#but there's nothing in the way of self-recrimination

[tiarnanabhfainni]

i loved the part of the book where piranesi resolves to take better care of himself while he's rediscovering his own history. he just has so much compassion for himself! the journal upsets him so he takes a week off and does things he enjoys and then he settles into a safe place when he wants to tackle the subject again. and he doesn't believe The Other when he's told about his amnesia! he values his own insights and his own knowledge of the House even when fucking ketterley is actively trying to undermine his sense of self. piranesi's gentle treatment of himself and the person he used to be is genuinely so moving.

#piranesi #i could go on about his recounting of the times he let himself go hungry and made stupid decisions #but there's nothing in the way of self-recrimination #he just says: #i didn't know then what i know know and i would do things differently #he stands up for himself when he's talking to raphael too even though he likes her #obvs he's got oodles of compassion for other people too #he takes care of the dead. he gives nesting material to the albatrosses. he leaves the herring gulls alone before retrieving the paper #he enters the scary room for The Other. he warns sixteen about the flood. he blesses the prophet #(who does not fucking deserve it) #he writes directions to the statue #even when he comes back he goes and finds poor james ritter #but it's the self compassion that touches me the most

[chaiiitime]

It Happened One Summer Night

Summary : A broken car. A sleepy little village. It was a scary feeling to see all the excuses you made to hate each other slowly crumble away. Wild curls. Inked skin. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let go.

Pairing : Daniel Ricciardo x OC!Fem

Warning : Sexual themes, 18+

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Adriana knew exactly where she was as she slowly woke up.

A light breeze was ruffling the lace curtains at the window, the sun creating intricate patterns on the floor as it shone through. 

The space next to her was rumpled and empty. Daniel had already woken up, which meant she also had to get up.  

At the back of her mind, Adriana knew they had a lot to do if they wanted to reach Jerez any time soon, but she felt so heavy, her body languid against the cotton sheets.  She turned around, burrowing into Daniel’s custom-made travel pillow, the material soft against her cheek.  It smelled of rain and forest, so unlike what she would have expected.  

She thought back to his apology of last night.  She had to give it to him — it took a lot of self-awareness to admit to being wrong.  

She threw off the covers, padding barefoot to the bathroom, looking at herself in the little mirror above the sink. She cringed, covering her face with her hands as she remembered the way she’d all but exploded at Daniel in the car. She never lost her cool like that — she’d always been the calm and collected older sister. So she didn’t know why she’d acted like that with Daniel. 

Maybe, she had to accept she was the one who had created the resentment that was brewing between them. She was the one who had been cold and rude the first time they’d met when Daniel had been nothing but nice.  Even if he’d been overly flirty. She’d looked at him and  judged him just because he had reminded her of her ex. She’d accused him of being arrogant and self-serving, but yet, he hadn’t once made any recriminations against her when she was the one responsible for essentially stranding them.  He hadn’t made any snide comments. Instead, he’d been — very understanding. 

She needed to apologise to him. That was the only right thing to do. 

She pulled on the white shirt and linen shorts she’d picked out last night. The material was creased and the Spanish humidity had turned her hair in a frizzy mess. She wished she had packed one of her power suits and her favourite pair of Louboutins — because God knew she needed the armour if she was going to be apologising to Daniel.  

She smoothed out the creases as much as she could and gave up on trying to tame her hair. Time to face the day. 

Daniel was right — she’d been sitting on her high horse all this time and it was time to get down before she face-planted on the ground. 

~

Adriana drifted down the hallway, following the voices coming from the back of the house — a mixture of broken English and Spanish, intercepted with the unmistakable sound of Daniel’s honking laughter. 

The hallway opened into the kitchen. 

It looked like it had been plucked right out one of the old telenovelas Adriana’s grandmother used to watch — the uneven terracotta floor made dull with wear, the little pots of herb lining the window sill and the big old farmhouse table at the centre of the room, its wood scarred with age.  

There was a rickety old door that opened into the yard and from where she stood, Adriana could see the clothes gently swaying on the clothesline. A flock of chickens were running freely in the yard, some of them pecking at the scattered seeds near the doorway. 

Daniel was sitting at the table, gesturing wildly with his hands, Cayetana appearing enthralled with whatever he was trying to say, the pot she had bubbling away on the old-fashioned stove completely forgotten. 

“Ah!” Cayetana exclaimed, spotting her in the doorway. “Bueno Dias! Come in, come in.” She gestured for her to take a seat at the table.

Adriana gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Cayetana handed her, murmuring her thanks as she took a sip. The coffee was sweet and milky — just how one should take their coffee when on holiday. 

“Tu novio es tan encantador.” Your boyfriend is so charming.

Adriana had to hide her smile behind her cup at the way the older lady was blushing as she literally batted her eyelashes at Daniel. 

Of course, he would have worked that charm on her already. 

She’d been very careful not to look at him as she had sat down. She peeked at him now, and was surprised to see him looking at her with hooded eyes. He looked well-rested and fresh. He’d somehow shaved in the morning without waking her up and all that delicious stubble was gone. 

Pity that. 

“Slept well?” He asked as he took a sip of his coffee, the delicate cup looking positively tiny in his large hand. 

“Uhmm.” She nodded non-committedly as she buttered up a piece of bread. She hadn’t slept well at all. She’d been excruciatingly aware of him next to her all through the night, the heat of his body singeing her skin even with the pillow between them. And from the smirk on his face, he seemed to know it. 

Daniel had to bite back a smile as Adriana diligently avoided his question. He was a very light sleeper and he knew she had spent most of the night tossing and turning. It gave him a kind of perverse satisfaction to know she wasn’t as immune to him as she liked to pretend. Oh, he knew that whatever tiny bit of attraction she had for him was liberally mixed with contempt for him, but he’d found a little crack in her facade and he was going to drill till it all but crumbled. 

“So,” Cayetana wiped her hands on her apron as she sat down. “How did you two — “ she gestured between the two of them, her English faltering “— meet?”

Adriana cleared her throat, attempting to sound matter-of-factly, “We met through mutual friends.” 

She was pretty proud of herself for coming up with that on the spot. It was simple and sweet — easier that way for her and Daniel to keep their stories straight. 

“Come on, baby —“ 

Adriana shot Daniel a look. What was he doing now? He had a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and draped his arm over the back of her chair.

 “Tell Cayetana how we truly met.”

“Actually —“ He turned to Cayetana who was looking at them expectantly. “We met at a friend’s party. Adriana saw me across the room and of course, fell in love with me at first sight.”He smiled, looking all bashful as he pointed to his face. “I mean, who can resist all this beauty?”

“I wasn’t really on the market for a relationship at the time, but you know —“ His arm was around her shoulders now, “— she kept chasing me and I finally succumbed.” He tipped his head towards her, giving her a little squeeze on the shoulder. “Isn’t that right, pookie?” 

Adriana flashed him a sardonic smile, her goodwill to apologise forgotten for now. 

Two could play this game. 

She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially in Spanish to Cayetana. “He was unemployed when I first met him, you know.” 

He indeed truly had been unemployed. 

“All this beauty —“ Adriana motioned to her own face, “but up here —“ she said, tapping her temple, “he’s not exactly the brightest bulb, bless him. But what do you do? Love doesn’t judge and all of that. He just needed someone to believe in him and look where we are now!” She looked up at him, giving his arm that was still around her shoulders a tiny squeeze. “Isn’t that right, pookie?”

His eyes were teasing as they looked down at her, his lips quirked up in a tiny smile.“I hope you’ve been telling our host what a spectacular boyfriend I am.” He said with the kind of easy-going lightness that only he could pull off. 

Their gazes held for a moment and just like in the movies, Adriana’s heart stuttered. 

“Ay you two!” Cayetana broke the moment between them, Adriana blushing as she looked away. “This is how my Miguel and I were when we were younger. Always teasing one another!” 

~

DANIEL INSTANTLY KNEW they were in trouble as he watched Adriana’s expression fall at whatever the mechanic was telling her. Miguel had gone with the village mechanic to retrieve their car early in the morning and he’d dropped them off at the mechanic’s workshop before he’d gone off. 

Adriana thanked the man and turned around. She was gnawing at her bottom lip, the worry clear on her face. 

“He said that the branch has badly damaged the underside of the car.  He’ll need to replace parts but —“ She let out a harsh sigh, “He doesn’t have them handy, so he’ll need to order them from the next town over and he’ll only get them, maybe tomorrow.”

She turned around, walking out. Daniel followed her out, bringing his hands up to shield his eyes from the bright sun. 

“What are we going to do?” Adriana sounded dejected. “There is no way we’ll make it to the wedding in time now.” She said, her voice wobbling slightly. 

“Hey, it’s ok —“ Daniel hoped she was not about to cry because he didn’t know what he would do if she did. “We’ll work something out.” He didn’t even sound convincing to himself. 

“Like what?” She asked despairingly.

“Uhhh…” Daniel scratched the back of his head as he tried to come up with something.  Anything. “We could hire another car?” He said, lifting his shoulders and motioning towards the workshop, “and pay someone to go drop this car off at the nearest car rental office once it’s repaired.”

“Look where we are!” Adriana gestured. The mechanic’s workshop opened onto a dusty street, a lone scooter leaning against the wall opposite. “I don’t think we’re going to find a rental agency in this place! This might as well be a ghost village!”  

She kind of had a point there, Daniel acquiesced to himself with a shrug. The village was pretty remote, bordered as it was by the sea on one side and the mountains on the other. There was only one way in and one way out, and at one point in time, the little village used to be only accessible by sea — a fact that the locals seemed to be proud of, but which also meant it wasn’t exactly hopping with tourists, even during summertime.

“I am sure we’ll find something.” He said softly, patiently. If someone ever asked Daniel what his biggest flaw was, it was definitely being overly optimistic even in the shittiest of circumstances. “Come on.”

With a sigh, Adriana followed him down the pebbled street that winded down towards the coast. She wished she had his glass-half-full attitude because then, maybe she would have at least been able to appreciate the quaintness of the little white-washed houses lining the streets, with their colourful shutters and the riot of wild bougainvilleas climbing over their walls. 

They passed under the archway of an old building, Daniel turning to watch her carefully pick her way down the roughly-hewn steps to the village square. Little cafés and shops sprawled out in a semi-arc around the square, an old fountain lazily splashing water in the centre.  Right across the street, the Mediterranean Sea stretched out to the horizon, little fisherman boats bobbing on the surface. 

There were only a few people milling around the square, which was as busy as it got, Adriana guessed. They went into the first shop they saw. The old man behind the counter had no idea where or if they could hire a car. And it was the same with the shop next door, and the shop next to it. 

Frustrated, Adriana crossed the street. There was a ledge that ran along the road, with steps leading down to the beach.  The mid-day sun reflected off the pristine surface of the water, almost blinding her. She sat down on the ledge and tipped her head back, trying to release the tension in her neck. 

