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driflew · 3 months

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another zero context renchanting au scene, from yet another au w cherri. this one doesnt have a name (we've just been calling it "witch au" w the vague promise to make a better name eventually that has not yet been fulfilled) but theres witches and werewolves and it's a fun time.

anyway. here's a scene where Ren doesnt know what the hell is happening. see if you can figure it out faster than he does

Ren wakes with a start. His whole body tingles; there’s pins and needles through every limb, wrapped around his spine, and laced just below every rib. The only thing he can feel is a burning in his throat, and he forces his half-numb body to roll over onto his stomach to force out whatever is lodged there. He coughs violently into the hardwood floor below him, and what comes up is sticky clumps of something red-brown.

“Woah, hey, you’re okay,” it takes Ren a half-moment to register Martyn’s hand on his back, but no time at all to recognize his voice. “You’re fine, you’re okay.”

Ren keeps coughing until he feels he can breathe again, Martyn smoothing short lines and circles down his shoulder and through his hair. Ren’s not wearing a shirt, if the immediacy of Martyn’s palm against the skin of his back is anything to go by, but he doesn’t raise his head to check.

“I’m—?” Ren says, unsure what he’s asking, because he’s having a bit of trouble thinking. His head feels full of cotton, asleep as every one of his limbs.

“You’re okay,” Martyn assures, “Can you sit up for me? I want to check you over.”

Ren does as he’s told, but the movements are awkward. When he pries himself off the ground, he finds himself to be in Martyn’s living room, though Martyn has moved the rug to make for some kind of magic circle. The two of them are sitting in the middle, candles and spellbooks about nearby. The most worrying thing Ren sees is a bloody pile of fur—normally, Ren would assume any dead animals to be his own doing, but rabbits and squirrels like the ones he sees are too small to be of interest to the wolf, and the wounds are too clean to be his claws or teeth.

If Ren had to guess, Ren would say Martyn stabbed an alarming number of small animals right beside Ren’s head while he slept off his transformation, though he has no idea why Martyn would do anything like that.

Martyn’s hand smoothes over Ren’s chest, palm flat over his heart, distracting Ren entirely from his thoughts. Ren looks down—no, he isn’t wearing anything, though it’s not like it’s the first time Martyn’s seen him like this, what with the amount of full moons he’s weathered and returned to himself from in Martyn’s company. It’s the first time Martyn’s been even remotely touchy with him, though, which Ren finds absolutely baffling.

“How do you feel?” Martyn asks. He applies some pressure to Ren’s chest, though Ren has no idea what he’s trying to do.

“I feel…” Ren has to think for a moment, but his thoughts feel difficult to wrangle, “Strange.”

“Strange?” Martyn asks. Ren lifts one of his hands, stretching and uncurling his fingers. The pins and needles feeling begins to clear, leaving his body feeling clumsy and sore.

“I dunno,” Ren says. His tongue is no exception to the strange state of Ren’s muscles, but if Martyn notices the slur in his words, he doesn’t say.

“Okay,” Martyn says, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I…” Ren trails off. He isn’t sure about that, either. Was it the full moon last night? It must be, if he’s naked on Martyn’s floor, but he doesn’t remember anything else.

“It’s okay,” Martyn says, but he doesn’t sound okay. “Do you remember who you are?”

“Ren,” Ren says, because he does know that, and he’s not sure why Martyn would think he doesn’t.

“Good. Do you…” Martyn moves his hand from Ren’s chest to his hair, twisting one of the loose strands hanging down Ren’s chest between two fingers and a thumb. “You know me, right?”

“Yeah,” Ren says, “Martyn.”

“Good,” Martyn says, “I’d be really offended if you forgot me.”

Ren laughs under his breath, but doesn’t comment on it. The harder he thinks back to his last memory, the more fuzzy he feels. They haven’t bothered with trying to sedate the wolf in months—did something change? Did he do something different? Why can’t Ren recall anything from last night?

“Did we use a new sedative?” Ren asks. He doesn’t know what else would leave him feeling this out of it, though he can’t remember taking anything.

Martyn’s hand freezes in his hair.

“You don’t remember?” Martyn asks. Ren shakes his head—Martyn releases his hair to free it for the movement, dropping his hand down to rest on Ren’s leg. Ren’s eye follows it down, where he finds he appears to be wrapped in a bedsheet, spare fabric bunching around his waist.

“No,” Ren says, “I don’t— my head feels weird.”

“It’ll pass,” Martyn promises him, reaching up to place both hands on either temple. “Close your eyes. This’ll help.”

Ren does as he’s told. There’s a flash against his eyelids, and when Martyn pulls his hands away, Ren finds he can think a little clearer.

“What else?” Martyn asks, “Are you in pain?”

“I’m sore. Especially,” Ren says, reaching up to touch his neck. Before he can reach it, Martyn snatches his hand, threading their fingers together.

“Don’t touch your neck,” Martyn says. It’s the first time he’s gotten curt with Ren since he woke, Ren realizes, and the thought makes him laugh.

“Whatever you say, Doctor,” Ren says, “What happened last night?”

“You really don’t remember anything?” Martyn asks. Ren shrugs.

“No. Maybe? I'm completely at a loss, dude. If you say something about it I might remember?”

“Right,” Martyn whispers. "it was..."

Martyn trails off, something uncharacteristically vulnerable in his face. He looks Ren up and down once, releasing Ren’s hand to smooth his hand over Ren’s chest. He presses on a few points—Ren’s stomach, Ren’s shoulder, Ren’s heart—watching Ren’s face for a reaction. When he gets nothing more than a twitch and some laughter, he launches himself forward, wrapping himself around Ren’s torso.

“Martyn?” Ren asks. He returns the hug on instinct, letting Martyn settle against him. Martyn’s really warm, Ren observes idly. If Martyn’s face weren’t already tucked against Ren’s chest, Ren would be burying his in Martyn’s neck, chasing away the chill he’s only just noticing.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Martyn says. His voice is very quiet, but more surprising than that, it cracks. Ren doesn’t know what to do with that, but when he feels water on his shoulder, he doesn’t hesitate to squeeze Martyn closer to himself.

“I’m okay,” Ren says, unsure what else to tell him. He smooths a hand through Martyn’s hair, though it’s greasy, and his fingers catch on quite a few knots. “We’re okay. You’re okay.”

Martyn’s breath hitches, and Ren moves his hand to Martyn’s back. He scratches his nails gently over the fabric, hushing Martyn to soothe him. He doesn't even know how to begin to guess the cause of Martyn's behavior, and even clearing half the cotton from his head hasn't helped him to process Martyn's tears on his skin.

“It’s okay,” Ren whispers, leaning the side of his head against Martyn’s temple, “Let it out. I’ll be right here. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

The sound which tears out of Martyn’s throat is unlike anything Ren has ever heard from him before, ragged and wretched and wet. Ren’s heart shatters for him, though he doesn’t know why.

“I’m sorry,” Martyn says, voice shaking. He curls his hands tightly into Ren’s hair, and it hurts, but Ren lets him, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ren doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. A bead of water rolls down Ren’s chest. “Why are you sorry?”

Martyn can’t answer—as soon as he opens his mouth, his breath catches, and his entire body shakes with a violent sob. Ren holds him a bit tighter.

“Don’t tell me. Don’t worry about it,” Ren quickly corrects, “I’m here. We can talk later. I’m not going anywhere.”

Martyn sobs again, choking on his own tears. Ren’s chest aches for him, but he falls silent—it seems even simple assurances can tip Martyn over the edge.

Ren holds him for what feels like hours, lightly scratching Martyn’s back as he slowly loses feeling in his knees. Martyn collects himself in pieces, reigning in his tears in staggered, shaking gasps. When his breathing returns almost to normal, he pulls back, wiping his face with his arm.

“I’ll— Let me clean my face,” Martyn says, jumping back from Ren as though he’s been shocked. “There’s clothes for you on the ground. Sorry. Probably should’ve let you get dressed before I— that was stupid of me.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ren smiles. Martyn looks almost as though he’s been struck, but he runs off before Ren can reply.

Ren collects his clothes off the floor quietly. His legs wobble when he tries to stand, and he gets dressed sitting on Martyn’s couch. Trying to tie the knots fastening his shirt proves to be a more difficult challenge—his fingers struggle with the fine movements enough he’s still not tied it by the time Martyn returns, face puffy but dry.

“Can you help me?” Ren asks. Martyn’s brow furrows.

“Can’t tie a knot?” Martyn asks, closing the distance to kneel at Ren’s feet. Ren shrugs.

“My fingers aren’t working right.”

“Right,” Martyn says. He ties the knot on Ren’s behalf, then captures both of Ren’s hands, clasping them between his own. A soft light slips out between his fingers, and Ren’s numb, clumsy fingers feel a bit more alive.

“Thank you,” Ren says, but when he smiles at Martyn, Martyn looks away.

“Least I could do,” Martyn says. “Is anywhere else bothering you?”

“My legs,” Ren says, “I was having trouble standing.”

“I’ve got you,” Martyn says. He kneels, setting a glowing hand on either of Ren's leg and moving gradually down, gentle light and fleeting touch contrasted against an expression of stony concentration. Ren's leg returns to life under his palm, and once he reaches the end of Ren's limbs, he moves to Ren’s arm without even being asked. Martyn cups his hands around Ren’s shoulder and trails his arm all the way down to his hand, healing one arm at a time. Finished with Ren's limbs, he traces soft light over Ren's torso, his shoulders, his sides, his face—anywhere he can think of, letting warmth sink back into each and every one of Ren's muscles, all without Ren needing to ask, or even mention it at all.

It's appreciated, of course, but the overwhelming completeness and care of it is a bit much, at least coming from a man whose normal concept of affection tends to be annoying Ren until he gets bored.

“Uh. Thank you?” Ren says. Martyn still isn’t looking at him. He stays where he is, kneeling at Ren's feet, his eyes locked on Ren’s hands clasped in his lap.

“Anytime,” Martyn says. He reaches out, putting one hand over Ren’s and meeting Ren’s eyes with an intense sort of devotion Ren has never seen in him before. “I mean that. No matter what, okay? I’m going to keep you safe. I promise.”

“Okay,” Ren says, unsure what to make of the certainty burning in Martyn’s expression. Is this really the same man who had rolled his eyes at Ren wanting to come over to spend the full moon together just a few hours ago?

“Okay?” Martyn snickers, not impressed with Ren's lack of real response. Ren flushes.

“I don’t know. You’re being weird,” Ren says, “Good weird. But still weird. What happened last night?”

Martyn's face falls. Ren regrets asking.

“You don’t have to tell—”

“You died.”

