they produce for the Call of Duty fandom.

And I'm not saying they shouldn't! I never did! My beef with this fact is that this mode of income is not available to fanfiction writers! I have known writers who have written full length novels of carefully crafted stories that will never see even a fraction of a penny for their work, because fandom insists that fanfiction should not be monetized!

And knowing what I know now, I reject that notion entirely. It is beyond ridiculous, it is exploitative. My work, and the work of my friends, is just as labor-intensive, just as time-intensive, and just as skill-intensive as the work Umiko and the rest produce. If these artists deserve compensation for their fanwork--and I reiterate, they do--then how can we say that fanwriters don't?

As a postscript, I think you took my arguments in very bad faith, and I don't appreciate the finger-wagging you came into my inbox to do. I don't have to simper about other people's worth for my assertions about my own to be valid.

[leohtttbriar]

the people have expressed my own deep desires (and by people i mean @cmayw and @holodax on this post, so thanks y'all) and i felt compelled to at least try to offer something in answer. so. i give you. the final scene of the unwritten kiradax bringing-up-baby au. baby (not present) is a giant tardigrade. bareil (present) is boring.

you drop an olive i sit on my hat. it all fits perfectly.

With their Bajoran space-faring ship finally docked at the station (a certain Starfleet Commander Sisko was thrilled to witness its mooring), the Bajoran and Cardassian law enforcement officials having retreated and released Jadzia and Kira, and Baby the tardigrade long gone into the ether or some other obscurity known only to Starfleet freaks, Kira donned her blue robes and walked along the promenade with Bareil, trying and failing to communicate even a fraction of messiness of the previous three days.

His quiet presence was jarring. And then, worse, he started asking her questions like: “when the wormhole would officially transfer to the authority of Bajor” and “what exactly is a tardigrade” and “why are you talking so much about a worm-person” and “honestly, Nerys, stop talking about this Dax creature” and “Are you paying attention to me?”

If Kira had taken a hammer to her skull she’d have less of headache and, if her luck prevailed, she would also be dead.

“Are you paying attention to me?”

“Yes, love,” she said, patting Bareil’s hand gently.

“Well then,” he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her in front of him. “Mind telling me why you look like someone’s just spit in your tea?”

Kira shrugged. “I don’t look like that,” she said, mildly.

“You definitely don’t look like you’ve just robbed the Cardassians of a chance to stake a claim on a strategic point of travel in our star-system…”

“I’m not the one who did that, Bareil,” grumbled Kira.

“Nerys.”

“What?” she snapped, stepping out of his grasp and turning her gaze back out the observation window. She couldn’t help but think of how ridiculous the wormhole looked, all squiggly lines and heaving waves and so on. She said as much: “It’s a silly thing, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t call it silly.”

“It is, though,” she insisted. She twisted the length of her blue sleeve around her wrist anxiously. “It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever encountered.”

Bareil stepped next to her and tried to dislodge her busy fingers from her robe. She stubbornly kept twisting away at the fabric—Don’t tell me what to do, I’ll ruin my clothes if I want, she wanted to snap, as if that would at all indicate an appropriate level of mental stability.

“What’s going on, Nerys?” he whispered to her, in his careful tone. Kira wanted to un-stick his vowels with a pick-axe.

“Nothing is going on,” she said. “We got what we needed—the wormhole is free for exploration and free from the Cardassians—the provisional government has stopped whining at me like children—the tardigrade is back where she—”

She cut herself off with a sob.

Bareil tried to pull her into him but she just shrugged him off again and began vigorously flapping her hands around her face, as if to fan away her own stupid sadness.

“Nerys…” he said, reaching. “Tell me, please? What’s wrong?”

“Just,” she sucked in a breath that sounded more like a honk. “Do you think she’s happy?”

“Do I think who’s happy?”

“Baby.”

“…Baby?”

“The space-bear!” cried Kira. “The tardigrade! That—that—crazy Starfleet woman—she didn’t tell me where she put Baby—after chasing around the star-system, trying to find a place for a thing like that! That space-bear is as much mine as it is hers now. She can’t just keep that information from me!”

“Nerys—”

“And, what, just because I’m not Starfleet I don’t deserve to explore the wormhole, too? That’s I’m just supposed to stay here on Bajor and be a Vedek’s wife?”

“What—”

“After she trapped me on that planet and made me listen to the ‘songs of the proto-universe’ or whatever horse-shit,” she threw her hands out, now getting truly angry, “after she ruined my ship and delayed this whole project for a dumb animal! After she tried to trick the Prophets and then almost made the wormhole collapse and then dared the Cardassians to invade again! After she lost my earring and nearly wrecked everything! She doesn’t even want to share the space-bear? Are you kidding me?”