It was going to be fine, she repeated to herself. Okay, even if they were not going to make it to the rehearsal dinner, they might still make it for the ceremony. 

And things could have been worse. 

They could have been stranded in far worse places than this little village. It was the sort of place where everyone knew everyone, where people lived off the land and sea, where the days simply stretched out and slowed down. 

It was the sort of place where people came to find themselves. Or to find love. 

She could see the spire of the village church in the distance, shining like a beacon against the backdrop of the Pyrenees mountains, vibrant green vegetation softening the harshness of its rocky facade. 

Little houses with terracotta roof-tiles dotted the foothills — Adriana could only guess that the view from up there must be spectacular. The little road by the square sinewed along the coast, dropping out of sight around a bend. Further out in the distance, she could see rocky bluffs stretching out to the sea, the waves gently lapping at the rocks. 

“Here.” 

Adriana looked up. Daniel was standing over her, a bottle of water in his hand. She gratefully accepted it, murmuring her thanks as she took a sip.

“Listen,” Daniel cleared his throat as he sat down next to her. “I know this is all very frustrating and you’re worried you’ll not make it in time for the wedding, but —“ He picked at the label on his bottle with his nails, the paper crumpling easily with the condensation. “I promise you, I’ll get you there on time. Hopefully the car is ready before Friday and I promise you, we’ll be there before the welcome dinner.”

As he’d come out of the shop and seen Adriana sitting so forlornly on the ledge, Daniel had realised he didn’t like seeing her so defeated. He preferred it when she was throwing darts at him with her words. So, it gave him a rush of pleasure when she smiled and gave him a tiny nod. Then, that rush of pleasure didn’t feel that pleasurable anymore, because it left him wanting more, left him wanting to see her smile a bit brighter and that was a road he didn’t want to go down.

“I think we should find a hotel for the rest of our stay here.” He said as he wiped the condensation from the bottle on his shorts. “Miguel and Cayetana have been nice enough to put us up for one night, but we can’t exactly stay there for longer than that.”

He started to get up but Adriana caught his elbow, stopping him. He looked back, perplexed. There was a little furrow between his brows and Adriana itched to reach out and smooth it.

It was her turn to be nervous now. 

“I —“ Her tongue timidly flicked out to wet her lips. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and tipped her head up to meet his eyes. “I wanted to apologise. I was rude to you the first time we met. And, and …”

Adriana stuttered, her breath catching for one moment. Serious-faced Daniel was intimidating — his eyes so dark, the bump on the bridge of his nose standing in stark relief against the sharp planes of his face. His lips were pressed in a tight line, but even that couldn’t entirely disguise the fullness of his bottom lip. 

“I shouldn’t have exploded on you the way I did in the car. The things I said were uncalled for.”

He was quiet for a moment and then he softly murmured,“I’m sorry too.” 

He still had that intent look on his face as he stepped closer to her, crowding her in, the clean earthy smell of him washing over her. “Whether you were rude to me or not, I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Adriana nodded, ducking her head for a moment to gather herself. “It’s okay. Let’s just pretend we’re starting over — clean slate, yes?”

Daniel surprised her by sticking his hand out. “Hi, I’m Daniel. My friends call me Dan, Danny or you can call me whatever you want. I’m not picky.” 

“What?” Adriana asked in confusion as she stared at his outstretched hand. 

“Well,” Daniel shrugged, his hand still outstretched towards her. “You said you wanted to start over. So I’m re-introducing myself.”

Bemused, Adriana placed her hand in his, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist, his warmth engulfing her. “I’m Adriana. Just Adriana.” She said wryly.

“Well, just Adriana —“ He flashed her that damn smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She couldn’t help it but laugh — not a wry snicker or a bemused chuckle but an actual full-out laugh that lit her whole face, the sound surprisingly innocent and childish to Daniel. 

~

CAYETANA WOULDN’T HEAR anything about them finding another place to stay. Instead, she fed them lunch, even if they weren’t particularly lunch people.

Daniel had gone out to explore the village and when he’d asked if she wanted to come, Adriana had used the excuse of catching up on her work emails to stay back at the house.

She’d scrolled through her inbox and promptly gave up to sit on the window sill in their room. It felt like one of those lazy afternoons during the summer holidays, back when she was a kid. 

Cayetana and Miguel’s house was higher up on the piedmont and from the window, Adriana could see the little houses and winding pebbled roads as they cascaded towards the coast. The sea looked irresistibly blue from up here and Adriana could almost feel the salt on her skin, the little sting in her eyes if she would dip her face under the surface of the water. 

Fuck it, she was going down there. She hurriedly threw a few things in her beach bag — a towel, some sunscreen and that novel she’d been meaning to read for ages. It wasn’t difficult to find her way back to the village square, because all the roads seemed to lead towards the sea anyway. She went down the steps to the beach and of course, Daniel was there. 

He’d somehow ended up playing football with a group of kids. He lifted a hand when he saw her. She waved back, settling down on her beach towel not too far from where they were playing. She tried to get into her book but her eyes kept being drawn to Daniel. 

She envied the way he seemed to throw himself into every new interaction without inhibition, soaking up everything in that moment, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. She watched as he let himself be tackled by the kids, laughing as one of them stole the ball from him. He threw his hands up, pretending to be upset before running after the kids, making them laugh at his antics. She wondered if the kids knew who he was. He hadn’t once played the ‘I’m famous’ card, which was unexpected, and yet the more she got to know him, the more she realised Daniel was Daniel — utterly charming, utterly confusing. 

“Hey” Daniel dropped down next to her on the towel, their shoulders almost touching as he laid back on his elbows. He sprawled his legs out in front of him, his shorts riding up to expose the tattoos on his thigh. The colours intrigued her and Adriana wanted to reach out and explore them. 

“Done playing?” She asked. 

“Yeah nah. Can’t keep up with those hooligans.” He joked, his accent coming on strong. He was smiling and he looked achingly adorable with his dimples and his curls sticking slightly to his sweaty forehead. 

Daniel had to tip his head back to look at her from where he was lying. He loved the way her curls framed her face, all wild and loose — it hinted at all that fiery passion she kept hidden beneath her cool surface. He wished he knew enough about Greek mythology, because then he would have been able to compare her beauty — or attitude — to one of the goddesses. His eyes darted to the beauty mark just above her lips and the desire to dapple his tongue there, taste the salt on her skin stole over him. 

“Good book?” He asked. 

“Hmm”

That little hmm was so self-contained, it drove Daniel mad. He wanted to know everything about her, what her favourite movie was, what her favourite colour was, what made her tick. He wanted to burrow beneath her skin and see who the real Adriana was. He hated that, in that moment, she made him feel unsure of himself, made him feel like the Daniel with the unruly Afro and crooked teeth trying to impress a girl in high school. 

“Want to go for a walk?” His voice was almost rough when he asked her. He could see for a moment she was about to refuse, then she surprised him as she nodded. So they got up, Daniel bending down to pick up the towel, shaking the sand from it, folding it carefully and handing it to her. 

~

SHOES AND SANDALS discarded, toes sinking into the sand, they walked till the sounds of the village became faint, till the little houses and shops along the coast gave way to the rocky cliffs of the Costa Brava. 

Daniel kept a steady stream of consciousness between them — it was impossible to not be charmed by him, to not laugh at his silly little quips. It was revealing to look at the world through his eyes, how he noticed things Adriana wouldn’t otherwise have, how he had her guessing whether the tidbits he was telling her about the sea were actually facts or stuff he had made up. 

Adriana wanted to make him laugh too. She felt like a little girl desperate to impress her crush, but she couldn’t come up with anything remotely funny. So instead, she kept the shells he’d been handing her softly cradled in her palms, letting herself bask in his — magnetism. 

They reached an outcrop of rocks that looked like they had been randomly stacked one over the other by nature. They climbed over the rocks, Daniel holding both of their shoes, patiently guiding her where to place her feet, sometimes holding her hand to steady her over some of the sharper edges. She was still holding his hand when they made it to the other side — her a bit out of breath and Daniel barely winded. 

Adriana was breathless. “Oh my god, this is —“

“Beautiful.” Daniel said, his eyes roving across the horizon to land on her face. 

It was truly beautiful. 

The rocky bluffs curved out to the sea, creating this secluded cove detached from the rest of the world. The water here was so clear, the waves lapping languidly against the rocks, becoming a deeper blue further away from shore. It felt like Daniel and her had the whole ocean to themselves. 

“Want to go for a swim?” Daniel asked. He grabbed his shirt by the neck, pulling it off. Adriana’s pulse flared as she took him in. 

His body was compact, all sleek muscles stacked over more sleek muscles — his body just a machine designed for him to go the fastest he could in a race car. 

“You go ahead.” She felt self-conscious to strip  down to the modest black one-piece she had on underneath her linen shirt. Daniel hesitated for a moment, looking like he was about to convince her to join him, then he shrugged, giving her a mock salute, all dimples and smiles as he turned around and walked towards the water. 

Adriana watched him go, intrigued by the play of muscles on his back. She watched as he swam further out, his strong arms gracefully cutting through the water. She watched until he was a speck on the horizon, then she quickly discarded her shirt and shorts. She slowly stepped into the water, first to her calves, then her knees, letting her body get used to the temperature. Then, when the water was up to her waist, she ducked down, quickly setting out into an easy freestyle stroke. She swam a bit further out, feeling a kind of joyous freedom she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

She flipped onto her back, letting herself be buoyed by the sea, letting the water flow through her fingers and seep to the roots of her hair. The sun pressed intriguing shadows on her closed eyelids and for one brief moment, there was nothing but the silence of the rushing water in her ears. 

Suddenly, she felt a tickling sensation on the heel of her feet and before she could react, there was something warm clasping her around the ankle. She went under, the salt stinging her eyes and nose as she came back up. 

“Daniel!” She sputtered as she heard him laugh before she could even see him. 

As soon as he had hit the water, Daniel had felt his muscles loosening with each stroke, the usual aches and pains from constantly pulling Gs easing. 

He’d always had a somewhat odd relationship with the sea for a Perth boy, thanks to his mother instilling a healthy fear of sharks into him. He had only started feeling more comfortable in the water when he’d started spending time in LA. So, he’d been pretty relaxed when he had seen Adriana get into the water. All he could see from where he had been were flashes of golden limbs, but he’d been bewitched by her graceful movements. 

He’d swam closer, enticed by the curves peeking out of the water.  Like the sailors from the old tales, falling into the lure of the siren’s song.  

He laughed now at the indignation on Adriana’s face. 