“…What?” Ren asks.

“You died. I— We got caught. Your neighbors found you. They cornered you after you changed back. I couldn't do anything about it, I'd— They'd have known I was a witch if I said anything to defend you, so I—” Martyn cuts himself off, deciding just to get to the point: “They had you beheaded. It was… it’s better if you don’t remember, if I'm honest.”

Ren reaches up to touch his neck. This time, Martyn doesn’t stop him. Ren's fingers brush over rough stitching and a rougher scar, and his stomach turns. It doesn't hurt, not really, but he can recognize the thick stitching for what it is.

Suddenly, Ren is very grateful Martyn stopped him from touching his neck earlier. He drops his hand, resolving to avoid making this mistake again.

When he looks at Martyn again, he suddenly understands the guilty, sad look Martyn's been giving him all morning.

“I’ve been trying to bring you back for a week.”

“I’ve been dead for a week?” Ren’s voice comes out almost as a squeak.

Even with the gravity of the situation, Martyn still laughs at him.

“Yeah. So tell me if you feel off—stiff muscles, brain fog, anything else. I was preserving you with magic the best I could, but I don’t know if I completely stopped brain tissue death or muscle atrophy.”

How Martyn manages some semblance of doctoral composure even now, Ren can’t begin to guess. Decades of hiding his identity by passing himself off as a doctor seem to have done wonders for Martyn's nerves.

“Oh,” Ren says. He doesn’t know what else to say, honestly, though Martyn lifts his other hand to hold both of Ren’s. He’s still kneeling at Ren's feet, and he squeezes Ren’s hands in his own.

“It’s okay. I was thorough. You’ll be just fine. I'm the best at what I do, so you've got nothing to worry about,” Martyn says, “And if you aren’t, I’ll fix it. I promise you. Anything that happens, I’ll fix it. You’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Ren says. He doesn’t know what else to say. Martyn seems to take that as disapproval, though it doesn't deter him.

“Are you upset with me?” Martyn asks, “I won’t apologize for bringing you back.”

“I’m not upset with you,” Ren says, “I don’t— I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to. You have plenty of time to sort through it,” Martyn says, “You’re safe. No one even knows I have your body. I’m going to buy us passage far, far away from here, and no one will ever hurt you again.”

Ren nods—Martyn squeezes his hands one more time, then stands.

“Let me make us something to eat and clean up my mess,” Martyn says, shooting a glance toward his pile of books and animal bodies. Ren makes a face.

“You’re going to clean?” Ren asks, “Not just kick it under the couch?”

“I’m definitely kicking half of this under the couch,” Martyn says.

“Don't you dare kick any of the dead animals under the couch.”

“I won't! Jeez, have a little faith in me,” Martyn protests, “I just don’t want to look at the necromancy stuff anymore.”

“I’ll help clean, then,” Ren says, but when he tries to stand, Martyn pushes him back down to the couch.

“You’re going to relax,” Martyn says, “You were dead not even an hour ago. Let your body adjust to having blood flow again.”

“And watch you make a worse mess of your house?” Ren asks.

“You can clean it again later if you hate it so bad,” Martyn says, “But for now, let me take care of you.”

#lew writes #witch au #this needs a real tag but whatever #traffic smp

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motownfiction · 2 years

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2, 11, 20

2. post a line from your WIP with no context.

In the months after Sam’s funeral, Will picks up boxing.

11. which character do you have the most in common with?

i mean ... come on. it's always going to be lucy. in this miniseries, she's feeling a lot of pressure to appear like she has it together. and she does! she does have it together! but she wants permission to also be vulnerable, which no one will give to her. i feel like that a lot of the time, too.

20. post a brief excerpt.

It’s been twenty years since Will’s last fight. He remembers it well. He was in the tenth grade, and some guys in his New Testament class were making fun of Lucy for using big words and showing off. The words in question were immediacy and supersede, two words a couple of tenth graders rich enough to afford a private education probably should have known. He found them at the end of the school day and beat the hell out of them in the parking lot, courtesy of his sister Sarah’s lessons on how to render your opponent useless. It wasn’t his first fight by a long shot, but he had no way of knowing it would be his last. He and Lucy would start dating at the end of the week, at the Welcome, Spring! dance, and he ran out of time for punches and kicks. Before the end of eleventh grade, he had a baby daughter, and fighting didn’t seem like a good example to set for her. It didn’t take it long before the scrapes were a distant memory.

And then, Sam died. And Will didn’t know what to do with himself.

He found an ad for a boxing class in the subway on his way to the office. It was February, not quite two months after the accident, and at the thought, his blood began to boil and pump. He thought about the adrenaline rush he got from beating the hell out of those assholes in the parking lot back in ‘83. He couldn’t believe he let himself forget it. His hands turned into taut fists on the ride into work, and he knew he had to make a call.

As it turns out, Will is a pretty good boxer. He’s not going to be putting Apollo Creed to shame any time soon, but he’s pretty good for a thirty-six-year-old stringbean who never had any lessons before the winter. By the time spring rolls around, he’s got such a good handle on it that they ask him to teach a basic class for kids. He accepts right away. After all, there’s nothing he loves better than helping kids. He spends Saturday mornings as a sensei.

It’s what brings him here, now, on a Saturday afternoon in July. All the students are gone. The whole floor is Will’s alone. He turns on the radio and nods along when he hears “Hair of the Dog” right away. Within seconds, he hits the bag, and he disappears into a frenzy of smacking sounds and sweat.

#asks #ponyboyatreides #thank you #this is MOST of the first vignette but whatever

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dishtothedeath · 11 months

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head start | bonbon 3.1 | re: jun'ya | attn: party hat discourse

There’s only so many things that one can say when confronted with the glassy eyed stare of a beheaded friend. Just this morning, a few feet apart from one another, Bonbon and Emil woke up, went through their respective morning rituals, got dressed, and made way to the rest of their day— the same person he’d given the miniature plushie of themselves a day or so ago, the same person who told Bonbon a secret too unfortunate to repeat after the end of the first trial, meek but strong, cherry sweet Emil.

Hard to think of a worse way to go out than bone to the blade, blade off the head. Hard to think of anything Emil had done to deserve being the target of such a long winded plot. Hard to think of returning to their room while Bonbon’s here and they are not.

Hardest of all to see how the killer had set it up. No question about it, cake, party hat, the, the surprise message, the leading trail like a marvelous museum of horrors on display, might as well have slapped a card on the front that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY! and point over at Bonbon. It had evolved from a cruelty abject to a cruelty of which someone wanted him to receive the blame, and from the first sight of that lobbed off head, Bonbon’s stomach dropped so far he thought he’d been skewered on the same logic thread.

Only one thing anybody can do. Follow the clues, get the conclusion, bring justice to Emil, another two dead. This is the way of things, and whether or not the last case shook the moorings of his convictions, this was different. A full blown murder plot with no mistakes, one that churns his gut. Sympathy dries up. The game only has a few rules by which it is played. House always wins, and today's just another terrible murder-y game,

Jun’ya starts, thank God for him, and Bonbon jumps in where the rhythm feels appropriate.

“This was a plain evil, no way about it,” he says. “Jun'ya's right. To, go in while someone’s strugglin’, you’d have’ta have some kinda experience with it. Strong enough’ta keep ‘em pinned down while they. Hack at it, Lord above. Same kinda stuff was on th'lower half of the cut too, while we're on that."

He has to take a moment to compose himself. Collect his breath, pick at his cuticles.

“The head was taken over t'the bakery, but there wasn’t anythin’ too bloody ‘bout the cake itself even though, the, that. So it makes me think we got somebody who really knows how’ta handle stuff like blood movin', which’s. Well, it’s scary, t’say the least. Time of death was 3:45 PM, a ‘lil less than an hour 'fore the time of findin’.”

He wants to keep it civil, but, the mounting pressure, knowing quite a handful of people here wouldn’t be sad to see this clown gone, knowing what the immediacy of the scene shows? How could he not address it, stand up for himself?

“Look, jus', I'm sorry, but. I know it, we all know it, the cake an’ party hat were sick, an’ it makes you think’a clown, sure, but hear me good an’ clear now— I don’t got any party hat like that. All my props fer occasions are colored in my purples an’ yellows, not in that kinda red. That whole store’s got plenty’a stuff they coulda pulled from off the shelf. What I’m sayin’ is, it’s not mine, an’. Well, if Emil was still with us, they could tell ya, but, plenty’a folks’ve been in my room. They can vouch fer that.”

There, a little bit of his piece for people to chew. Distrust is hot in his lungs, but he keeps controlled, not at the start of all this, he’s already been made enough of an embarrassment these last few days.

#submission #ch3 #trial #bonbon

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thee-morrigan · 2 years

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you all over me

fandom: redactedverse - redacted asmr ship: Milo/Sweetheart rating/warnings: M (18+) -it's a little spicy (and also very soft, because, y'know, me.) Also should maybe note that it's set post-Inversion. wc: ~1.1k

[read on AO3] (also: pspspsps @ejunkiet specifically for enabling this idea 😘)

- The world began and ended with their lips.

With each press of them — gentle and fierce, lingering and fleeting — against his own lips, his skin, down his body — an entire universe died and dawned anew, its life and death contained in each little gasping breath that fluttered across them in the endless half-moments when they were not pressed against some part of him.

The world began, too, with their hands: was made up entirely of their eyes. Hands that grasped at him, needy and urgent but always still somehow so, so gentle even as those fingers gripped bruising-tight at his shoulders, or tugged at his hair, or whose nails scratched down his back. Hands that always loved him, that grounded him, tethered him within the singular world of a moment. Eyes that did the same — fixed on his even when they’d gone unfocused, pupils wide and lids heavy, hazy with pleasure, with a delicious ember of world-ending need that marked him more indelibly than their hands ever could.

And that is Milo’s whole world. At least for those moments where they could both slow down enough to forget the whole godforsaken ruin of everything else. Everything that wasn’t in their world. That wasn’t them. And him. And this. Letting the tangling ivy of it curl over them, letting it take root in his mind and crowd out everything else.

And maybe it wasn’t sustainable. Maybe it wasn’t healthy — not in the long term — hell, maybe not in any term — to bury himself in them like this. Or, it occurred to him, to let them bury themself in him, either.