She slammed her hand on the observation glass.

“Not on my watch,” she snarled. “I’m getting Baby back. And my earring.”

Bareil looked at her for a long moment. Then he drew a hand down his face and said, “You don’t want to be a Vedek’s wife?”

Kira blinked.

“Bareil,” she said. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He sighed. “I’m not sure I know you anymore. Let alone anything you mean.”

“Bareil.”

“Are you more upset about losing your old earring?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Or are you more upset about losing the one I gave you? For our engagement?”

Kira opened her mouth to respond, more sure than anything what her answer was and what the right answer should be, but her voice stuttered and squeaked and nothing emerged. She tried again.

A grunt.

She swallowed and tried harder, the words of assurance so real and close and exactly everything she thought would be easiest to say.

Silence.

She patted her throat to make sure there wasn’t an unexpected knife lodged there, cutting off her voice before it could start. She frowned.

Bareil, with the deepest of sad eyes, truly too sad for Kira to fully meet, uncrossed his arms and sighed again.

“You’re not who I thought you were,” he finally said. “Or your…priorities have changed.”

“Hold on—”

“Goodbye, Nerys.”

He walked out.

Kira could think of no rational reason to go after him. Which was probably his point.

She turned and punched the bulkhead and then hissed out a string of curses she hadn’t used since her resistance days.

“He didn’t sound too happy.”

Of course. Of course she'd found her.

Kira had either the urge to launch her phaser at her—Jadzia—like a heavy projectile and screech the screech of the desert lizards on Bajor, or to melt into an amorphous vapor so she didn’t have to listen to Jadzia’s nonsense for a single second more.

Instead she dropped her chin and closed her eyes and groaned.

“How long were you listening, Dax?”

“Oh, not very long,” was the breezy reply.

Kira pinched the skin at her temples, which was now bruised from the amount of abuse she’d put it through the past few days in Jadzia’s presence.

“Dax.” She was going to punch another wall. “My engagement has just ended. My future is up in the air. What do you want.”

“Don’t fret,” she replied, walking lightly up to her side. “I have a gift for you.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you not.”

“It’s a present, Nerys! Come on, relax. Take it.”

Kira opened her eyes—if only so her brain would stop focusing on the particular rhythm with which Jadzia said her name. She looked up (and up and up, why was she so damned tall?) and narrowed her eyes at the wide-eyed expression of innocence on Jadzia's face.

“What is it.”

“Open it,” said Jadzia, un-phased and smiling as wryly as ever. She shoved the package at Kira who refused to lift a hand to hold it.

“What. Is. It.”

Jadzia pouted but obligingly unwrapped the package herself. She opened a box and then held it out for Kira to see. There, atop a black fabric, an earring shimmered.

The earring was the same burnished silver of her old beritium one—only this was darker in color, with a purple tint. The puncture point was still a half-circle, but within the rounded center was a starburst pattern, its tendrils expanding out amongst the rings.

On the upper chain was the ear-cuff, made of a reddish-gold with a thin flare like a glass wing, or glass sail.

The bottom chain had a single amethyst stone and, within its crystal, the tiniest carve-out of a planet—Bajor.

Kira, with a shaking hand, touched the stone and gasped at is warmth.

“So you can always have Bajor close, of course,” said Jadzia, in her casual—her weird—way. “I know—I know I made things hard for you. And I’m sorry. For not…understanding…why you have to do what you do. I know it’s my fault that the others were lost. But there!” she thrust the earring. “Made of beritium and an alloy from Trill—I didn’t have enough beritium. The stone is also from Trill, but I can take it off if you want. The cuff is made from a granite from Bajor, though, look!”

She was speaking far too fast. Kira briefly considered fainting.

“How cool is that?” continued Jadzia, unconcerned (habitually) with Kira’s sanity. “It’s just metallic enough to be manipulated, and in direct star-light, it’ll light up like a gold moon!--Isn’t that neat?--See there was this bacteria that used to eat up the earth and then poop out this granite-like waste—which is sort of how all granite is made--all tumbling and breaking apart--and then being smooshed together again under intense pressure--and this Bajoran bacteria used to have guts strong enough to remake rock! Delightful, right? And--and they--the ancient Bajorans--used this granite thousands of years ago to build their space-ships, too! Like yours! Anyway--that’s what the sail on the cuff is for. To be like your ship and you--you like the the ancient Bajorans--they used the granite for the ship's bolts and mast, to hold everything together--and help capture sunlight.”