“Oh you bastard!” She said as she splashed him. Daniel splashed her back, worried this might anger her more. Instead, she laughed, splashing him with renewed vigour, creating a lot of waves but none of them really having that sucker-punched effect on him. She was still laughing as he caught her by the waist, her hands automatically slipping around his neck. 

The water lapped around them, pressing their bodies together, their legs tangling together, her smooth ones rubbing against his hair-roughened ones. They were so close together that Adriana could see the grain of his stubble, how the water clung to it. Each breath that she took pressed her breasts even tighter against his chest. His eyes looked like molten honey in the afternoon sunlight, filled with temptation. 

Daniel looked down at her, the dark of her pupils had almost consumed the green of her eyes. He could see her lips quivering, that peak of her pink tongue driving him crazy. He leaned in, his breath barely a whisper against her skin. 

Adriana felt the press of his mouth against her skin just where her pulse fluttered at the base of her neck, almost like a sigh. He trailed sweet deadly kisses to the corner of her mouth, stopping there just for a moment before he nipped at her bottom lip. His tongue laved the sting away, then swiped into her mouth, tangling with hers. She moaned as Daniel deepened the kiss, desire stealing over the both of them. His hands flexed on her waist, moving over the curve of her hips to her warm bare thighs, hooking them up and around his waist. 

Adriana could feel him right there, pressing into the soft core of her. She didn’t stop to think — somehow this felt right, the feel of his warm skin under her hands, the rough rasp of his tongue against hers, the prickly sensation of his stubble against her skin. 

Daniel cradled her against him, their hips rocking to the rhythm set by his tongue as he consumed her mouth. His hands moved almost reverently over the flare of her hips, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over her hip bones. He was so hard in his shorts, he desperately wanted to sink further into her softness, wanted to grind into her, wanted to feel her wet heat around him. 

They broke apart, breaths choppy, a line of spit connecting them. It broke as Daniel tipped his head back, droplets of water running down the slope of his thick neck, the muscles bunching. 

“Fuck.” His voice was guttural as he tried to catch his breath, his throat convulsing. 

Adriana couldn’t resist it. She leaned into him, her teeth scraping over his Adam’s apple, her tongue snaking down to delve into the divot at the base of his throat.  She traced the constellation of freckles on the side of his neck up to his ear with the tip of her tongue, giving him a mischievous smile as she tugged on his earlobe with her teeth, sucking it into her mouth. 

She caught the hot glint in his eyes as his hand went to the nape of her neck, his long fingers twining into the wet strands of her hair and tugging her head back. His mouth came down on hers, but this time around, she didn’t give him control so easily. She reached out, cupping his face, slowing the kiss. She played with him like he had with her earlier, biting his bottom lip, sliding her tongue lazily along his. 

Daniel was done being toyed with. He growled low in his throat, his mouth leaving hers to lick and kiss his way to the tantalising valley of her cleavage. He nipped at the swell of her breasts spilling over her bathing suit, pulling the straps down her shoulders, following the path with his mouth. Adriana gasped as he gave a sharp tug, her breasts coming free from the cups of her bathing suit, her nipples puckering as they touched the water. 

Daniel had a smug smile on his face as he boosted her up, bringing her tits almost at eye-level with him. There was nowhere to hide now. With the straps of her bathing suit around her arms restricting her movements, all Adriana could do was hold onto his shoulders as Daniel lowered his head. He dragged his tongue over one taut nipple, his other hand coming up to plump her other breast, his thumb brushing over the other tight peak. 

Adriana fisted one hand in his curls as Daniel sucked one nipple into the wet heat of his mouth, teasing, taunting, taking his fill as his teeth scraped over the sensitive nub. Each tight pull of his mouth felt like an echo at the pulsing core of her, making her slicker and wetter. She tightened her legs around his torso, her body undulating desperately against him in search of that fragment that felt slightly out of reach.

The desperate sounds that fell from her lips spurred Daniel on. Head thrown back, lips parted, her carefully composed veneer stripped away and abandoned — there hadn’t been a more beautiful sight to him. The fact that he had managed to turn her into this wrecked mess, that he could play her like a fiddle — it  filled him with a heady rush of satisfaction, one he usually only got after winning a race. He was so high from that feeling, he could come from that alone. 

He slipped his hand between their bodies, finding and pressing into her secret spot. In that moment, he wished there was no barrier between them because he wanted to know if she was bare down there or if there were dark curls shiny from her own wetness that would hide her from his view.   

Her breath hitched for a moment and Daniel felt the sting of ruptured skin as she let go. Wave after wave, Adriana came. She tried to muffle the sounds she was making, but it felt like they were reverberating off the cliffs around them. 

And Daniel revered in each desperate gasp of his name.

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#daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo smut #it happened one summer night

[milkywayes]

dreamt a cipher

a shepard/garrus post-destroy ending longfic.

[AO3 link]

I’ve debated a while about when to start posting this. Now it’s the new year, and I’ve been working on Cipher for over a year and a half, and I’ve waited long enough to start sharing it with you all. I’ve decided it’s finally time to start uploading while I work on the final chapters.

I started writing this before I ever drew a single piece of fanart for Mass Effect. It’s all the things that were bouncing around in my head after choosing the destroy ending with a mostly-paragon Shepard—consequence and responsibility and self-recrimination; her relationship with Garrus and with herself; their ties to each other and how much weight they can bear; their differing perspectives and how they slot together—all that fun stuff—compressed into a story, a place, a narrative. 

I believe in the power of love, and I promise a happy ending. They’ve just been taking the long way to get there. Feel free to yell at me in the meantime.

A huge thank you to @callista-curations for her meticulous and invaluable beta work, and to @that-wildwolf and @gammaraydeath for being the best hypemen I could ask for!

A more detailed list of warnings can be found on AO3.

I've posted the full cover art here.

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Summary:

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian Rating: M (subject to change) Important Tags: post-destroy ending - angst with a happy ending - slow burn (of sorts) - arguing - reconciliation - survivor guilt - minor original characters Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with. ──── “How does the Earth idiom go? No use beating a dead—” A long-suffering sigh. “What was it again?” “A dead horse. And yet, you’re here. Beating it.” Pot, kettle. She wishes he’d just fucking say it.

-> AO3.

Read the start of Chapter 1: Constant Velocity under the cut!

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The overhead lights flicker as they always do when the data screens are up and running. It’s not something one gets used to, even so. It stings at her ocular nerves—or something like that, anyway, somewhere along the delicate wires that extend from her eyeballs into her brain—but her focus on the data doesn’t waver.

“In that case,” says Shepard, squinting against the ache, “what we need is salvage from a relay outside the immediate burst zone. Four jumps away. Five, if possible. There’s no point to any of this if we can’t scrape together a control group.”

She glances back at Elsawy, who so far hasn’t made it more than a meter into the room. She nods without looking up from her omni-tool; orange shimmers off her shiny, black hair, giving her the uncomfortable air of a Cerberus operative. Not the worst comparison, except that Miranda would waste no time letting her know if her logic took a faulty turn somewhere. Elsawy’s just as likely to agree now and write a message detailing all her crap conclusions later.

Leaning her hip against the conference table, Shepard shifts her weight off her left leg, bites down on the sigh that almost manages to slip out. Once in the clear, she grouses, “Where the hell is Meyer? He’s the one that called this meeting.”

As it is, it’s three people in attendance and she’s the only one talking. She could’ve achieved the same results with a voice call from her quarters, where she could elevate her leg in peace and without witnesses. In the dark.

“Lab Two,” answers Elsawy, finally ripping her attention off the omni-screen and gracing Shepard with a second of eye contact. Maybe in another life she could appreciate the effort—Jesus, as if she hasn’t had her fill of lives already. “We’re close to a breakthrough on the initial output patterns. Sorry. He’s been feeding his data to me.”

“Right.” She blinks once, twice, in time with the flickering. It doesn’t help; it never does. “I’ll swing by later, then. Anything else he asked you to relay?” 

“Just that, Commander.” Elsawy is mumbling just enough that her voice has to compete with the drone of the air vents. The translator takes a second to filter out and amplify it. The result is less than perfect: “More salvage—” bzzrt—“bigger picture, you got it.” She narrows her eyes, and Shepard raises a brow. “Left leg or—” bzz!—“left hip?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Commander.”

“It’s nothing relevant,” she says pleasantly, forcing herself to stand up straight again. There’s a brief tremor shaking up her hamstrings; she waves a hand to distract from it. In the frenzy of the lights, the movement looks jerky, nervous. She soldiers on. “Old field injury. Unrelated. Anything can set it off.”

Funny, kind of, since it’s that very leg that ends in the most perfect, cooperative example of a foot she’s ever had the pleasure of treading on. It’s cloned; a replacement. Not the only one either. They should’ve just done away with the whole limb, but she hadn’t been consulted. Same with her trick shoulder. Not even Cerberus had managed to get that one back on the straight and narrow.

“I’d rather you bring it up with the doctor,” replies Elsawy. This is, apparently, what it takes for her to finally speak at a reasonable volume. “If we manage to fill even one of the data gaps…”

“I know,” she says. “I know, and I’m telling you, it’s unrelated.”

-> continue reading on AO3

#mass effect fanfiction #shakarian #fanfic #shakarian fic #oh GOD. here it is. I'm BIRTHING this baby like Shepard birthed grunt #I'm so nervous but I am really proud of this story so Take it. #cipher tag

[oneatlatime]

More Zuko Alone Thoughts

Last season our expository Zuko episode was The Storm, an episode which I loved. It was both a well-written and well-animated piece of media, and enthralling to watch. I don't want to say enjoyable because of the subject matter discussed, but it was certainly good.

This season's expository Zuko episode was Zuko Alone, and I didn't like it. Although it was animated fantastically, I found the characterisation of Zuko in the present day sections to be completely off. I found it embarrassing, awkward, and frustrating to watch. Now, I've seen the rating this episode has on IMDb, so I know this is just my opinion, and a fairly unpopular one at that. I'm also aware that I'm biased because Zuko is not my favourite character. But I want to explore why, in my opinion, The Storm stuck the landing while Zuko Alone flubbed it.

Here's what I think is the main reason: The Storm is Aang's story about his past, juxtaposed with Iroh's story about Zuko's past. Aang and Iroh are our storytellers; Aang and Zuko are the stories being told.

Zuko Alone is Zuko's story of the present, being experienced through Zuko's perspective, juxtaposed with Zuko's story in the past, being experienced through Zuko's memories. It's too much Zuko, and unlike the characters in The Storm, Zuko has no idea what's going on.

Despite his flightiness and inability to take things seriously, Aang is perceptive, socially and emotionally intelligent (as much as a 12 year old can be), and able to be subtle when the situation calls for it. Look at The Great Divide: as soon as he had the appropriate backstory info, he saw right to the heart of the conflict, he saw that it was stupid as Hell, and he saw and successfully executed a way to fix it that relied entirely on an accurate assessment of all involved parties' stances. And it worked.