Because he knew without asking that it wasn’t just him; he knew he wasn’t the only one seeking oblivion, however temporary, in the immediacy of the other. Didn’t have to seek confirmation when he could see it, hear it, feel it so plainly in how they reached for him, responded to his lips-hands-eyes, too. Could feel the relief alongside the mounting need each time he touched them. Unraveling them with each sweet press of his tongue against them, a slow and deliberate unspooling of senses and thoughts, an unwinding of everything that wasn’t this. Drowning out everything that wasn’t this sublime build of pleasure, the smolder of desire pooling low in his belly, between his legs, simmering at the surface of every point of contact. Drowning out every thought or sensation that existed outside of the taste of them on his lips, or the sound of their needy plea for more, the pressure of their heels against his shoulder blades when they arched against him, hips bowing off the bed.

Drowning out everything but them. And him. And this.

Drowning out all that lingering fear and frustration, the sour taste of it lingering on the back of his tongue, fizzing and burning in his veins like some mocking echo of the sparkling flamesong that shimmered like static across his skin when he shifted, a scintillating wildfire sparking from his core and shot through his threads like igniting dynamite.

Or at least it had. But that was before. And this was now.

Now , when he still couldn’t shift, because he’d nearly frizzled all those combustible threads up in one untamed conflagration, the burst of magic that felled the Ward, using his own body as the conduit. Not that he regretted it. If the healers were wrong and he could somehow never regain that capacity, he still wasn’t sure he’d regret the decision that saved his chosen family. Couldn’t regret it as long as he was still around to make that decision, anyway. That was his family in there, after all. Or at least most of it.

The rest of his family had been outside the Ward, right there beside him, watching as he made the damned fool decision to take in the full force of that magic like some kind of human sponge.

Because it was their family in there, too. Because they’d made a home of him even as he’d been busy finding his own in them. His family. His partner. His mate.

Even if the closest he’d come to regretting that stupid

(necessary)

fucking choice had been when he’d made the equally stupid

(equally necessary)

decision to look back at them, at the exact moment it would have been too late to back out, anyway, to look into the face of the rest of his family, his mate, and see the sheer dread wash over their face as the force of all that magic hit him when neither of them could know that he would survive it. He knew that raw blanching fear had to have been mirrored on his own face then, too.

Just as he knew without either of them having to say it that the manic drive of that fear and its aftershocks were the compulsions fueling their panic attacks and his restless, aimless anger. Each of them compelled, in their own way, by an instinct to protect: one through cloaking, and the other through action.

Even if, ironically, those instincts perhaps prompted another surge of that fear in the other, sparking the thought, however blessedly fleeting, that the other might have disappeared for good.

So, yeah, it probably wasn’t sustainable or healthy or whatever. And, sure, sooner or later they were going to have to slow down and talk, openly and honestly, about what the hell they were supposed to do now and how they were going to help each other move forward into whatever happens now. Or at least the big-picture Now.

Because right now, the now that existed in each little motion of a moment — just long enough to catch a breath between open-mouthed kisses

(or to see the flash of wait-no-what-if-this-doesn’t-work panic on your lover’s face)

— was the only now he cared about. Right now was the only now that mattered. And right now, he could see with his eyes the indelible proof that he was still in it, he was still right now and so were they, bodies and skin marked with the proof that they existed in now and not just then . Every bruise and indentation from teeth or grasping fingers offered a lingering tattoo reminder. I am here; you are with me.

The sharp graze of his canines along their neck—

I am here; you are with me.

The answering tug of their fingers in his hair—

I am here; you are with me.

The warmth of their body curled against his in the darkest morning hours, sleep-wrinkled and smelling of dreams and present, the sharp contrast to the cold, empty fear that yanked him from his own sleep—

I am here; you are with me.

Maybe it couldn’t last. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough forever. But it was enough for right now.

#i really took that comment ab sweetheart liking it rough and said make it Sad #and good for me tbh #i am once again abusing parentheticals/italics/em-dashes #katie writes things #redacted asmr #redacted milo #redacted sweetheart

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litwitlady · 3 years

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The 3x08 fic I was writing in case 3x08 didn’t end with Malex goodness. It’s unedited and very raw, so be gentle.

*************************

Michael sits next to Alex on his lowered tailgate and hands him a beer. It had been a long, stressful day, but they had managed to help Maria pull herself free from Jones and were well on their way to saving Max as well. “To a damn good day.”

They clink their bottles together and drink in silence as the sun sets behind the junkyard. There’s no space between them; Michael hadn’t cared to leave any. He’s no longer interested in hiding what he wants from the person he most wants. That being said, he still hasn’t figured out exactly what to say to Alex about the future he hopes for both of them, still too used to Alex running at the mention of any kind of permanence.

“We make a pretty good team,” Alex says, staring down at his boots.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Michael knocks their shoulders together, pulling a smile from Alex.

“I’m not. Not really.” He takes a long drink, swipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Michael watches him pick at the label on the bottle and knows he’s locked in a battle with himself. Always at war, never able to find peace.

“Figured out what you’re going to do about the whole Deep Sky thing?” They need to have this conversation. Michael doubts it will go well, but they’d put it off all day in order to get shit done. And now the shit is done.

Alex shakes his head. “I know what you want me to do. It’s just not so cut and dry for me.”

“Why not?

“Because this is how I’m useful. You all have this alien connection, these alien powers. But I don’t. I’ve got resources and that’s it.” He shrugs, his chin wobbling ever so slightly as he looks off into the desert and away from Michael.

“Last I checked, Liz didn’t have any alien powers, and she’s been plenty useful.”

Alex snorts, keeping his head turned away. “You and I and the whole world know that Liz’s brain is her superpower. Hell, she gives you a run for your money in that department.” He drinks from his beer again, sets it aside. “I know I sound pathetic, but I need to be more than just a cheerleader on the sidelines, Guerin. And Deep Sky is how I can do that.”

They fall silent again, less comfortable this time, tension building steadily until Michael’s afraid Alex will bolt. He opens his mouth to say something, to say anything to keep him from running, but Alex beats him to it.

“And I know this is a demand I’m putting on myself. I get that no one requires anything more from me than just showing up and being there or whatever.” He waves his hands around vaguely, his voice strained and cracked. “You’ll love my useless ass anyway, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to love myself. You know?”

“Yeah.” And the thing is, Michael does know. He’s always struggled with self-worth and feeling like he has to earn his place. He understands that Alex has too, just maybe in a quieter way, held deep inside unlike Michael’s volatile messiness. “I can’t fix that for you.”

“I know. And I’m working on it. I promise. It’s just not going to change overnight.” He turns back to Michael, offers him a small smile now that he’s controlled his emotions somewhat.

“Well, from one self-loathing fuck to another, me too.” He returns Alex’s smile and they both grab their beers again, taking a much-needed break from too many words spoken and shared and unable to be taken back. But regardless of the tension still sitting heavy between them, Michael feels giddy, lightheaded, full of hope.

“It’s just, you know, even Ramos didn’t choose me because of any actual skill. He chose me because an alien boy batted his eyelashes at me once and I handed over my entire life to him without question. Fall in love with an alien and get full access to Deep Sky’s darkest secrets.” He laughs, derisive and sharp. “This is too much self-pity. Sorry.”

“No need for sorry. And I’m pretty sure I never batted my eyes.” Michael considers what he’s said and struggles to find better words to say what he wants to say. And maybe that’s half the reason they have so much trouble talking, trying to find the perfect words rather than just saying what they feel no matter how bullshit it sounds. “But I do think that maybe that is your superpower, no matter how cheesy it sounds.”

Alex scoffs and kicks his foot in the dirt. “My hard-on for alien ass is my superpower?”

“No, love is. I know that sounds like a line out of a sappy 90s romcom.”

“It really does.”

“But, it’s true. You love so freely, so openly, so completely that you were able to entirely change my mind about humanity. And that is power, Alex, maybe the greatest power.” Alex looks at him, brows knitted together like he doesn’t believe a single word coming out of Michael’s mouth, lips already shaped into an argument. “And your capacity for love is made all the more amazing knowing it’s something no one ever really taught you how to do. So I’ve got to give Uncle Ed some credit; he chose you for the right reasons.”

Alex’s face crumples, his eyes shine with unshed tears, and he stares down at his hands for several beats before sliding off the tailgate and taking several steps forward. Michael’s heart races, his stomach plummets because he’s said too much, gone too far, struck a nerve best left alone. He swallows hard and girds himself for Alex’s inevitable next move now that things have gotten too raw for comfort.

But Alex doesn’t run. He stays put, still and quiet, staring down at his boots and then into the distance toward the mountains. Putting his hands on his hips, he takes several loud, steadying breaths and turns back to Michael. His cheeks are tear-streaked and there’s enough emotion left on his face to take Michael’s breath away. He hasn’t run, he hasn’t hidden himself away. So Michael reaches out his hand and tugs him back onto the tailgate.

“Since I’m on a bit of a roll,” Michael starts, pausing while Alex laughs and swipes at the tears wetting his cheeks, “you were helpful today beyond merely being ‘resource guy’. You have this knack for staying cool under pressure even when I’m spiraling into an emotional mess which made you able to see things I couldn’t. And now we have an entire alien language we need to decode and last I heard, you were a pretty good codebreaker. And if Eduardo is as good a man as you think he might be, I don’t see how it should matter if you’re in Deep Sky or not. He should help you on principle.”

Alex clears his throat and laughs again, the sound music to Michael’s ears. “When did you get so good at this?”

“I’ve been attending the Kyle Valenti School for Wayward Boys. That asshole’s really quite effective and it pisses me off to admit that.”

“I hate that about him.” They grin at each other, thankful they can joke over Valenti now that he’s safe and sound and fully under Liz’s protection. “Thank you, Michael. For everything, for today. We really do make a great team.”

“We do. And that’s what we’re going to continue to be, yeah?” He looks at Alex, catching his eye and holding on, trying to communicate beyond words now.

“Yeah.” Alex holds his gaze, and Michael knows that they’re on the same page. Finally. “You can kiss me now.”

It’s Michael’s turn to scoff. “Who says I want to kiss you?”

Alex just raises a single eyebrow and fists Michael’s jacket collar tight, yanking him forward. Michael takes the direction as always, letting Alex put him right where he wants him. The kiss is soft and lingering, a simple reconnection more than their usual carnal immediacy. But they have time now, so much time.

Michael pulls back. “Kyle Valenti only wishes he were this good.”

“Shut up, Guerin.” Alex kisses him again, smiling against Michael’s lips.

#malex #malex fic #unedited and presented as is #maybe my last reunion fic ever #not even putting this on ao3

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formulatrash · 3 years

Note

hi! It’s totally fair if you don’t want to answer this question for whatever reason but, do you think there are any drivers in F1 that are part of the LGBTQ+ community? I don’t want to speculate on anyone’s sexuality, but it is a bit disheartening at times to see no representation whatsoever in the sport that I love so dearly... at the same time, it’s nobody’s duty to become a symbol for the community just because they’re a part of it, so I’d understand if they wanted to keep that low key, especially considering the amount of fans that would hate them for that only. It just makes me sad sometimes, not gonna lie.