She took a breath and withdrew her fingers, which had drifted around Kira’s wrist so she could hold the earring steady as she lectured about ancient bugs and space sail-boats—both things that were present on the earring procured and gifted to a now brain-dead Kira.

“So…” said Jadzia, dropping her gaze, looking awkward for the first time since Kira had met her. “If you don’t want it, that’s okay. I only thought I should try to replace the other one. All that happened happened because I just wanted to keep you near me. And I just did anything that came into my mind.” She shook her head at herself. “And well—I want you to know that”—she raised her gaze to Kira’s again—“I am sorry, Nerys. Truly.”

Then, business done, she nodded and stepped away.

Rapidly, Kira’s brain came back online. The facts of the situation hit her in the lungs and had her coughing out a phlegmy and embarrassing, “Wait.”

Jadzia paused at the stairs, turned around, and raised a single eyebrow.

“Don’t apologize,” said Kira, sounding a bit like a strangled bird. “Don’t apologize. I ought to thank you!”

Jadzia frowned. “Thank…me?”

Maybe it’d taken her a little too long to understand. But, to be entirely fair to her, she’d been a soldier since she was a child and, since then, she’d been far more on the lookout for threats than treasure.

“You see,” blurted out Kira, eyes watering, joy racing through her like a scream. “I’ve just discovered that the past few days were the the best few days of my whole life.”

Now there was no escaping it. The truth. She didn’t want her old earring made of the scraps of Cardassian vessel she’d shot down as a kid. She didn’t want Bareil’s earring, precious to her planet, the sign of a leader and a leader’s faith. No she wanted this one—this chaotic one, this privilege of wondrous love and duty—made out of the actual shit of prehistoric bacteria.

“Nerys,” said Jadzia, her eyes filling.

“Jadzia,” said Kira, reaching out a hand.

Jadzia didn’t take it, choosing instead to rush forward, pin her against the wall, and scoop her into a kiss. Kira threw her arms around Jadzia’s impressive shoulders, feeling weightless for the first time in her life, feeling pink and full and happy.

Jadzia pulled back but Kira was wasn’t in the mood for her contrariness. She yanked Jadzia’s lips back to hers and wrapped her legs around Jadzia’s waist. Below, her new earring dropped to the floor with a sweet thud.

“Darling,” gasped Kira, breathing in Jadzia’s smile and kissing it again. “This is going to be terrible, just terrible—but will you marry me?”

Then she kissed her before Jadzia could begin to start talking once more.

[literaticat]

Why is the word count "sweet spot" different for different agents? It's not a huge difference, I know, but I've seen agents say their MG sweet spot is 40k and others 30k, etc.? Just curious.

I guess different agents might say different things, idk. At the end of the day, anyone giving very specific word count advice as if it is the law is just talking shit. You likely won't believe me, but the fact is, nobody IN PUBLISHING actually cares about word count a fraction as much as authors do.

What editors and agents ACTUALLY care about: We want it to be an engaging, well-written, satisfying story that feels complete and doesn't feel draggy or saggy and is THE LENGTH OF A BOOK. Books come in all kinds of lengths!

That's why my word count post has a VAST RANGE of what is acceptable in each category. If your book is *even close* to that VAST RANGE, it's perfectly fine. Literally no problem. Don't worry about it. You're writing realistic MG and it's 30k? Fine. 40k? Fine. 60k? Fine. 70k? Fine. Anywhere close to any of those things? Fine! As long as it does everything it is supposed to do and is great and feels whole and well-paced? You're good.

If you're still concerned, pick some of the comp titles for your own book, see how many words they are, and aim for something close to that. Presto, you're fine.

Fun fact: I don't give the word count in my submission letters to editors or go out of my way to put it on the manuscripts. And nobody, in over a decade, has EVER asked about it or mentioned it, because they don't care. They know it will be an appropriate length, because I'm sending it to them -- if they want to know the exact length it is, it's a word document, they can see that. What they care about is, does it FEEL too long or too short.

The primary reason agents ask about word count when you are querying them is because it's a quick way to see a problem. When you tell me your MG book is 120k words, I know that's too long for a MG book, so I can pretty much guarantee that either it needs a TON of editing or it's actually two books or something. When you tell me your picture book is 25k words long, I know immediately that you don't know about picture books. These are just flags in a query that tell me: This person doesn't know the market they are writing in or they have made a mistake somewhere -- they are probably not prepared for this yet.

Now that's it for word count questions -- everything I have to say about it I've said already in that post linked above! If I didn't mention it there, I don't know it!