Iroh has easily the highest perception stat in the whole show, when he isn't being deliberately obtuse. His wisdom is off the charts, if his one liners are anything to go by.

So despite some very (very) notable differences, Aang and Iroh have similarities in their personalities and their perspectives, and importantly for this post, in their self-knowledge.

Then we get Zuko, who has the perceptiveness and subtlety of a mud brick to the teeth, all the wisdom of a bandaid wrapper, and the social and emotional intelligence of something that starts to grow in your sink when it's been too long since you did the dishes.

Aand and Iroh can see the themes, lessons, mistakes, and places for improvement in the stories they're telling, about themselves and others. Zuko is stumbling through both his past and his present. The Storm is compelling because the audience gets to simultaneously learn expository detail and watch Aang and Iroh go through a process of self-analysis, recrimination, and commitment to doing better. It's an info dump with a hefty dose of character building on the side.

Zuko in Zuko Alone is a dumbass blindly stumbling into the same mistakes we've already seen him make, learning nothing in the process (that I could detect - maybe he'll run into the family's older brother in a few episodes and work up the courage to save him based on what he learned during his time with that family, who knows). Zuko has been trained to be a fighter, not a person, so of course he's going to fail at the 'soft skills' parts of being human. So Zuko needs someone with him to do/model that soft skills work until he learns how to do it for himself. But Zuko is alone in Zuko Alone, so the character development that could have happened doesn't.

I don't need morals and themes explicitly spelled out in the narrative; I'm fine with subtext. But Zuko in Zuko Alone so thoroughly misses what's going on in the episode that it's annoying to watch. And there's no indication at the end of the episode that he's learned anything from having missed those things. There's no indication that he's aware that there was anything to miss.

In The Storm, Aang has Katara to bounce off of and help talk him through his story. Iroh's wise enough not to need a foil, but he does have the ship's crew, both as a reason to tell the story and as an audience to play off of. Heck, in Bato of the Water Tribe, Sokka has Bato giving the speech about the lonely wolf to help him understand the point Sokka's dad was trying to make in the flashback, and avoid the wrong course of action (leaving Aang behind). Aang moves on from self-recrimination and Iroh has won back Zuko's crew's loyalty at the end of The Storm; Sokka has finally understood 'being a man means being where you're needed the most' by the end of Bato of the Water Tribe. But Zuko is alone by choice in Zuko Alone, so he finishes the episode exactly where he started, his mother's last words entirely misinterpreted. No wiser, probably unable to even articulate where he went wrong beyond fire = bad in this context.

There seems to be a theme in this show of the necessity of friends and family networks and support. Aang (with Katara's help), Iroh (with the crew as audience and motivator), Sokka (with Bato's help), all come to better understandings of their responsibilities and/or their mistakes by working things out with the help of at least one other person. Zuko ditches Iroh to play at being a lone wolf and fails in a way that's frankly embarrassing to watch.

So the reason I don't like Zuko Alone is that he's doomed to fail from the start. Zuko is (trying to) go about his character development in a way this show has already showed us is opposite to how it should be done. I'm not fond of 'doomed from the start' narratives as a general rule, mostly because to me they feel like a bad investment. If you know it's all going to end badly (because it started wrong), then why bother committing the time and effort the narrative asks of you? (She says, having read The Silmarillion twice).

So if I became Queen of the world tomorrow and decreed that Zuko Alone needed to be changed to fit my personal tastes, how would I do it? The obvious answer is to shove Iroh in there, but it probably wouldn't work anyway, because Zuko is not showing any signs of being ready to listen - REALLY LISTEN - to those wiser than him. I'm not sure if he's even ready to admit yet that there are people who ARE wiser than him. He's already admitted that there are people with more martial prowess than him, like his sister, but I don't think Zuko actually values wisdom enough to see its worth. So it's probably not even on his radar. If Iroh's presence wouldn't work, what about having a removed narrator, like Iroh did for Zuko's story in The Storm? A narrator who is not as thoroughly blind to what's going on in the past and the present as Zuko. Maybe a single episode character, who tells the story of that time a stranger came to town? That might work. It would fit with the genre this episode is paying homage to. Or you could have an interesting juxtaposition, where the narrator character is not omniscient, narrating the present only, and Zuko is completely alone during the flashback bits. That would probably lead to Zuko making the same mistakes anyway, since it's really his past that he needs to work through.

Or maybe I'm reading way too much into this and I just don't like Zuko enough as a character to like a Zuko-centric story, no matter how it's told. Or maybe 24 minutes of second-hand embarrassment is 24 too many for me. At least he's keeping Song's horse bird fed.

#atla #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #zuko alone #the storm

[theology101]

LEAVE MY BABYGIRL ALONE

This man has been nothing but the best for his students, even if they didn’t always get it.

Let’s get something out of the gate - as a Stone Genasi and Oath of the Ancestors, if he was connected to any of the Giant Gods, it would probably be either the one tied to Fall or Spring (My money is on a Cloud Giant for spring and Stone Giant for Fall) and NOT the summer oriented Fire Giant God. It’d make more sense that his Oath of Ancestors means that he’s probably tied to the Stone over the Fire.

And this is all assuming that Porter worships a Giant God - the man isn’t even a giant. Lucy was a Genasi who followed a Giant God, that doesn’t nesacarily mean that Porter is also a Genasi following a Giant God. We don’t even know if he follows a God, it could easily just be an Elder Earth Elemental or like, Peepaw Cliffbreaker. Paladins have oaths, not gods - its just that oaths are sworn most often to Gods that they get it wrong

Anyways - Rage.

Do you think that Brennan Lee Mulligan thinks Rage is bad? Like, this id a narrative and it has a message - and that message probably is not going to end up being ‘Anger is bad.’ Because it ISNT.

Lydia has been in a rage for decades. Put that into perspective a DnD rage is meant to last Ten Rounds - 1 minute - with at most like, 4-5 uses a day. Lydia, for the safety of herself and the world, has been at it for over twenty years.

Adaine was so angry with her dad she killed him, and that moment was justified and cathartic! It was a hell yeah! And it was a moment of raw fucking rage.

“Do you have a warrant? Do you have a fucking warrant?” Gorgug my boy for the first time in your entire life you allowed yourself to get angry without self recrimination or doubt. And you know what Porter’s reaction to that was?

Pride. Absolute Pride.

“Rage is not a bad thing - Ayda… says you’re the greatest wizard of this age. And I feel LUCKY to have you in my class. You’re someone who can use that rage in a smart way but it’s not wrong to want… to fuck shit up sometimes!”

You want to know whats dangerous? What’s bad for you? Bottling up your emotions and never expressing them. Feeling terrible for what you’re feeling. Thinking your emotions are harmful intrinsically.

This is another Nightmare King circumstance. A God and their spouse were murdered, by Sol. People forget that a lot, Sol murdered Cassandra and now we learned it was a double homicide. Does this Summer God of Fire not deserve to feel angry? Is that not justified?

IT IS!

The Rat Grinders are the only followers of this Rage God. What they are is what the Rat Grinders want. As Above, so Below.

If Fig does as Porter told her to, she could restore this God just as Kristen did with Cassandra. If terror and confusion can turn into comfort in doubt, why can’t Unchecked Fury turn into justified expression of emotion?

#dimension 20 #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high #junior year spoilers #i love porter #porter the barbarian teacher #porter cliffbreaker #these kids need some healthy expression #Talk to Jawbone and he’s not going to twll you anger is the problem #jawbone will tell you that the problem is how you choose to use it and reflect the relationships of your life #If Rage was a problem then Gorgug is also a problem #thats some season 1 pre development shit #dim 20 #fantasy high junior year spoilers

[nanomooselet]

Episode Three: Bright Light, Shine through the Darkness

Okay, let's try this whole meta thing.

Bright Light, Shine through the Darkness was the episode where I realised I was in some deep trouble. I was aware of Trigun, but never really got around to looking into it until this ep was airing, and the two episodes before were, how can I say, everything I'd been lead to expect? Meryl is so angry and kind and Rosa so cool, and of course to look upon Vash is to adore him, precious darling boy. But I was still waiting for the hook, the reason to continue. Episode three, then: the one where the series finally begins. It's done saluting the work of the past and pivots to the story it's here to tell.

And I had no inkling it would be a story of such deliberate, implacable terror. It opens by telling you a storm is coming, but given that in minutes people are dying by land mines and remote drones, you'd think the storm was already here. Blood splashes! Meryl nearly gets her dumb ass flattened! E.G.'s motives aren't the kind receptive to Vash's forgiveness and whoo boy, for a moment you almost believe Vash will withdraw it. But Meryl turns it around (waaah she's so brave, she and Vash and Roberto made such a good team) and it seems the next challenge will be talking the elder Nebraska out of revenge, because anyone will pick up a gun when their loved ones are killed.

Then the piano rings out, right as Nebraska demands to know whose side Vash is on. It's a haunting, wistful tune and the score fell silent for quite a while first, which makes the notes even more out-of-place. The colour has been drained, everything is shrouded with smoke, and the cinematography has shrunk to mid shots and close-ups. Vash stands there in paralysed in fear for over ten seconds. You forget, in what follows, that we were given fair warning.

Nai was present in the opening scene, and Knives stated his intentions clearly enough at the end of the first episode. We saw this fuse being lit and the detonation still comes as a surprise. Not to mention Knives's influence is felt absolutely everywhere once you know to look for it – the bounty and the threats it inevitably attracts, the military police (and boy do I have thoughts on them, but it's only the final episode that'll come back), even the environment, the insects and birds. Tonis's little cage of buddies that Vash promised he would keep safe! Nothing hasn't felt Knives's fingertips - playing, pushing, manipulating.

Vash has to accept at the end of the episode that there was no longer any way he could avoid facing his brother, not if he wanted the people around him to be safe. While I don't think Knives was out to get Vash on this particular trip, I think he's just fine with Vash believing that's why he was there. Let him think it really is his presence, his “bad luck” that led to this destruction.

It's at least consolation to know Gofsef and his father are still alive at the end, though they're not in the best shape. I missed it the first time. But my God, poor Rosa. Poor Tonis. We never get that manga bit where Vash explains that if he took a life, Rem would never forgive him, but we don't really need to after that.

And when it took time out of Vash's self recriminating angst to show us Meryl also feels responsible, I sat up. She'd been so directly driving the plot so far, but I hardly dared hope for more. It was oddly reassuring.

All in all, fantastic episode, and I haven't even talked about the strongest portions. I hope everyone who worked on it is proud of themselves. I couldn't have asked for better. I'll close on what might have been my favourite moment (and by that I mean for me the most emotionally devastating): Vash crying as he flees the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, pulling blood-spattered Rosa after him.