I'm not gonna speculate publicly in any specific way, obviously. But statistically, it is impossible that there have never been LGBTQ+ F1 drivers - and actually there were two out ones, in Mike Beuttler (who sadly died of AIDS) and Lella Lombardi.

In other series, there are openly out drivers - in fact W Series seem to be basically incapable of stopping the drivers getting together, which is awesome and they should do it. And also kinda gives a lie to the idea rivals wouldn't.

There is a split between women's and men's sports in that basically sporting ladies seem to be like "wow, fit women time to openly drool over each other" and men being more pressured to keep it strictly no homo. It's nice that F1 drivers lately have been definitely more comfortable with being affectionate to each other and with deviating from very restrictive ideas of masculinity, although obviously that does not in any way imply their sexualities or gender status.

I think there are many reasons to be optimistic that an F1 driver could come out. Motorsport's landscape has changed - and the world, too - but of course, as you say, being the first is a sucky job and not, heh, one of the good kind.

Would they face some challenges? For sure. Some locations would be difficult - the UK, for instance, if a driver came out as trans. God, just imagining the thinkpieces from TERFs has made me nearly pass out.

I am sure there are LGBTQ+ people in the paddock beyond, whether that's in the media cohort (I mean, lmao, I am typing this why do I always exclude myself lol) or in the garages. And of course, the fans. As much as F1 talks about (even pre-pandemic) existing in its own bubble, of course it does not and while demographics are often skewed towards wealth and white western europeans, that doesn't affect the distribution of LGBTQ+ people.

Will it be godawful for the person who takes the first step? Yeah. You can't get away from the fact casual homophobia is pretty rife in F1, I'm regularly appalled by the sort of shitty jokes members of the media - who you'd think might be a bit less stuck in the jurassic period - will default to. Lots of people in F1 think they're a bit hardcore, that that's part of the image of the sport and it comes with both a strict conservatism and edgelord tendencies.

I think, with the right support, though, they'd be ok. Drivers generally have much better support systems now than ever before and god knows, it's cus they need 'em. From social media to the immediacy of reaction, everything from onboards to team radio to their Insta likes is under scrutiny and of course, that's gonna feel pretty oppressive in some ways.

(I know I hate it, as someone who gets a low-level version of it on Twitter)

But would their team or sponsors or the sport at large lose faith? No. And there would be, in the torrent of horrible stuff that's inevitable with any of these things, such support and inspiration.

It's a bit of a burden, being a figurehead and it's very easy to see why, for example, Lewis shrugged it off for a lot of his career because fuck knows, everyone's got enough to be getting on with with just the basic challenges of the career let alone having to be a representative. And it's why, with aspects you're not able to hide, people struggle - whether that's race, gender or whatever.

Living in the closet isn't a very satisfying option, though; which is the most convincing argument for how there might not have been any LGBTQ+ drivers other than the ones we know about. But it's more likely they grinned and bore it, of course. History's littered with people who never got to truly live as themselves.

It's very good having someone like Matt Bishop in a prominent role in F1. Because he can speak beyond the theoretical; that a team can welcome a gay head of communications and the paddock will have to and can work with them. That he's in a relative position of power is great because it means people can't chat shit and that means for someone without that relative power, they're protected by extension.

Who knows when more LGBTQ+ people will come along to the sport - but I think there's reason to be hopeful that they can be there.

#f1 asks

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mikrokosmos · 3 years

Video

youtube

Beethoven - Grosse Fugue, op. 133 (1827)

One of Beethoven’s most iconic traits was his love for stark contrasts, and juxtaposing extremes of emotion and musical writing against each other. While writing his 13th string quartet (op.130), he wanted to follow the classical tradition of ending it with a fugal finale, the likes of which you can hear in several of Haydn and Mozart’s string quartets (and Mozart’s quintets). He claimed to have difficulty writing fugues and was often challenged with incorporating fugal elements into a growing and forward thinking expressivity. The result for the op. 130 quartet was a gargantuan and gnarled fugue full of dissonance that took up 1/3rd of the total run time, right after a short and heavenly cavatina (which provides the extreme contrast I mentioned earlier). While the quartet was successful at the premiere, the fugue left the audience confused. A lot of musicians and critics hated it. At best it was called “incomprehensible, like Chinese” and “a confusion of Babel” and “inaccessible”. At worst, composer Louis Spohr called it “an indecipherable, uncorrected horror” (I’ll interject that Spohr is an ‘ok’ composer who lacked imagination but that’s just my opinion). Of course Beethoven, who at this point in his life was self-confident to “know” the mastery of his own music, was angry at the cold reception. He was especially infuriated that audiences wanted an encore of some middle movements and not this fugue. And the publisher begged him to write a new finale to the quartet. He caved to peer pressure and wrote a new finale to the quartet, a more modest rondo which also ended up being the last piece of music he wrote before his death. Since then the fugue has been published as a stand alone piece, though sometimes it is played in the original context as the ending of op. 130. And despite how ‘baffling’ it was and continues to be, we now consider it one of his greatest masterpieces for its counterpoint, expressivity, and how well Beethoven is able to manipulate the main theme. The fugue can be divided into roughly five main sections. It opens with an overture where the first theme is played in unison on all strings. It is a bold yet awkward melody that is then repeated with a new rhythm, and then followed up with a new lyrical subject overhead. The first fugue is rough and violent, no matter what recording I listen to it sounds like the players are scratching away and cutting their fingers, which is probably what gives off the first impression of being “incomprehensible” and harsh. While difficult to follow along at first listen, it is a dense double fugue based on the opening theme, and the inclusion of syncopation and stretti creates a dizzying effect. After that fugue ends, we transition to the third section, where now a new fugue begins in a much more peaceful setting. It sounds like a charming Mozartian adagio, where most of the dissonance in the theme before has been trimmed off to a smoother sounding double-fugue subject. It acts as the ‘andante’ of a multi-movement work, but its softness doesn’t take away from the complexity, as subject and countersubject begin playing in the middle of a canon based on the main theme. A short interlude takes us to the fourth section which is like a scherzo, and is just as charming and fun as the court dance minuet that the scherzo replaced. The charm stands out more when the theme is at its most lighthearted, but again we are confronted by the complexity of using more counterpoint devices, such as playing the theme in retrograde (backwards), and making it harder to follow along by displacing the rhythm as he did back in the first fugue. The coda acts as a kind of recap by bringing back moments and ideas from earlier, but then letting them disappear back into the aether, and then wrapping it all up in a satisfying bow with a simple final statement. Talking about the fugue doesn’t do it justice, and if anything listing the devices used makes it sound like this is a boring academic piece, even though it is anything but. And thankfully its genius was fully recognized in the 20th century, where enough retrospect has given the world time to digest and analyze it. Stravinsky famously said that it is “an absolutely contemporary piece of music that will be contemporary forever”. It’s easy to hear what he means because the fugue has this sense of immediacy to it, and what people in the 19th century called incomprehensible is what people today would call electrifying.

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homebody-nobody · 4 years

Text

you wanna play with fire (stick and poke tattoo)

Jax did you actually write a whole nother fic?? Why yes, dear reader, I did. This is porn, blame @hvitstark and @aarchiess and the rest of the jiara gc for filling up the Sin Bin with inspiration every day. PLEASE interact with this post I work really hard on these fics and seeing them get like ~30 notes and then dying drains my soul. ------------------------ ao3 -------------------------

‘Come home on time or don’t bother coming home at all!’

Her mother’s words echo in her ears as Kiara stomps away from the house in the late-summer heat. Tears well and sting in her eyes and she wipes them away, refusing to let them fall. She doesn’t understand why her parents don’t get it. Her dad grew up in the Cut. Her mom fell in love there, had Kie there, got married there. She belongs there, so much more than on Figure Eight or anywhere else in kooklandia. There’s an honesty to the Cut that evaporates the closer you get to the country clubs and McMansions on the other side of the island. Her heart feels open there, loved and loving. What happened, to make her parents forget all that? Is money really that important, that corrupting and all-consuming, that they would forget what loyalty feels like? What family is?

JJ’s sitting on the porch when she gets to the Chateau, a paperback folded in half in his left hand and a soda dangling from his right. He stands up when he sees her. “Hey,” he says. He’s wearing one of his absurd cutoffs, cargo shorts slung low and no shoes. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hair is a ruffled mess, like he’s had his hands in it, thinking too hard. He looks like some ridiculous parody of a vagabond, every bad boy the after-school specials always warned her about.

Taking a deep breath, she nods to the book in his hand. “I didn’t know you could read,” she says. It’s easier to make fun then show the way her heart opens and bleeds at the sight of him.

He smiles, lopsided and quiet. “Good to see you, too.”

She mounts the stairs to the porch without asking, even though with every step she takes closer to him, she’s less sure of how to act. They haven’t talked since the night John B died, since the last time she was here. They had sex, the night the Phantom went down. It was fast and messy and a little awkward, because she was still Kie and he was still JJ, and fucking your best friend for the first time is never easy, now matter how long you’ve been waiting to do it.

It’s barely been a week, but it feels like longer, and since she got home that next morning, her parents have been tiptoeing around her, waiting for something to break. It was the simplest thing, really, Kie wondering aloud about JJ, about how he was doing and how she might help him pay off his restitution. (Now that Plan A has spiraled down to Plan L and that failed, besides.) It was her mother and her thinly-veiled scoff, the way it tugged at Kie like calloused skin on fresh sheets. It was Kie mentioning dipping into her college fund to help him, and her parents promptly flying off the handle.

And then, the threat of boarding school, of taking her away from everything she knows and everything she loves, shutting her up in the mountains like some hysterical family member in a victorian asylum, sending her to some institution claiming to be a high school but is basically a finishing school prepping spoiled debutantes for husband-hunting at the ivies. She won’t be one of those girls.

JJ greets her with the usual handshake, and when he goes to sit back down, she grabs at his fingers before she loses the courage, because she doesn’t want to think about any of it anymore, not John B or Sarah, not boarding school, not the tenuous future her parents are planning for her and how little she wants it. He stops, frozen, and every one of her senses is trained on the minimal brush of skin, the tension in his back. She wants her hands on him, her nails dragging down his arms, the taste of his sweat and the burn of his gaze. She wants to be lost in him, because touching JJ switches everything else off. He’s like a magnet for her attention, everything blurring until it’s just his mouth and his hands and his --

“Kie,” he says, a warning in his usually jovial voice. His gaze is locked on her hand, her slender fingers tangled in his, gentle things, held between strength and violence. “You said --”

“I know --” she says, pausing for half a second, surprised by her tone and the immediacy of her response. How quickly she wants to forget the lies she told herself about being able to stay away from him, after knowing what his tongue feels like on her clit and the way he fits perfectly inside her, like they were meant to come together. “What I said.” She’s looking at their linked hands as well, but she’s imagining his between her legs, wants to pull him forward and put it there, just to stop feeling so fucking human, because he makes her feel celestial, instead.