#tristampparty #trigun stampede #trigun meta #meta: tristampparty episodes #yeah sorry idk i can't come up with funny tags for this #haven't been here long enough #it just #wow #edit jeebus creebus how obvious is it that my last long form fandom engagement was in the livejournal days #it’s not the dash-eating monstrosity of before #i fuckign love this show do you realise #halp

[faejilly]

i absolutely love your sh meta so i was wondering what are your thoughts on Alec’d relationship with his sexuality bc i always sort of read it as him knowing that he was gay but absolutely not saying it out loud

absofuckinglutely nonny

There's an excellent post by amorverus that I cannot find the original of so have my reblog HERE that articulates it really well

I even wrote a fic about it! #shameless self promotion [tumblr / ao3] (That is, in fact, one of my favorite things I've ever written.)

I do strongly believe that Alec knew that he was gay, and felt no shame about that in and of itself. He is not offended by Magnus flirting with him, would not, I think, be offended by anyone else flirting with him, regardless of gender. (Tho prior to Magnus I also think he just... wasn't interested, but that's a separate conversation.) He knew, however, that it was not allowed in his culture and it would hurt his family and not just him if it came out.

(This is why Izzy makes me so uncomfortable in s1 regarding Alec, tbqh, because she lives there too, but refuses to see the danger to herself and, more egregiously in Alec's mind, because obviously she can chose to risk herself for him if she wants, for all he doesn't like it, but she's causing risk for their little brother if Alec is outed, and that's unacceptable. Even if I'm quite sure Max would agree with her priorities.)

I do, however, think Alec felt a lot of shame regarding his attraction to Jace. Jace was hurting and was supposed to be his brother and yet... Alec felt an attraction that he knew Jace wouldn't return. So he's got all the societal pressure on him not to be gay, and all this personal pressure not to manipulate or abuse someone in a vulnerable situation (because Jace was, even if he wouldn't admit it), PLUS all the normal human issues with feeling attraction for someone who is important enough to you that you can't lose them, and you can legitimately be terrified that if you can't get it under control you MIGHT... (Even more so for him than a mundane romantic vs platonic situation, obviously, because there's questions of command and exile and punishment, not just ruining an interpersonal dynamic in a way it never quite recovers from.)

Plus Alec's kind of also Jace's commanding officer which is yet ANOTHER unequal power dynamic, and he's supposed to be protecting an entire Institute, not just this one person, but he can't stop thinking about it because it's fucked up and he knows he should stop and he can't.

(Because, he realizes with the benefit of hindsight after he meets Magnus, by fixating on Jace he was safe, he was never going to fall in love for real with someone he might have a chance with, would never have to actually choose between his culture and his personal desires, while still telling himself that he already had, that he'd chosen his family and it was fine, he was FINE.

(He was so not fine.))

And so, even though he truly believes there's nothing wrong with being gay in general, he does believes there is something Very Wrong with him specifically being gay.

But he still never has any doubt about it. He never tries to project heterosexual interest in anyone, is very up front with Lydia about the terms of their engagement. (It seems clear, even if we never see that conversation, that they're both aware that their marriage would never be romantic or sexual unless they mutually decided to go the so-called traditional route for children.) And she agreed to it! She, unlike Jace & Izzy, had zero illusions about her relationship with Alec, and I ADORE HER FOR THAT.

And I've totally lost the thread of this rambling, I'm not sure I have a conclusion for you? 😅😅😅

Alec is, imo, refreshingly self-aware about most things, and many of his issues are legitimately external stupidity punishing him into a life of self-recrimination rather than him having internal bigotry or biases against his own sexuality in and of itself.

#jilly answers #Anonymous #the saga of #alec lightwood #honor vs duty vs shame #is really his life pre-canon #he throws away the shame tho #and I'm very proud of him for that #shadowhunters #my sh rambling #sh meta #queer as in #fuck you

[princess-of-the-corner]

Glad you liked the submission, as I have more on the Aware of Abuse AU!

I think it would be really interesting to reflect on how this situation would be kind of a drawn out grapple for Marinette. This is in no way salt and I think if it was written she'd both warrant having hear grievances hear, but also could definitely come off as a bit antagonistic, or at least wary.

(Exactly how hostile she defaulted to with Chloe tended to oscillate episode to episode so ya know how it be)

Marinette would have the easiest time getting close with Kagami. She has no history like with Chloe & no baggage, IE friendship with Chloe, like Adrien. Tomoe is not someone Marinette admires and its much easier to see abuse in the physicals side. While she'd struggle to see it more in the verbal or negligence side; or otherwise be able to rationalize the negative behaviors such as over protectiveness.

Meanwhile Adrien would be tied a lot closer to Chloe going into school as she'd be being less overtly antagonistic or vain. Plus, they'd have a much stronger "We need each other to keep from falling back into old patterns and to survive" mentality.

Plus Adrien would be a bit more overtly snarky and less respectful to authority or stuff like Gabriel's fashion shows. He still is very nice and super wants to be liked by everyone all the time, but it'd be a lot easier for her to see the negatives in his behavior.

Chloe meanwhile would probably rankle and outright frustrate her the most. Not just because she'd still be hard to get along with in general, or because she still is not against ignoring rules or disrespecting authority figures. But because...

No clue what your religious views may or may not be, but have you heard those talks of "Catholic guilt" and the idea of needing to suffer, do penance, ETC before one can be redeemed?

Marinette wouldn't strictly think or want that, but there would be a part of her that would sort of... Well resent that Chloe is seemingly just choosing to change and not even necessarily enough.

That is to say, Chloe might still rudely reject Sabrina's cookies out of hand but then instantly walk it back and have some.

But more in that she's suffered no defeat, she's not been taken from her previous luxurious circumstances, she hasn't seemingly lost anything and even more she'd not even be overtly contrite.

That is to say, Chloe wouldn't be doing stuff akin to the Lady Luck AU (Nothing against it, great fic!) where she'd frequently reflect on how much of a 'fuck up' she was. Or or say stuff like, "I know I was a bitch but I am trying to be better". Or feel guilt in the "I can't even be mad they assume the worst of me cos I probably would have done X."

She's just choosing to be different and on some level its deeply unsatisfying and even frustrating.

(Where is the arc, the climax, the catharsis!?)

Especially if some people roll with it or let her get away with it when she starts falling into old habits.

Marinette doesn't want Chloe to suffer or beg forgiveness or hate herself she doesn't. She just doesn't understand why now? Why at all? Why because of her friend? Why because of how she was treated and not how she treated others?

Why couldn't she care enough about hurting Marinette to change!?

That I think would be the lynch-pin and one that is, from Marinette's perspective, as well as others in and out of universe entirely sympathetic, she was hurt after all.

But in that same vain Chloe's an abused child lashing out due to trauma and taught such terrible lessons she sometimes couldn't process that she wasn't doing 'right'.

Marinette's been hurt, and that would need to be properly addressed. But it wouldn't need to happen in a self recriminating manner necessarily.

Not that I don't love those, self hating characters rife with issues are fun to explore. It is just that I think it'd be interesting to explore both, changing as a person, and a "Bad" victim getting help before they actually even start processing over much how others might warrant reoperations.

Does that make sense?

The story "restorative Justice" sort of dips into this from a different middle ground angle and most stuff by Generalluxun often have elements of it too.

Oh yeah no it's.

Marinette doesn't understand why Chloé is Like That™ in the first place, so she can't fathom her wanting to change.

From Mari's perspective, Chloé's life is pretty perfect. She's beautiful, she's rich. She can do whatever she wants whenever she wants and always gets her way through money or influence. She's always bragging about how she's so much better than everyone. Clearly her parents must adore her because they spoil her with gifts and never tell her 'no'. Any 'hardships' are just minor inconveniences that Chloé brought upon herself by being mean.

So why would Chloé choose to change? If it's not broke, don't fix it. Chloé's life is Perfect™, why would she do something to make it different?

It's not that she wants Chloé to suffer, or thinks that she /should/ suffer. She just doesn't understand why someone with a Perfect Life™ would change without going through some kind of suffering that forces introspection.

#aware au

[melanieathene]

Suptober 2023 Day 3 - Inspired

It had been the day from hell. Nothing had gone right on a hunt which was supposed to be easy-peasy: a simple salt and burn; a no brainer for a seasoned hunter like himself. Dean was supposed to return to the Bunker in triumph, not bruised and limping, covered with graveyard dirt and weary to the bone. Sure, the ghost had eventually been laid to rest, but at what cost?

“I'm getting too old for this.” Dean sighed, and rested his head against the Impala's steering wheel, trying to summon up enough energy to get out of the car.

All he wanted to do was grab a quick shower and tumble into bed. He was hungry, but food could wait till the morning. Head hanging low, he headed towards his room, so lost to introspection and self-recriminations that he almost stumbled into the surprise that literally lay at his feet.

Scented candles lined either side of the Bunker's hallway, pointedly illuminating a path that was meant to be followed.

“Damned fire hazard,” Dean griped, blowing out candles one by one as he slowly made his way to the bathroom door. His eyes were watering from the curling plumes of smoke by the time he reached the trail's end. The cloying scent of the candles, and the exertion necessary to extinguish them all, left him slightly short of breath.

“At least they're sandalwood, not some frou-frou flower shit,” he muttered. “Sam had that much sense at least.” Obviously, his little brother was planning on getting some, and had gone all out to impress a lady friend.

But Sam was miles away, working a case with Jody... Was this Sam's idea of a joke?

Dean turned the doorknob and warily peeked inside. He was met with a billowing cloud of steam which revealed yet more candles once the mist lifted. Candles of all shapes and sizes perched on every available surface: lining the perimeter of the room; balancing on the edge of the tub; reflecting in the mirror, giving the room a soothing, golden glow.

A fluffy white towel lay on the counter. An equally fluffy white robe hung from a hook on the bathroom door. Scattered rose petals laid an inviting path to a steaming hot bubble bath. Lavender scented water, if his nose correctly identified the smell

“What the hell?” Dean exclaimed. “Who the fuck used up all the hot water if it wasn't Sam? Cas? Since when does he bathe?”

He trailed a hand through the bubbles; the temperature was perfect, offering the much needed relief his sore muscles craved.

“No sense in letting all this go to waste.” he said and quickly shrugged out of his clothes, leaving them in a pile well back from any flame.

“Ahhhh,” he sighed, as the welcoming water enveloped him. He tilted his head back and relaxed. He could easily have fallen asleep, and maybe did doze off for a few minutes, but the cooling water and sputter of dying candles roused him enough to crawl out and dry himself off. The towel was indeed soft and fluffy. His clothes were too disgusting to put back on...

The white robe wasn't really his style (he preferred his dead guy robe), but it was there, it was clean and dry, and it proved to be even softer than the towel.

Barefooted, he shuffled across the room and opened the bathroom door.

The candles in the hall were burning brightly again.

“Huh,” he said, and followed their lead back to his bedroom. “There better not be rose petals on my bed,” he grumbled.

There weren't.

But, of course, there were more candles. And, on his nightstand, a hamburger was carefully centered on a plate, an opened bottle of beer standing beside it. Clean sheets were on his bed, the covers folded back, ready for him to crawl in.

Castiel was there too, his back turned to the door. He must not have heard Dean's silent approach. He was too intent on removing a box from a grocery bag without tilting the contents.

“Ha! Caught you!”

Castiel spun around so fast the box almost flew out of his hands. “Dean!” he said.

“Whatcha doin', Cas?”

“Uh... I-- I just--” Castiel sputtered. “Before he left, Sam mentioned you've been tense lately. I found a magazine that suggested various methods of reducing stress. It inspired me. And I thought... I thought maybe...”

“Is this a seduction, Cas?”

“W-what? I-- No! I--” Castiel's cheeks turned an alarming shade of red.

Dean folded his arms across his chest and unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smile.

A frown creased Castiel's brow as their eyes met and held.

“Would... Would you like it to be?”

“That depends. Is there pie in that box?”

“There is.”

Dean crossed the room and gently took the box from Castiel's hands, setting it down next to the beer on the nightstand.

“Then my answer is yes,” Dean whispered, as he took the angel in his arms. “It's always been yes. All you had to do was ask.”

#Suptober #suptober23 #suptober23 day 3 #destiel #spn #supernatural #Dean Winchester #Castiel

[dianneking]

Paradise (Valerie Kinbott/Larissa Weems)

Summary: After the disaster that was Outreach Day, Valerie feels like she can be excused if she arrives frazzled and late to her meeting with Principal Weems. What she doesn’t expect is to find Larissa swaying to the notes of a vinyl playing in the background…

Tags: Pining, Not really unrequited love, Useless Lesbians, a bit of angst because hi it’s me I’m the angst fairy, but it’s also sweet I promise, hints of past heartbreak.

A/N: I kept the references to the song vague, so you can picture the one you prefer as playing in the background, but if you want to know which one I had playing in the background (which is the one that inspired the fic altogether as well, you can find it here, and it’s an obscure 80s song by the actress Phoebe Cates, titled “Paradise”).

Dedicated to @weemssapphic, who discovered her taste for Valerie/Larissa and somehow blamed me for it XD I hope you like it! Wordcount: 2124 words - AO3 link in title below.

Paradise (Valerie x Larissa)

Valerie was late for her meeting with Principal Weems. It wasn’t like her, but she felt like she could be excused this one time – that whole mess with the statue inauguration had thrown a wrench into the works of her carefully scheduled afternoon. After all, it took quite long to take soot out of one’s hair.

And Valerie wanted to look nothing but her best for her meetings with Principal Weems – or, as Valerie sometimes called her in the privacy of her own mind, Larissa – for purely professional reasons of course.

Sure. The most professional of white-collar business reasons. Right.

Oh, who was she kidding. She had the most unprofessional of crushes on the tall woman and she knew it well. She had tried all the tricks in her notebook to get over it as quickly as possible. She had worked on self-acceptance, on setting boundaries, she even tried journaling… Everything that she would suggest to one of her patients with an inappropriate and hopeless crush, she tried for herself.

But it didn’t work.

Not only her crush didn’t peter out and die as she had hoped to, but it also went quite in the opposite direction – it grew, like a small sapling sending out shoots and sprouting new leaves until it was like she had a full-sized sequoia tree of love taking place in her chest, strong and sturdy and unbothered by storms.

And there had been storms. Mainly at night, when the house felt big and empty, and there was no craft project that would make her busy enough not to feel lonely. How she had wished for a comforting presence by her side at those time, a long slender hand to wrap around hers, a tall body bowing down to press a kiss to the crown of her head. The storms had brought bitter rain of tears, recriminations against herself and her inability to find someone who loved her back, someone to share her life with, and had eventually rolled off towards the horizon, leaving her heart beaten and hollow, but still aching for Larissa.

It was hopeless and she knew it: she didn’t even know if Principal Weems was into women at all, let alone if she was looking for a partner and if Valerie could even possibly aspire to be a candidate for that role. But it seemed that every warm – but always professional – smile sent her way, every phone call about a problematic student, every meeting with the woman watered and fertilized her crush until it wasn’t a crush anymore, but full-blown love.

She exited her car, heart thrumming in her chest at the mere thought of being face-to-face with that powerful, beautiful, witty woman. She took her time walking the well-known way through the winding corridors of Nevermore to force the blush off her cheeks, to arrange her face into a polite smile, instead of the huge grin her heart wanted her to sport.

The last thing she needed was for something to slip through the cracks of her professional mask, and for Principal Weems to notice. She could imagine how the woman might react, her smile tuning fixed and stony, her eyes pinched as she tried to keep her professionalism while rejecting her. Or maybe she wouldn’t even try to hide her disgust, chasing Valerie out of the room with harsh words, cutting all business ties with her – It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before. There was only one reason why an overqualified psychiatrist such as herself had settled in the inconsequential backwater that is Jericho, after all. To escape heartbreak, what else? But that had been many years ago. Her heart had healed – but it had never forgotten.

And now she had gone and done it all over again, falling for a likely straight woman she had professional ties with. Fuck, Valerie. What are all your degrees worth if you keep making the same mistakes over and over again? But no. She wouldn’t be repeating her mistakes if she didn’t allow Larissa to ever know about her feelings.

Strong in her renewed determination, she rapped curtly against the thick wooden door, just beside the bronze plaque reciting “Principal Weems”. She expected the usual firm “Come in” and was surprised when no voice could be heard. Well, that was not entirely correct. She could hear the soft ups and downs of a singing voice and of music. Maybe Principal Weems hadn’t heard her knocking over the music. She was pretty late, the afternoon having already given way to the evening.

For good measure, Valerie knocked again as she turned the doorknob, slightly pushing the door open.

“Principal Weems? It’s V…” she lost all hopes of rational thought at the sight that greeted her.

There was indeed a soft music, originating from the record player in the far corner of the room. All lights were turned off, and the office was only illuminated by the flickering warm light of the fireplace. And in the middle of the room, a vision.

Larissa Weems was barefoot, a glass full of wine held loosely in her hand, her eyes closed as she swayed slowly to the rhythm of the song. The orange light danced on her features, highlighting her beauty, and making her even more breathtaking than she usually was. Valerie’s mouth suddenly went dry and she froze, unable and unwilling to interrupt such a mesmerizing scene.

She shouldn’t have worried, because in that moment the principal’s blue eyes shot open, pinning her to her place halfway through the door, suddenly feeling like she was intruding on something very personal. Valerie felt an apology climb to her lips, but it vanished again when the other woman’s neutral expression opened in a blinding smile. Valerie couldn’t help but stare. If she thought Larissa was beautiful before, that true, unfiltered smile was breathtaking, lighting her whole face from within.

“Valerie! I didn’t think you were coming.” Her own name falling from those perfectly red lips in the low, lilting voice that often made its way in her dreams made her own heart stutter in her ribcage, and the blush she had so valiantly fought to suppress before was already trying to crawl back to her face. This was dangerous.

“Would you like to join me?” The outstretched hand – the one not holding the glass of wine – was compelling in a way that nothing ever had been for Valerie. She stepped towards it, mechanically closing the door behind herself, advancing as if in a dream. Her heart was out of control now, and so was the blush, hopelessly making its way up her neck. She felt herself caring less and less about those things. Larissa didn’t move, she didn’t retract her hand, nor the offer, and Valerie felt her own palm land on the one waiting for it, almost as if it had moved of its own accord. So warm. So right.

So dangerous, keened a small part of her brain, but it went unheeded, as the sweet notes of the song wrapped around her body, as the warm fingers enveloped hers, pulling her closer to Larissa’s body as the taller woman started once again to sway to the music. Oh.

Without her usual heels, Larissa wasn’t as imposing as she usually was – Valerie’s head reached just below the principal’s nose. She was acutely aware of that fact as she was pulled into the other woman’s personal space, closer than she had ever been. Close enough for her perfume to fill her nostrils with longing, and close enough to feel her body heat radiating into the small distance that divided them. If Principal Weems were to lean forward, her lips would meet Valerie’s forehead.

That was a pleasant image.

Larissa didn’t lean forward, but she brought up the hand that was still holding the wine glass and held it close to Valerie’s shoulder blade, almost half-hugging her, keeping her close. As if she wanted to be anywhere else.

“Dance with me, please?”

As if Valerie could deny her now, trapped as she was in the taller woman’s loose embrace, mesmerized by her otherworldly beauty, ravaged by the strength of her own feelings for her. She tried to follow the rhythm of the song and Larissa’s own sways, feeling herself slowly relax as the lyrics rolled over them in dulcet tones, speaking of a love story that could have been theirs. For the duration of that song, Valerie allowed herself to almost believe it. To live in that liminal space where all she could feel and think of was Larissa. No past, no future, no schools, no outcasts and no normies, no principals and psychiatrists. Just Larissa and herself, dancing in the darkened office.

But then the vocals were slowly fading away, leaving only soft instrumental that was bound to disappear as well. Larissa briefly brought the wine glass to her lovely lips and Valerie could only stare, transfixed, as she drained the remaining burgundy liquid, before setting the glass down on a nearby coffee table – detaching her body from Valerie’s for an agonizing moment, but never letting go of her hand – before quickly resuming her place, her now free hand scorching hot on Valerie’s back.

The music had stopped, leaving only the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic tapping of a record that had reached its end. And yet Larissa didn’t seem in any hurry to increase the distance between them. Valerie did the mistake of looking up into her eyes, only to be captured by those inscrutable depths, so dark in the low light of the fire. A flicker of movement caught her attention, and she lowered her gaze just a fraction, watching as Larissa’s tongue came out to wet those lips, lips who had never been so close to Valerie, so within reach. If she were to simply go on her tip toes, she could…

The slight widening of Larissa’s eyes told her that her staring had been for a fraction too long. Valerie dropped her head, trying to hide her now angry red blush, and tried not to give too much weight to the pang of longing that hit her as her own hand was dropped from the other’s grasp, suddenly cold in the evening air. Of course. Of course she had to go and ruin the moment. What else did she expect?

But Larissa’s other hand stayed strong and warm on her back, and the hand that had relinquished Valerie’s own came up to softly curl under her chin, gently nudging it up once again, letting her eyes take in the beautiful features of Larissa’s face.

Larissa, whose eyes were now fastened on Valerie’s own lips with an intensity that had her heart summersault in her ribcage.