“So?” he asks, licking his lips, his breath picking up like he can read her mind, see her the way she wants to be, naked and underneath him.

“So maybe,” she says, her heartbeat rising in her own throat, taking half a step toward him, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes betray him, flicking up to her face and following the motion. She looks up at him, and the second her brown eyes land on his, he’s done resisting, done even considering it. He melts, when she looks at him like that, so grateful for it, after waiting so many years convinced it wouldn’t ever happen. “I changed my mind.”

The air hangs heavy and charged as JJ’s rational side, weak to begin with and driven deep with years of half-thought-out decisions and anticipated-yet-ignored consequences, scrambles to pull him out of her orbit, to get him to let go and stop her from burning up in the periphery of his constant firestorm. But her eyes are on his, and she’s touching him, and she’s asking, and the moon could fall without him noticing, right now.

She pulls, and he follows, and they’re crashing into each other, a kiss that starves before it is even born. Paint flakes and dust fill the air when she slams back against the side of the house, her arms looped around JJ’s neck, one of his tight around her waist, the other braced on the siding, fist clenched, forearm taught. The second he touches her, the world stops spinning, or maybe just they do, because she’s dizzy and soaring under his mouth, chest to chest and sharing breath between teeth and lips and tongues. Victory rises in her chest, pride and anticipation simmering just below the beautiful, vacant hunger that comes from JJ kissing her like this, and it’s that pride that bruises, just a little, when he pulls away.

“You can’t just jump me when you’re upset,” he says, but it’s into her neck, practically a growl as his hand flexes against the small of her back, gathering up her shirt, his fingernails just grazing her skin.

“Can’t I?” she answers, canting her hips up a fraction, pushing against him, demanding his return to ravishing her indecently.

“Fuck, Kie --” he says, and he’s nipping at her neck in bursts, like he knows they should be talking about this, but he can’t help but touch her, overwhelmed with the need to taste her skin and leave her wanting.

“Fine,” she says, sliding her forearm against his shoulder until her hand buries itself in his hair, pulling him back up and kissing him fiercely. “We’ll talk about it,” she sighs, before diving back in for another hard, demanding kiss. And then, “After.”

“Yeah, okay,” JJ relents, pushing off the side of the house and dragging her toward the front door. It’s not a choice but a capitulation, a giving in to the unstoppable force that is Kiara tugging at his soul. Because he’d do anything for her, anything to her that she asks, no matter what he tells himself. He slides his teeth over her bottom lip and pulls away, panting. “After.” They slam through the screen door, stumbling over a broken ankle tether and the trash JJ had been meaning to take out, not even bothering with the farce of trying to make it to the bedroom. Her calves slam into the pullout and she topples backwards, taking her with him.

Kissing JJ is a little like waiting out a hurricane and finally hitting the eye. Thrilling and terrifying, surrounded by power and strength, destruction and damage, but finding peace and respite, and a promise, a hint of the sun. Once he has her underneath him, he slows down, settling his weight between her legs, keeping himself propped on his elbows while he kisses her, solid and hard in his intent. It’s torture, him dancing above her, licking into her mouth only to back off and press kisses across her face, her jaw, and down her neck, sucking damning, claiming marks before scraping his teeth over her ear with the slightest pressure, teasing her, pulling obscene noises from her throat and driving her insane. She pushes her hips up again, and he responds with a deep, heavy roll of his, and she can feel his cock, hot and already half-hard, through the layers of fabric between them.

She wants to feel it, in her hand, her mouth, pressing torturously, deliciously inside her, and he’s still fully clothed and taking way too much damn time. Surging up against him, she flips the two of them over, dangerously close to the edge, and straddles his hips, dragging her hands down his chest. Tossing her hair out of her face and pulling it all to one side, she risks glancing down at him, afraid of the vulnerable drop of her stomach every time she meets his eyes. JJ’s an eclipse in totality, pupils blown wide, shining underneath her, beaming in her shadow. His lips are slightly parted, red and wet, hair disheveled, hands coming down to slide up her thighs, and the image is so hot, so perfect, her chest aches as her cunt throbs for him, a dangerous, terrifying combination. She takes off her shirt.

The sigh he lets out is entirely involuntary, reveling in the warmth and the weight of her, in awe of the smooth plains of exposed skin and the soft curves of her body. She leans down to kiss it out of his mouth, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head, the other sliding around the back of her arm as she holds face. It’s too gentle, too kind and slow, so she sinks her teeth into his lower lip until he groans and tightens her fist in his hair, pulling her with him as she straightens. His hands frame her hips as she grinds down on him, and he ducks his head to lay kisses across her collarbones, his hands sliding up her sides, electric on her bare skin. Letting her head fall back, she takes in the feeling of his lips on her chest, his thumbs tucking under the band of her bra. One stays to brush back and forth over the side of her breast while the other reaches around and pinches apart the clasp in an expert move. Her stomach drops at the thought of JJ doing this with other girls.

Taking her hands from his hair to cup his jaw, she redirects his attention back to her lips as her bra slides down her arms and her nipples pebble in the cool air. She holds on just a little too long, presses into him closed-mouth and soft, and he melts under her touch, his hands framing her ribs, her hair falling around them in a peach-scented curtain. When he initiates moments like this, she runs from them, too scared of what she might feel if she falls in like she’s falling now, heart pounding, her thumbs skating over his cheekbones. He leans up into her touch, one of his arms dropping to her waist and pulling her in closer to him, holding her tight. She pulls away from the kiss, keeping her forehead pressed to his.

“Kie,” he sighs. Her breath hitches at the sound of her name from his mouth, like it almost always does, except he’s never close enough to notice. The silence that follows holds too much for the small space it occupies, and while she has no idea what he’s scared of saying, it almost falls from his lips anyway. Before he can make too much of an idiot out of himself, she pulls her arms back out of the straps of her bra, reaching between them to toss it to the side. As she does, she keeps his eyes on his, the smallest pockets of relief opening as his gaze drops to her tits, and then the heat in her stomach picking up again as he licks his lips. He ducks his head again, taking one of her nipples into his mouth like a sacrament, like she’s holy, closing his eyes and moaning, deep and satisfied at the taste of her skin. It goes straight to her cunt, and she feels wetness gathering there, even more than before.

This, they’ve already done. There’s still fading bruises across her chest from the first night they spent together, when he ate her out til she screamed and then fucked her senseless, and while that seems to be the course of action he’s aiming for here, she has other ideas. She slides her hands back into JJ’s hair -- God, she could spend hours playing with JJ’s hair -- and tightens her grip, her blunt nails scraping gently over his scalp. In return, he teases his teeth over her nipple, and when she arches and gasps at the motion, tries to flip himself back on top.

But Kiara has a goal, and she tightens her thighs around his hips, flattening her hands on his chest and pushing back, shaking her head playfully. He raises his eyebrows and flashes her half a smile, as if to say ‘oh, really?’, but settles his hands on her hips and lets her take charge. Her first order of business is getting him just as naked as she is; he holds up his arms obediently as she tugs his shirt off of him, and this is different now, than when it started. They’re taking their time with each other, grateful to drop the guise of desperation and explore every secret spot and inch of forbidden skin. It should scare the shit out of her, and it sort of does, but it’s also… kinda fun. JJ makes this shy vulnerability so easy to sink into, knowing that any teasing has no real heat behind it, that he’ll be gentle and kind and listen to what she wants and what she likes. Yes, the bar is on the floor, but this boy is her best friend for a reason, this loving, crazy dumbass, that would set himself on fire to keep her warm. And that trust, those years of rapport and familiarity, make moments like these so much more comfortable, easier with a net underneath the thrill of flying high, trading touch for pleasure and knowing that he’ll be there to catch her on the comedown.

She leans down and kisses him, soft at first and then deeper, licking into his mouth and rolling her hips down onto him, stretching her arms above his head and dragging her tits up his bare torso, smiling against his lips at the sound he makes. Ducking her head against his neck, she leaves her own trail of marks and then shifts her weight off of him to the side so she can reach down and pop the fly of his shorts open with one hand. He hisses in a sharp inhale when she reaches her hand between the layers of clothing and palms him over his underwear, giving him a second of satisfying contact before backing off, teasing him with her fingertips. He rolls onto his side, angling himself over her, kissing her hungrily.

“Fucking hell, Kie,” he says, tucking his face into the side of her neck. “You got no fucking right to feel that good.” He’s warm and solid against her chest, hot and hard under her fingers, and something opens in her chest as he kisses her again, slow and sensual but not rushing, not pushing for things to go further or asking for anything she’s not willing to give. She pushes his underwear down as best she can, and he shudders as bare skin meets. The feeling of his cock in her hand sets her skin alight as he muffles moans in her neck, and she twists her hand over the head of it, spreading the wetness she finds there over the shaft.

JJ surrenders to her, relaxing against her side as she works her hand over him, leaning into her, muttering half-formed praise into her skin like a prayer. She bites down a smile at the words, trying to hide how much she enjoys having him so vulnerable under her touch, how hot she gets listening to him react, feeling the soft skin over hard muscle. Kissing him firmly, she pushes him onto his back, leaning over him as she strokes his cock, one of his arms coming up to hold her, the other hand pushing into her hair. She hadn’t had time to do this the first night they were together, too focused on her own desperate need to get lost in him, so she takes her time working her way down his bare torso, sinking her teeth into his chest, leaving red and purple marks in her wake.

He stutters on an inhale when he realizes what she’s doing, and when she curls her hands in the waistband of both shorts and boxers, concern fills his dear, blue eyes. “You don’t have to --” he breathes, caught between concern for her and the deep, furious want pulsing in his blood. “Just because I --”

Kiara licks her lips, and JJ watches the movement, powerless not to. “I want to,” she says, realizing the truth of it as she says it, and the resulting look on JJ’s face puts butterflies in her stomach. (Which, like, she really doesn’t have time to think about right now.) So, in answer, she pulls his pants and underwear down and off, tossing them to the side and settling herself between his legs. It’s a little intimidating, JJ spread out naked before her, his cock eagerly awaiting her attention. She knew it was big, of course. After last time, the rumors had been confirmed true; JJ Maybank was excellently skilled with both hands and mouth, in addition to being ridiculously well-hung. It isn’t fair, really. But it’s one thing when he’s fucking her, and another when she’s face to face with it.