“May I kiss you, Valerie?” Larissa’s voice was low, almost hoarse, and it carried the sweet smell of wine. Valerie felt small, wrapped into those warm arms, desperately trying not to let her hopes up. Small and scared, because her heart was singing, and she knew it was too late. And she wasn’t sure she’d be able to withstand the tempest that would come in the morning, when Larissa would look down at her and tell her in her firm, professional voice that it had all been a drunken mistake and surely they could agree not to mention it anymore.

“Will…will you regret it in the morning?” she hated how her voice broke as she asked that. She hated that she couldn’t just enjoy the moment for what it was and allow herself this one kiss she might never get again.

And yet, how could she? How could she kiss those lips she had spent so much time and effort to try and not stare at, to hold close that body that she had admired from afar, and then go back to being polite business acquaintances? She wasn’t thirty anymore. This time it would break her for real, and there would be no moving cities that would help her heart recover.

“I won’t, unless you do.”

“And will you remember it?”

Larissa had the nerve to chuckle at that, as if Valerie’s concerns were nothing more than a child’s irrational fears. After all, those were born of trauma too.

“You can test my recollection ability tomorrow morning at eight at the Weathervane, on our first of hopefully many coffee dates. Now may I kiss you?”

A date? A date? Valerie’s poor brain had no time to process this, because at that second iteration of that question, whispered barely an inch from her lips, all she could do was dumbly nod and in an eyeblink those soft, pillowy luscious lips were on her own and oh.

Oh.

They felt like paradise.

Liked this? You can find all of my other fanfictions on my fanfiction masterlist!

#dianneking #dianneking writes #dianneking fanfiction #larissa weems fanfiction #larissa x valerie #larissa weems/valerie kinbott #larissa/valerie fanfiction #wlw fanfiction #valerie kinbott fanfiction #wednesday fandom fanfiction #dr kinbott fanfiction #riki lindhome characters #riki lindhome fanfiction #gwendoline christie characters #gwendoline christie fanfiction

[mariacallous]

Matt Gallagher’s new novel Daybreak, set amid the churning horror of Russia’s war against Ukraine, has been marketed as a love story. Yet it is ultimately a book less about romance than about the love of stories—and in particular, the stories we tell ourselves, and others, so that we can survive. Daybreak is a work of art, a gleaming, fanged nightmare of a book by a major American author who himself is an Army veteran.

Its hero, a U.S. veteran of the global war on terrorism named Luke “Pax” Paxton, ostensibly travels to Ukraine shortly after Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022 to search for an ex-girlfriend named Svitlana. Pax appears to also be searching for absolution. His time as an Army infantryman has disassembled him, and he is unable to adjust to civilian life. His internal monologue is full of self-recrimination. He struggles to simply act normal in the company of civilians, let alone hold down a regular job. Clumsy in his speech and his emotions, fumbling, eager, and frequently angry, Pax has one North Star, which is his desire to be useful.

Many veterans have struggled to adjust to the civilian world in recent years, and a number of them have turned to Ukraine in order to feel useful once again. At least 50 Americans have so far been killed in Ukraine, and the overwhelming majority of them were veterans. Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, U.S. veterans have volunteered to train Ukrainians, while others have organized donation drives and supply runs.

Some emerged as wasteful, scandalous figures—the inevitable consequence of the largest European conflict since World War II attracting its share of lowlifes—but the majority have put their lives on the line for a noble ideal, the chance to repel an obvious and perilous evil.

This evil is nothing new, of course. Ukraine has suffered from barbaric wars before, and those wars each created their own ghosts, leaving dark marks on the beautiful landscape. Even people who don’t believe in apparitions can recognize Ukraine as a profoundly haunted place, where the uncanny nature of armed conflict has seeped into the bones of the land, its history, and its society. Gallagher’s writing captures how rich and strange my native country is while layering the monstrousness of the new war on top.

“What … could be up there?” Pax wonders of the sky as an air raid siren blares, suddenly aware of the fact that while Americans controlled the sky in Afghanistan, the situation is vastly different in Ukraine. That sense of vulnerability, the sense of being skittering prey to missiles and killer drones and mortar shells, is unfamiliar to Americans, even many of those who served, but a reality for many people elsewhere.

In a macabre but satisfying way, I found Daybreak to closely match the night terrors I have suffered from since Russia invaded Ukraine, the result of long nights of staying on the phone with friends and relatives as the sky exploded above them. There is a loss of control there, the feeling of being trapped in a screaming vortex, even as you try, like Pax, to be useful.

A pivotal scene in Daybreak occurs at a gathering of Lviv society, comprising not the gangsters and oligarchs whom Americans too often associate with Ukraine but cultured people shocked by the arrival of full-scale war. Pax gets to tell an inspiring war story to the assembled, a story that is also a lie. But, as the narrator points out, “It was the kind of war story people wanted. Tenderness in devastation. It was the kind of war story people expected. Fellowship amidst ruin.”

The idea of merciful lies runs throughout the book. In light of how aid to Ukraine is hotly contested by slippery demagogues in the halls of U.S. power—not to mention how disastrously the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan was executed—the political ramifications of these lies are almost unbearable to analyze.

Gallagher’s handling of Svitlana, the ex-girlfriend whom Pax seeks to protect, is particularly noteworthy. Far from the pliant sex kittens many American men hope to encounter in Ukraine, she is a strong-willed and prickly woman. Gallagher could’ve turned her strengths into another caricature—think a Ukrainian Valkyrie, a popular theme for memes and pageant costumes. But Svitlana’s inner world is also tumultuous and has to do with more than just the war. She has vulnerabilities and regrets. If she has a sword, it’s in her words, which can shatter or save a person.

Works by Western writers (including Russian Americans) on Ukraine are bound to come under heavy scrutiny at a time of upheaval, and Gallagher’s narrative is not going to be for everyone. Yet it is not a tourist’s narrative, nor is it exploitative. If you’ve ever tried to care for someone who has lost part of themselves to war, you might recognize those feelings, even if that war wasn’t Ukraine’s. That sense that someone has been scooped out by conflict, that they’re searching for something to replace a loss, is familiar to veterans and people who care about them across the world.

Russia’s war is senseless and genocidal, but in the shadow of horned death, people continue to tell stories—as Pax does, as Svitlana does. A lot of what is written in the ashes is lost, and Ukrainians’ stories should always come first. There is a privilege Americans have when it comes to narrating a foreign conflict, a privilege that isn’t always earned. Gallagher, however, has approached the topic of Americans in the context of Ukraine with humility and humanity. I can only hope Western politicians will be willing to do the same.

[jgroffdaily]

Merrily We Roll Along review summary Part 3 (updated)

Johnny Oleksinski, NY Post

You would be floored by the acting of Jonathan Groff, Daniel Radcliffe and Lindsay Mendez, whose perfect chemistry is acting alchemy.

And you would be dead certain you did not just sit through a perfunctory trotting-out of a notorious Broadway disaster, but one of the best and most alive musicals of the season.

Sondheim’s opening lyric, “yesterday is done,” couldn’t be truer or as welcomed as it is here.

If you’ve ever seen the fantastic Groff in concert, you know he’s a singer who loves to make eye contact with audience members. That quality — his desire for personal connection — is what makes him such a strong, layered, sympathetic Frank. And his hopeful glance is what sells an unobtrusive but vital new ending.

Matt Windman, AMNY

The most important change to “Merrily” over the years has been to make Frank more sympathetic and less of a jerk. Groff, who combines the looks and charisma of a young matinee idol with tender sensitivity, is the ideal Frank–someone who everyone else can’t help but fall in love with, which is why his pals self-destruct when Frank loses his way

Darren King, Forbes

“Merrily” is the story of Franklin Shepard (Jonathan Groff, bearing the gravitational pull of a small planet), a promising composer turned successful hack producer. Franklin’s ascent, or descent, is told in reverse-chronological order, from 1976 to 1957.

It’s also the story of the three-way friendship between Franklin and artistic kindred spirits Charley Kringas (Daniel Radcliffe, feverishly attacking the role) and Mary Flynn (Lindsay Mendez, channeling the sharpness and sadness of Dorothy Parker beautifully). Fortunately for the show, the three stars are plainly made for one other. Their chemistry, particularly in the symbiotic movements of “Old Friends” (the choreography is by Tim Jackson) suggest decades’ worth of familiarity and backstory. You find yourself barracking for a friendship that, as you’ve already seen, ends up in pain and recrimination.

Though “Merrily” has nothing to offer in terms of dazzling scenic design or special effects — in that way, the show remains true to its Off Broadway origins at the New York Theatre Workshop — what the show offers, instead, is an utter inundation of overwhelming human feeling. Moment for moment, it is the most intensely emotional show on a Broadway stage in recent memory. It reaches a point where a flip remark on a rooftop, for example, utterly devastates.

“Merrily” breaks the heart; it fills it up. I left the theater utterly spent; I can’t wait to see it again.

Brian Scott Lipton, Cititour.com

Choosing Groff to portray Franklin proves to be a stroke of genius, and not just because his golden throat does justice to some of Sondheim’s best songs. His undeniable good looks and obvious charm make it entirely reasonable that Franklin would inwardly believe he always deserved success and therefore ignores its cost to both himself and others, over and over again.

#jonathan groff #reviews #merrily we roll along #daniel radcliffe #lindsay mendez #maria friedman

[wellofdean]

Ok, with regard to the Winchesters, here's what I think: Dean is dead. He's on a journey in his own heaven, which is to say in the kingdom of his own self.

All these recurring scenes of being trapped in a locked room, or an unreal place, where the only way out is letting go of anger, dealing with trauma, telling the truth, trusting those who love you...very on the nose, like he is endlessly replaying and glitching on his last moments with Cas, and on the fact that he wasn't ready.

Dean's entire existence up until then was self-abnegation, self-recrimination, self-denial. In that very scene he tells Cas that all he knows how to do is kill, but Cas contradicts him, and shows Dean another face in the mirror of his love, but Dean was surprised, and not yet ready to forgive, acknowledge and love himself. I keep thinking of that moment in 15x19 when Chuck calls him "the ultimate killer" and Dean says "that's not who I am", and of this quote from Carl Jung from his book Memories, Dreams, Reflections:

"The acceptance of oneself is the essence of the whole moral problem...what if I should discover that the least among them all, the poorest of all the beggars, the most impudent of all the offenders, the very enemy himself -- that these are within me, and that I myself stand in need of the alms of my own kindness -- that I myself am the enemy who must be loved -- what then?"

I also keep thinking about the word Akrida, and it's phonological closeness to 'accretion'. For me, so much of what is truly sublime in Supernatural is more than anything about accretion: the accretion of years that transformed the Dean in episode 1 into the Dean of 15x18, and made Jensen into an actor who could embody him, then about accretion of moments that made Cas's love for him inevitable, and the accretion of our investment in Dean as a character over 15 years of story, and of how much he and the show changed over time. There was also an accretion of pain, trauma, guilt and doubt for him: accretion of both light and dark sides of his personality.

And, I keep thinking about accretion discs circling a singularity in space, something so dense and dark that nothing can escape it, not even light, once it crosses the event horizon, and of Dean lost in his own subconscious, desperately trying to transform, commute and integrate these things he can't stop repeating to himself.

But, Akrida also means 'pleasure garden' in Sanskrit, and as we know from Supernatural canon, the centre of heaven is a garden. Maybe the event horizon isn't to be feared? We canonically know that Cas remade heaven for Dean. Maybe the singularity is Dean's integration?

Maybe it's where pleasure awaits him.

OMG, I cannot wait.

#spnwin #the winchesters #dean winchester #castiel #jensen ackles #i love your fanfic! #carry on sir! #deanception #into the deanverse

[solitaire-sol]

Could I get a snippet from pf dorian, please? 🙏

pf dorian is (loosely) inspired by The Picture of Dorian Gray with James in the Dorian role! I have a vaguely rambling thought process for why I feel James fits the role better than Sirius despite it flying in the face of all conventional (fan) wisdom, but that's neither here nor there. It's a modern no-magic AU, except there is/was magic but not of the HP kind, and James' parents really went above and beyond to ensure that their beloved son outlived them. By, like... a lot.

Here is the requested snippet, it's NSFW and somewhat long (hohoho) so below the cut!

"Well," Sirius says, "there's one way to find out," and he pauses for a moment to allow time for the expected flush, or maybe a stammered denial. James might even try to play dumb, though the wicked curve of Sirius' lips should make it impossible to ignore the innuendo.

Sirius does not expect James to smile back, that laughing mouth still laughing, those hazel eyes bright with a gleam that feels as if it had only been waiting to surface. "Suppose there is," James says cheerfully, rising from his place on the sofa only to sink to his knees without preamble, settling easily between Sirius' thighs as if this is something they do on a regular basis rather than the first fantasy that's made Sirius feel guilty since he'd been a closeted, hormone-ridden adolescent.

'Looks like all that guilt was for nothing,' Sirius thinks vaguely, his thoughts scattered at this sudden turnabout, and he can't help feeling just a bit indignant. Sirius had finally made up his mind to seduce James, he'd been ready to put real effort into this one, he'd wrestled with those flashes of self-recrimination at manipulating this sunny Golden Retriever of a man into his bed when clearly all James wanted was his friendship-- But apparently he needn't have bothered.

"Don't worry," James grins up at him, reaching for the zip on Sirius' jeans, those expressive hands completely steady. "I'm confident about my technique. I've had a lot of time to get it right."

There's something about the way that James says it that tickles the back of Sirius' brain, a subrosa awareness that's quickly subsumed by a flicker of-- Annoyance? Disappointment? Sirius has never been the type who enjoys deflowering virgins, but he'd assumed he would be doing that with James, at least when it came to men, not thinking about the first who'd gotten James on his knees.

Sirius does not get the chance to dwell on these thoughts, distracted by the chill of cold air against his already-heated flesh, but maybe they explain the heightened sensations that accompany James' hand on his cock. James' touch is warm, his palm slightly roughened in a way that's a surprise, that doesn't seem to match the idea of the idle rich boy that James seemed to fit so well; but Sirius' thoughts are drawn from these incongruities by the way his cock fits so perfectly into James' hand, thumb and forefinger looped around Sirius' shaft, as if Sirius needs any help getting any harder.

He might need that to keep from coming too soon, because when James lowers his head and drags his tongue slowly up the underside of Sirius' cock, his eyes holding Sirius' as if they're sharing some schoolboy secret, Sirius is hit by a surge of arousal so strong that his shaft twitches against James' soft lips. James laughs in his throat and kisses the tip, slow and almost sweet until his tongue flicks against Sirius' slit and Sirius inhales sharply, holding that breath, fighting the urge to fist a hand in James' hair and bury himself in that laughing, smiling mouth.

James grins, his hazel eyes dancing, as if he knows exactly what Sirius is thinking. Which would be a goddamn miracle, since Sirius' thoughts are so scattered that they're a mystery to himself, forced out of focus by the man who had seemed so straightforward and who was now revealing himself to be anything but. Sirius had expected to play the worldly seducer, as he's been so many times before, plying his wiles against this relative ingenue, but now he has the novel feeling of being played.

James takes Sirius' head into his mouth - just the tip, Sirius thinks, still reeling - and almost-but-not-quite pulls off with a languid, drawn-out suck, and all of these little mysteries, the unexpected reversal, all of it-- In this moment, none of it matters at all.

#wip tag #ask game #prongsfoot #snippets #fics by sol #sorry if this is rough i haven't published smut/proto-smut in a while #written yes shown to people no

[theweatherinmyhead]

I keep thinking about writing a fic that diverges from the point in Joker’s Last Laugh where Nightwing kills the Joker.

Instead of resuscitating the Joker (really, Bruce? really??), Bruce lets him die.

As everyone recovers from the whole situation, Bruce is a mess. At first he — and all the other bats — assume that it’s from the guilt of sort-of breaking his no-kill rule. It seems much the same as the way Dick couldn’t forgive himself for allowing Blockbuster’s death (to say nothing of the guilt now eating Dick alive for, you know, actually killing someone).

But as Bruce continues on from reacting and into processing, it becomes apparent that he- Well, he’s grieving the Joker.

It… makes a certain amount of sense. He has known — for lack of a better term — the Joker as long as he’s known his eldest son. He’s been a fixture in Bruce’s life. A reliable presence even, inasmuch as an erratic, violent nemesis can be called reliable. The Joker has taken so, so much from the world — from Bruce in particular — but he has also given Bruce some pivotal part of his purpose. The Joker held a level of importance to Batman’s work that few other enemies could ever achieve. He’s a pillar of the role Bruce built Batman to fulfill. Is Batman even properly Batman without the Joker?

So this is Bruce’s grief. Once he identifies it, he’s horrified by how clear it is. The way he’s gone over and over the autopsy report, every angle of cctv, combed every haunt and shaken down every goon just because he doesn’t trust the Joker, doesn’t trust death. (He’s been in the cape too long.) Hours spent at the punching bag, trying desperately to funnel the violence out of his body and into a safe target. Nights spent watching the self-recriminating what-ifs play out on his shadowed bedroom ceiling. What if he’d tried chest compressions? Called EMS before his arrival? What if he’d reached Nightwing sooner? Investigated Tim’s “death” more thoroughly? He is staggered by many ways could he have prevented this death. He should have. He would have. If it wasn’t for how he just… didn’t.

And — so much more incriminating than the denial, the anger, the goddamn bargaining — he’s… sad. There’s an emptiness that stalks his days, a void he can’t help but watch while he patrols. It’s hard to put on his easygoing press smile and to straighten his shoulders against the fundamentally shifted weight of the world. He wakes up exhausted and falls into bed already dreading the morning. He does his work and watches over his family and his city, but all the while he’s looking through a layer of gauze.

He’s also relieved. Of course he’s relieved. There isn’t a single person in the greater Gotham area who doesn’t feel the tsunami of relief once the Joker’s death is publicized. His city is safer, for all that the rest of the rogues gallery still breathe. His people are safer. His kids are safer.

It’s almost as hard for Bruce to admit that he’s grateful the Joker is dead. It feels wrong to rejoice in a death, how ever silently, however well-deserved. But it doesn’t feel any better to notice that clinging, unwelcome sorrow.

The reason I’ll probably never make this into a real fic is that I’m terrible at the comfort part of h/c. I write myself into a corner and then look at where I am and,,

How can Bruce recover from this? How does he lay this internal conflict to rest alongside his most longstanding foe? He’s grieving a violent, unpredictable, horrifyingly creative mass murderer! Someone who has committed countless unspeakable atrocities, who had no single iota of regard for any life beyond his own. Someone whose very existence was intrinsically linked to Bruce’s own…

He can’t seek solace in his family. The Joker has harmed every single one of them in one way or another. Dick needs his strength and Jason would never, ever, forgive him. He can’t talk to his colleagues in the JLA. They’re committed to the greater good in the way Bruce had always believed himself to be. There is no one to absolve him. Bruce doesn’t deserve- Can’t deserve absolution. This grief betrays every principle he’s beaten into his mind and body. It’s the most shameful act he could ever commit.

So Bruce would stew in his guilt upon guilt upon guilt. He would pick at the scabs of the hard-earned mourning, unable and unwilling to accept that the loss of someone important is still a loss, even if that importance comes from a driving need to stop them at (almost) any cost.

#batman absolutely attended the cremation #he didn’t let the body out of his sight between the final DNA match and the fire #enemies to enemies #the joker #batman #batfam #that time nightwing killed the joker #and bruce revived him #because self-preservation does NOT run in that family #nightwing #bruce wayne #dick grayson #incidentally #jason todd #tim drake #super incidentally #sorry i hate it when ppl tag character that aren’t really in the post but here we are #look how low i’ve fallen #joker: last laugh #grief #is a strange beast #headcanon #robin #fic #not!fic #drabble #canon divergence

[hussyknee]

Your tags in the post about boyfriends selfishness slapped me in the face about the situation I'm in. I hope I can get better. Thanks for laying it out like that for me.

I'm glad it helped you. *hugs* It took eight years of marriage to a manbaby for me to figure it out. I was raised by a violent man, so I mistook soft-spokenness for gentleness and generosity for kindness. Disinterest for respectful space and grudging tolerance for magnanimity. All his condescension and cruelty were couched in genial jokes, all his weaponized incompetence and anti-socialness in puppy eyed pleading and cutesy haplessness. The invisibility of this violence and manipulation was in a way much more cruel than my father's rages. I was being systematically leeched of my self-respect and energy and agency by a man who seemed kinder, gentler and more tolerant to me than anyone I had known before.

When it all became unbearable and I lashed out in bewildered hurt, he told me I was as unkind and ill-tempered as my father. I internalised that for sodding years. Turned all the pain he inflicted on me into self-recrimination and drove it inward into myself like a knife.

No one tells you about the cruelty of gentle men.

No one tells you that people who wouldn't hurt a fly will have no qualms draining the life from you.

No one tells you that they don't have to intend harm to not care if they're hurting you.

No one tells you the difference between a good person and one who is only good to protect their image of themselves as a good person.

No one prepares you for having to soothe their hurt feelings caused by you trying to hold them accountable.

No one braces you for the final bare-faced cruelty and vitriol they spew at you when you finally leave, telling you it was you who trapped them, reducing years of care and patience and blood and tears to nothing.

Leave these leeches to rot and don't look back.

#toxic relationship #emotional abuse #partner abuse #darvo #manipulation #gaslighting #sexism #misogyny #asks #anon #knee of huss #healing