He senses her hesitation and reaches down, brushing his fingers over her face in gentle reverence, and the touch shocks something inside her she’s not ready to confront. Instinctively, she pulls away, and, when concern colors his storm-sky eyes, she smiles, and ties up her hair. JJ’s breath catches in his chest as the sight, and it bolsters her confidence. She leans forward to kiss him one more time, twisting her hand over the head of his cock, solid and determined, and before he can recover, she ducks her head and takes him into her mouth.

He grasps at the sheets as she swirls her tongue curiously around the tip, letting spit and precum drip down the shaft, spreading it towards the base with her hand. “Fuck, yes,” he sighs, his eyes falling closed, his head dropping to the pillow. It’s satisfying, and triumphant, and hot, to see him so at her mercy, helpless and prone in the oldest kind of worship. After a while of torturous teasing, she takes as much of him as she can into her mouth, pressing her thumb into her palm to push down her gag reflex -- a trick Sarah told her about that she’s never needed til him. He keens, and the noise has her pushing her hips against the mattress, rocking into the seam of her shorts. Bobbing her head, experimenting with pace and angle, she flicks her tongue smartly against the underside of the tip of his cock, and the moan that follows that move is very interesting indeed. She tries it a few more times until he’s gasping out a warning, and she draws back until her lips just wrap around the head, swallowing neatly as he chokes out her name.

She comes up smiling, and he half sits up, reaching for her, sated and grasping. He kisses her soundly, pulling her back down next to him, one hand in her hair, one arm around her waist, his favorite way to hold her, it seems. Settling her on her back, his tongue meets hers and he groans at the taste of himself. “You,” he says, pulling back to press kisses down her neck. She can’t keep in the happy, smug giggle that works its way out of her chest. “Are so fucking hot.”

“Not too bad yourself,” she laughs as he tucks his face between her tits, the last word followed by a sharp gasp as he wraps his lips around a nipple, like he can’t help but have his mouth on her, can’t help but taste her skin and send her heart racing.

“I knew you were looking,” he says, propping his chin on her sternum and looking up at her with a shit-eating grin, mischief and post-orgasm glow sparkling in his stupid, stupid blue eyes. He’s been paying attention to her, thinking about this. The thought flips something over in her chest, and she shoves his head playfully.

“Shut up,” she says, trying to keep her voice light. She picks her hips up, trying to keep him focused on the event at hand. Yeah, JJ’s easily distracted, but she’s half-naked in front of him, She kinda hoped that would avoid unnecessary conversation. “And get back to work.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, half-kidding -- but his eyes darken just a shade too far to be all tease. (Which, she thinks to herself, is certainly something to be investigated.) He devotes his full attention back to her chest, licking and sucking and biting at her nipples, loving the soft, small noises she makes under his touch. Her tits aren’t usually so sensitive, but JJ knows what the fuck he’s doing, and it’s unfair how much he’s able to work her up with her pants still on. Blowing him was already incredibly hot, and, when his hand finally slides into her underwear, he curses at the wetness he finds between her legs. “Holy hell, Kie,” he sighs.

“Maybe a little more hell,” she says, gripping his arm as his finger drags slowly up her slit, “and a little less holy?” She bites her lip as he teases her, dipping in and out of her folds, tracing his fingers over the lips of her cunt, because he wants her to keep making those godforsaken sounds. Because he can.

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a smart mouth?” he asks, raising his head to suck a mark directly under her ear, smiling against her skin at the resulting gasp.

“Maybe, ah --” she cries, when his careful fingers find her clit and his calloused fingertips explore the sensitive area, “once or twice.”

This is… way more talking than last time. Last time was desperate and grief-stricken and needy, a request for heedless escape in the wake of the unthinkable. Now -- it’s still a distraction, but there were other courses of action available when she showed up at the Chateau as the sun started to sit low in the afternoon sky. She didn’t have to jump him. He didn’t have to let her. JJ kisses her, deep and filthy, putting himself back in charge, angling his body over hers as she presses back into the thin mattress, arcing into his touch, one hand braced on his (very nice) bicep, the other tangled in his messy, golden hair.

He focuses on her clit, spreading the wetness up from her entrance and toying with different pressure and motions, paying attention to what she likes, and she directs him with the sounds she makes, every small moan a ‘yes, please, more of that.’ He’s the most responsive partner she’s ever had, focused on her and her only, his main purpose to make her feel good, not work her up just to fuck or speed past foreplay to move to something more. It makes it better, and when he finally slides a finger into her, he gasps, too, because it’s a privilege for him to feel her, hot and wet and waiting.

“Oh, god,” she whines, as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of her, his thumb on her clit.

“God’s a little formal,” he says, lifting his head to look at her, his expression teasing even as kindness and something else big and unwanted settles in his eyes. “You can stick with JJ.” She tries to smack his arm for that, but ends up sinking her nails into his skin as he slides another finger inside of her a little too easily. He goes slowly, curling his fingers up into her g-spot with every stroke, kissing her lazily and alternating to her neck when she can’t help but gasp at his touch.

It’s torture, the way he takes his time, and after a while she’s begging. “Fuck me, JJ,” she pleads. “God, fuck me, please,” and his spent cock twitches against her leg because fuck if that isn’t something he’s been waiting to hear. His hand speeds up as he decides his next move. When he takes his hands out of her pants she lets out a sound she’d rather he didn’t remember, but based on the way that he smiles against her skin, he won’t be doing that any time soon. He doesn’t even have time to pause at her waistband as he kisses down her body, because she’s very enthusiastically supporting what’s about to happen next, shoving both shorts and underwear down.

He chuckles and tugs them off, tossing them somewhere that’s future Kie’s problem, and heat rises in him again as she spreads her legs for him. Settling on his stomach, he hooks his arms under her thighs, miles of bare skin pressing together with a quiet whisper of faith. She runs her fingers through his hair as he kisses up her legs, taking his time, reveling in the sight and the smell of her. Foolish smiles meet in shy glances and chuckles that are half breath and half disbelief. JJ radiates warmth from his bare skin, broad and powerful below her, and she hooks a leg over his shoulder, sliding her foot up his back and biting her lip as he raises his eyebrows in response, drawing closer to her hot, aching center.

He starts lightly, dragging the tip of his tongue up her slit, just to taste the wetness there, to make her squirm and curse and ask for more. It’s hard to resist the way she begs for him, and he sets in with a purpose, flicking his tongue over her clit and fitting two fingers inside of her, mouth and hands working with a skilled harmony. She clutches at his hair, not afraid to drag her fingernails over his scalp, vocal and unapologetic in how much she’s enjoying this, how much she wants him. When he finds a combination of hooking his fingers against her g-spot and brushing the tip of his tongue over her clit, her legs clamp around his head as she begins to climb, a deep pull starting low in her stomach.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, “fucking hell, JJ -- God, just like that, don’t fucking stop. Please don’t fucking stop.” He doesn’t, and the sound that comes out of her as she crashes over the edge is loud and guttural and possibly the hottest thing that’s ever fucking happened to him. She cums against his mouth furiously, her stomach flexing and her legs shaking, and he’s a little proud of himself, honestly, as he brings her down gently, sliding his fingers out of her, soothing her with long strokes of his tongue. When her breathing finally slows, he presses kisses over her thighs and then her stomach as he rises back up to meet her.

She kisses him, awestruck and grateful, not minding her own taste as she pulls him down against her, wanting as much bare skin to be touching as possible. She tucks his hair behind his ears and strokes her thumb over his jaw before he falls on his side next to her, staring, tracing his hand up her side in veneration and wonder. It’s hard, the weight of his gaze, so she closes her eyes, drops her forehead against his. “Literally how,” she sighs, and laughs, one arm tucked under his neck and hooked around his shoulders, the other draped over his trim waist.

“It’s not hard,” he promises (falsely), cheshire grin in full force. “Just paying attention.” He kisses her before she has a chance to respond, mostly gentle but with a sense he’s holding back a little, inviting her to take the next step forward. She deliberates for a moment as she sucks on his lower lip, scraping her teeth gently, cataloguing every noise he makes and what move precedes it, learning him. She could go home, now. She’s been sufficiently distracted. She feels a little better, like maybe she can talk to her parents without screaming her head off or bursting into tears. But the pull of the boy next to her is strong and tempting, miles of tan skin with rippling muscle shifting underneath.

The secret is, she always wants to touch JJ. Something about him is magnetic, like a gravitational field she can’t resist. Whenever they’re in the van or on the Pogue or even just chilling on the couch, she finds herself shifting closer. She’s always stepping just behind his shoulder, would prop her chin there -- if she didn’t know that he would freeze up and question the physical contact. Sometimes, she feels jealousy ache in her stomach at his casual physicality with Pope and John B, always slinging his arm around their shoulders or play-fighting or latching onto them, just to be annoying. He’s still physical with her -- she doesn’t think he knows how not to be -- but it’s different, restrained, and sometimes she sees him half-move, reaching out instinctually, only to second guess himself and let his hands fall.

She shifts into him, pressing herself as close as she can, appreciating the gasp he lets out at the press of her bare chest against his, her leg sliding against his dick, already half-hard again. They kiss for a while, and it would be lazy and slow, if they could let themselves relax; but JJ’s still biting something down, and Kie starts to get frustrated trying to draw it out. Finally, tired of waiting, she licks into his mouth with a sudden push, and he’s not surprised, but annoyingly expectant, glad his baiting has finally worked. There’s a moment of tension and pushing as they silently argue who’s going to be on top, and Kie wins when she reaches down and wraps her hand around his cock.

He falls back, and she climbs on top of him, biting down a wide grin of her own. She sits back on her heels, sticking out her chest a little, stroking him slowly, reveling in the way he fights to control his expression. He starts at her tits, palming them with work-roughened hands, before sliding his palms down her body, lingering on the curve of her waist, brushing over her ass, running down her thighs and back up. She lets her head fall back, drinking in his touch, closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to meet his. She can feel him staring, though, unrelenting and hungry, merciless in the way he worships her. She can’t look at him, can’t take the kind of want and lust seething in his eyes, so settles herself over his cock, sliding her cunt up and down his shaft, her hands braced on his chest, his hands gripping her hips, fingertips sinking into her skin.

Part of her wants him to leave bruises, even though she knows he’s not holding her roughly enough for that. He’s being so kind, so soft and respectful, everything she never thought he would be in a situation like this. She loves the tease, the slow build, but she wants him now, viscerally so, rocking her hips over him, hearing him shudder and moan, feeling him clutch at her. She wants him to beg for her, keen her name like she did his. Leaning down to kiss him, she pushes herself all the way up his cock, the tip just brushing her entrance, and he moans, long and filthy. “God,” he gasps, barely coherent. “Fuck, Kiara, please.”

She smiles at that, sitting up, standing on her knees and taking him in her hand. They’d talked about being clean, about her IUD, the first night, and while she’s grateful she doesn’t have to have the same conversation again, it sets an unnerving precedent. The first time was supposed to be the last time. And now there’s today, and she’s not certain she wants to give him up, yet. She doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know what he’s feeling or what anything between them would look like in a world so tempest-tossed and half-destroyed. But this -- this part will always be easy.

Taking him inside her feels like a prayer. She goes slowly, sinking down, giving herself time to adjust to his size, his hands flexing on her hips. He fills her perfectly, and she’s never believed the bullshit about soulmates or needing someone else to be complete, but with JJ’s cock inside her, his hips, narrow and strong between her legs, she feels a hell of a lot closer to whole. She starts to move, slow and deep, squeezing him on the way up, bottoming out on the way down. He curses and clenches his teeth, wound so tight she can see it, and she wants him to snap, to flip them in a single move and fuck her into the mattress.

He watches her, lets her set the rhythm, thrusting up as she pushes down, but the movement is still tight and controlled. She knows this boy inside and out, knows that he’s holding back for her, afraid of hurting her, of losing her trust or making her feel objectified or powerless. She knows he wants to be careful, to not fuck this up -- because this is a this, now, neither of them have any say in that anymore -- but she also wants his raw power, his strength and abandon, and maybe that’s what drives the next words to fall from her mouth. “Come on, JJ,” she groans impatiently, raking her fingernails down his chest. “Aren’t you gonna take what’s yours?” He’s confused for exactly half a second before she shifts her weight pointedly to the empty space to their left, and before she even registers that he’s moving, she’s on her back, her hands pinned above her head, JJ’s hips slamming obscenely into her own. It’s intense and desperate and fast, and she tugs one of her hands free, bringing it down to her clit to rub hard circles there in pace with his wild hips, knowing he won’t last long like this and chasing that cherished high, just behind him.

He comes before she does on a sharp, animalistic cry, tensing above her and filling her with warmth. She doesn’t have time to be disappointed, because he swears, pulls out, and replaces his cock immediately with his fingers. His cum makes it easy to fit three fingers inside her at once, dextrous and skilled, focused on making her orgasm just as good as his. It doesn’t take long until she’s grabbing at his shoulder, panting and moaning and almost crying, he feels so good, and when he bats aside the hand on her clit in favor of ducking between her legs and replacing it with his mouth, she screams, riding his face and his hand as wave upon wave crashes over her, feet pushing her hips off the pullout, legs quivering and stomach tense. He stays with her, merciless, flicking his tongue across her clit over and over again, until she has to shove his head away with trembling hands, collapsing into the bed in holy, sated exhaustion.

It takes her a second to open her eyes, and when she does, he’s back up next to her, pushing the three fingers into his mouth to suck them clean. “You’re disgusting,” she says, but she’s still panting, out of breath while her chest heaves, and it carries little heat.

He brushes gentle fingers over her temple, tucking away a stray curl. “But we taste so good together,” he teases, his breath fanning across her face as he leans down to kiss her. Their mouths move in lazy harmony, finally at ease, and, of course, he’s right. “C’mon,” he says, tucking his face against her neck, his floppy blond hair falling into her eyes. “Shower?”

“Mmmm,” she hums, thinking she might be anchored to the bed at the base of her spine. “Maybe in a sec.” Honestly, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stand, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing that. He chuckles, knowing exactly what he’s done, and shoves himself up as she curses his never-ending, boundless energy. He brings her water and some paper towels to clean herself up, and, when he sees her sitting up, searching for her underwear, digs in the duffel on the armchair and tosses her a pair of boxers.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “What?” he protests, tugging underwear and a pair of basketball shorts up over his ass. (Which she’s a little disappointed to see disappear beneath layers of fabric once more). “They’re clean.” She puts them on without standing up before rolling over to her stomach and stretching her arms out, tucking them underneath her head. Sweat cools on heated skin as golden hour stretches across the Chateau’s living room, and she wants to live in this moment forever.

JJ lowers himself onto her back, scattering kisses across her shoulders, and she giggles and turns underneath him until they’re pressed chest-to-chest, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of her head. She looks at him, now, her hair a mess and eyes shining, skin still heated from his touch. He leans down to kiss her, and she lets him, even though this is dangerous territory, blurring hazy lines between friends and friends-with-benefits and lovers and ‘together’ and all the other things they could call themselves. The kiss is slow and sweet, and when he pulls back it’s to kiss her cheeks, her closed eyes, her nose. It’s silly and soft and so incorrect to the image of JJ she’s always had in her mind, that she laughs under his attention.

“What?” he asks, laughing with her, dive-bombing her with kisses to her face and neck, her arms coming up around his neck, her fingers in his hair.

“You’re so dumb,” she says, still laughing as she shoves him off. He doesn’t go far, just crashes down next to her, their legs still tangled, one arm tucked back under his head, the other resting on the curve of her waist. Her hands trace his arms, shoulders, chest, mapping them like territory she intends to settle.

“Yeah, but --” he says, and then stops, because the rest of that sentence carries a different weight now. The ‘you still love me’ hangs in the air anyway, and it means something else than it did the last time he tossed it out -- after leaving her stranded on the marsh with Sarah Cameron, a day that feels like years ago.

She curls her hands into fists on his chest before spreading them out again, breaking eye contact and biting her bottom lip. “Yeah,” she sighs. Because she does, even if she can’t define how anymore.

“So you gonna tell me why you came here?” he asks, when the moment stretches on into too many seconds and the weight of it threatens to crush them both.

Kie sighs, heavy and tired, as the memory of earlier that day comes crashing back down, chasing out the golden afternoon and pulling her back to all of the guilt and anger and frustration she’d asked JJ to distract her from. “Do I have to?” she asks, still avoiding his eyes, too tired to dodge it any more carefully than that.

“C’mon, Kie,” he urges, “you said you’d talk about it.” She hates him for a second, because isn’t this JJ’s whole thing? ‘Dank nugs and the stickiest of ickies,’ right? ‘Deny, deny, deny’? There are a million things he’s said, just over this summer, that she could pull out on him right now. But also, she’s not him, and she likes to talk things out, has to, or else whatever it is that’s bothering her consumes every waking thought. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s just being a really good friend at a really bad time.

So she tells him, because she’s avoiding Pope and John B’s fucking dead or lost at sea or whatever the fuck he is, and so is Sarah. And even though Kiara would never have considered going to her before -- everything -- maybe she would now, if she had the chance. “My parents want to send me to boarding school,” she says, dropping it whole on his chest and hoping he can breathe under it.

“Oh,” he sighs, like this admission has shoved the word out of him. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything else, so she keeps going. “So I freaked out, and I left.” She keeps flexing her hands on his chest, keeping her eyes there even as they threaten to fill with tears. “And my mom --” she chokes, and he pulls her close, putting his lips on her forehead. “My mom said that if I didn’t --” she swallows, trying to keep it together, “that if I didn’t come home on time, not to --” she takes a controlled breath, willing the tears away. “Not to bother coming home at all.” It sounds silly, saying it to him, when she knows, now, what he’s been through. What his dad does to him and why he’s here, instead of his own house. It sounds petty and inconsequential and she’s never felt more like an ignorant kook in her life, so she sniffs, and takes her hands off him.

JJ chews on the information she’s given him, tracing his fingers down her arm, over the curve of her elbow and back up to her shoulder. “You’re still gonna go home, right?” He asks, uncertainty and maybe longing in his voice. She realizes, then, that of course she is. Her parents love her, even if they don’t know how to show it, don't understand what the Cut and its inhabitants (and one in particular) mean to her. Of course, she’s going to go home. Because JJ doesn’t get to. Because she still can.

If she’d had this conversation with anyone else, there would be stomping and cursing and yelling, indignant demands as to why her parents can’t understand her, why they can’t see how they suffocate her, and hold her down. But this is JJ, who doesn’t get to have problems like this, who doesn’t get to have parents that love him or watch him too closely. At least if Luke Maybank threatened to send JJ to boarding school, it would mean that he cared about JJ’s future. It would mean that he’d looked at his son, spoken to him, seen the anger and hurt and desperation to be seen. It would mean, at least, that he was paying attention.

“Yeah,” she says. She’s still scared, of being powerless to control what they want her to do with her life, of being seventeen and helpless. But she’s not going to say that out loud, not when JJ knows what that feels like on a level she can’t even comprehend. He feels like he should say more, and part of her wants him to, but JJ’s always been shit at comforting. This, his presence, is enough. His light touches, his lips pressed to her hairline -- it’s all he has to do. When she starts to nod off, she asks him to hand her her phone, and stumbles out to the porch to dig in her bag for it. She curls on her side, sends a text to her mom about being sorry and that she’ll be home in a few hours, and then sets an alarm for thirty minutes before curfew.

She’ll go home, but she’s going to spend as much time with him as she can. She still doesn’t think he should be alone, and she doesn’t want to be either. He fits himself in behind her, his chest pressed to her back, one arm under her neck, the other tight around her waist. They don’t talk. She doesn’t want to and he doesn’t know what he’d say. She’s exhausted and warm and JJ’s arms around her feel a little bit like armor, like when he’s holding her, the rest of the world can’t get in. Just before she falls asleep, he squeezes her tight, tucking his face into her neck.

“You aren’t going to boarding school,” he whispers. “I promise.” She feels his lips press against her skin. She wants to turn in his arms, kiss him slow and sweet and kind, the way he deserves to be loved. But sleep tugs at her, unrelenting. Just before she slips under the waves, she hears him whisper one more thing.

“I won’t let them take you away from me.”

#jiara #outer banks #jj/kiara #kiara/jj #jj x kiara #kiara x jj #jj maybank #kiara carrera #jiara fic #fanfiction #fic #fanfic #smut #jiara smut #my stuff #my writing

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maddie-grove · 2 years

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Little Book Review: Wildlife

Author: Richard Ford.

Publication Date: 1990.

Genre: Literary fiction.

Premise: It's 1960 in small-town Montana, and sixteen-year-old Joe Brinson's golf-instructor father has just been fired from the local country club. Before his job search can get too desperate, Mr. Brinson's old boss offers him his position back, but it's too late; Mr. Brinson has already decided to join the men fighting wildfires a few towns over. Mrs. Brinson, a seemingly cheerful housewife, snaps and embarks on a weird affair with a local bigwig. Can Joe survive this bizarrely abrupt turn in his childhood? Seriously, most of the novel takes place over one week.

Thoughts: The 2018 movie adaptation of this book is one of my favorite movies of the 2010s. It's the story of an essentially close, loving family imploding under subtle but enormous pressure, set against painfully beautiful Western landscapes. Plus, somebody had the good taste to put "Forever" by the Marvelettes on the soundtrack. It turns out that it's a faithful adaptation as well; I can't think of anything that wasn't included, aside from some information about the characters' futures and an extended scene of Joe wandering around town at night. Yet the book didn't hit me nearly as hard.

My under-reaction might be the result of having seen the movie first; I knew all the plot points ahead of time, so there weren't any surprises. But I think two other factors are more to blame. First, it's a story that benefits from not having a narrator. Joe's not a bad narrator, but he's obviously looking back on these events as an adult. This takes away from the immediacy of the story, and the voice doesn't add a lot of color or perspective to make up for it. Ed Oxenbould's performance makes Joe's reticence and passivity both more comprehensible and more interesting. When I watch his varied reactions to his mom's bizarre actions--denial, discomfort, curiosity--I think, "Yeah, that's exactly what an only child who likes his parents would do if this all went down so suddenly."

The other factor is the lack of Carey Mulligan. Jeanette Brinson isn't a badly written character--she has her reasons for doing what she does, and both Ford and Joe try to see her side--but she's kind of opaque. I don't think this is universal among male authors, but many of them will write a female character who makes bad, weird decisions and, after a point, kind of throw up their hands and be like, "Who knows why she does what she does?" A good actress can make this kind of character seem much more real and textured. I saw Carey Mulligan in Wildlife, and I understood exactly why Jeanette was so pissed off and desperate all the time. I don't think it was great that she took her son on her gross dates, but I get it.

Hot Goodreads Take: One reviewer seems to have confused Ed Oxenbould with Lucas Hedges, which is fair.

#little book review #wildlife #richard ford

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bananaofswifts · 3 years

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Taylor Swift’s music has always been the most interesting thing about Taylor Swift, and she’s rarely more interesting than when she’s talking about her music. You would think this would be obvious, considering she’s one of the defining singer-songwriters of her generation, but for large portions of her decade and a half career, the conversations around her have focused on just about everything else: her romances, her feuds, her aesthetics, her strategic alliances, her business calculations, her imagined politics, her actual politics, her role as a feminist icon, her role as an avatar of white fragility, her authenticity, her inauthenticity, her videography, her numerology, her cats. Last winter’s Sundance documentary “Miss Americana” allowed her to tackle most of these issues head-on, often with a frankness that we rarely saw out of the increasingly private star, but even there, Swift’s music sometimes risked getting lost in all the noise. Perhaps that’s why “Folklore,” the decidedly low-key album she recorded during quarantine and released with zero fanfare in July, felt like such a breath of fresh air. It also didn’t hurt that it was one of the best things she’s ever done. Working remotely with veteran collaborator Jack Antonoff and new producer/co-writer Aaron Dessner (best known as the guitarist for sad-dad-rock mainstays the National), Swift used “Folklore” to cast off the spectacle, the commercial calculations, and the meta-framing of her last few albums and focus instead on the fine-tuned intimacy and incisive turns of phrase that made her such a singular voice to begin with. The one thing that album was missing, however, was the immediacy of a studio setting, and so for this week’s Disney Plus release “Folklore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions,” she’s assembled Dessner and Antonoff in person to play through each song live. Aside from some brief home videos of Swift recording the album earlier this year, the entire film takes place at the titular studio in New York’s Hudson Valley: a cozy, exposed-wood cabin situated on a picturesque piece of waterfront real estate, surrounded by chairs, string lights and fire pits where the artists can retire to sip wine and tea while discussing the day’s progress. (Frankly, the most succinct way to describe the setting would be “extremely Taylor Swift-like,” even though the studio is actually Dessner’s.) It wouldn’t be a Swift project without a few strategically teased Easter eggs — in this case, some hints about the love-triangle narrative that pops up irregularly throughout the album, and a revelation about the identity of her mysterious collaborator “William Bowery” — but the remote getaway vibe of the location mostly allows the focus to stay on the music. Directed by Swift herself, the film is handsomely mounted though never flashy, and follows a simple repeated structure: We get a drone shot of the surroundings, then a brief interlude discussing the next song, and then a performance. The discussion sections are of highly variable quality, at times offering fascinating glimpses into Swift’s creative process, and at others sounding suspiciously like the sort of rehearsed banter she might have offered from the stage of an arena tour. As the newcomer to Swift’s circle, Dessner tends to draw the most out of her in conversation, offering his own interpretations of Swift’s lyrics and opening up about his personal struggles with depression during a chat about the song “Peace.” Longtime associate Antonoff is more likely to simply “yes, and” whatever Swift is saying, which can be slightly frustrating. When she mentions that “picking a track five is sort of a pressurized decision,” you want someone to ask her to elaborate, instead of knowingly nodding. Naturally, the film’s main attractions are the performances, as the three run through each of “Folklore’s” tracks — bonus ones included — in order. None of the live renditions here are radically different from what’s heard on the record, though one can easily imagine Swiftian scholars endlessly debating the merits of each, the way Dylanologists still fight over which take of “Idiot Wind” is the canonical one. But it’s obvious that these three are enjoying the chance to once again exchange ideas in person rather than over email and Skype, and it’s impressive to watch just how thoroughly Dessner and Antonoff manage to re-create the record’s sparse yet carefully textured soundscapes with just a few guitars, a piano, some light drum machine and a solitary snare. (“Folklore’s” lone guest star, Justin Vernon, does Skype in his performance for the duet “Exile” from his own home studio, and adds enough improvised touches to keep the song from feeling overly familiar.) Perhaps the most striking element of the film is its deep focus on Swift as a singer. Back in her “Fearless” days, Swift was subject to substantial criticism for her limited vocal prowess, which was always unfair. Swift was a lyrics-first singer-songwriter long before she was a pop star, and she deserved to be considered in the company of the former rather than contrasted with the Mariah Careys of the world. Nonetheless, the control she has developed over her instrument in the years since is remarkable to behold, and Swift’s vocals sound simply lovely here. She still never allows a flourish or a tricky run to compromise the clarity of a lyric, but she knows exactly how to work wonders within her register, and she’s perfectly comfortable exploring its further reaches. On “My Tears Ricochet,” Swift gives her voice a husky edge that almost calls Chan Marshall to mind — this is probably the oldest she’s ever sounded, and it becomes her nicely. Meanwhile, she can still summon the old wide-eyed “Teardrops on My Guitar” innocence when a song calls for it, and she’s practically bouncing off her seat when “Betty” hits its big key-change at the end. Once again, it seems as though Swift envisions every album release or career move as another chapter of an elaborate, neverending bildungsroman, and “Long Pond” doesn’t give much indication of what the next one might look like. (Although she does note that “Folklore” taught her the value of songwriting that looks outward, rather than plumbing exclusively from her own experiences — for those of us left somewhat cold by her more tabloid-baiting “Reputation” period, that’s certainly a welcome note.) With this film, she just does the two things she does best: making excellent music, and giving people a new reason to talk about Taylor Swift. But at least she’s made sure that this time we’re talking about her for all the right reasons.

#Taylor swift #folklore #review

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diariesofaplutonian · 4 years

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Pluto: Where is your power lost? Where can it be won back?

Let’s talk about Pluto! Pluto, to me, represents everything it has been mythologically and culturally assigned to—the underworld, the shadow side, the darkest parts of ourselves, the selves we wish to hide or keep contained from others, death, taboo, mystery, power struggles, and so on, but above all else, to me, where the planet falls in a house demonstrates the arena in which we feel the most powerless. The house where Pluto falls in shows us the themes we will grapple with and indicates the obstacles and struggles that may arise. Gratefully, Pluto also represents in the chart the area where we can most empower ourselves and elevate our lives and our dignity if we find a way to turn what disempowers us into our strength and make it part of our story, our story of victory, instead of a lesson of our defeat, our story of failure. Pluto shows us where we can triumph if we find a way to revolutionize or otherwise radically transform/change ourselves internally, despite our external challenges. Most importantly, Pluto is about recovering our power. For example, if Pluto falls in the 4th house/IC, it may indicate that a person feels most powerless or defeated in situations involving family. One may be estranged from one’s family or have a difficult relationship with one’s mother or stepfather, for instance, but due to financial, emotional, or other reasons, such person is unable to liberate himself from his family and be free of a toxic home life. He thus feels resentful not only by the fact that his environment limits him, but by the fact that he cannot escape or change his environment. His transformation may come through the act of juggling multiple endeavors to support himself until he is physically and emotionally able to remove himself from his unfit guardians and cultivate his own family through his individual selection of trusted people he names “adopted family.”

Someone with Pluto in the 8th house may feel powerless over death. Such person may undergo countless tragedy in the form of losing people close to him. He may lose his mother, aunt, younger brother, cousin, close friend, mentor, etc. through the course of his life, and so on. He may feel like he has no control over the lives of people he meets, and be plagued by the thought of forming attachments with other people, due to the fear that they, too, will die if he develops a closeness with them. His fear of death (not even necessarily his own) may evolve into a fear of connection and intimacy, another 8th house theme. He can overcome this fear or feeling of powerlessness through re-examining his basic safety, comfort, and survival needs, so when he reevaluates or reassesses his proximity to death, he sees not the history of all those who have passed before him, but the potential to live as though he is dying, not wasting a single minute, relating to himself and others with a newfound depth and urgency. He can form fierce, meaningful, powerful connections that allow him to interact and engage with people without being held back by the immediacy of crisis or the threat of future death. His knowledge that the future is uncertain can give him resistance to the notion of being extinguished, causing him to live relentlessly and with vulnerability, in search for deeper truth. Death may ignite a fury or appreciation for living within him. He may, as the familiar poem goes, “not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Knowledge of the impermanence of life makes him full of the desire to build something stable, solid, and long-term, seemingly permanent connections. He finds longevity in essence and via the impact he leaves on others and the impact they in turn impress on him. This gives him life and intense pleasure. Life becomes about energy, constancy in spite of inconstancy, and active transformation (self-transformation). He cultivates resilience and strength/temerity of character through this commitment to continuity of self-change.

Someone with Pluto in the 9th house may feel disempowered in light of others’ ideology/belief systems or in the field of higher faith or science or education. These people are some of the most likely to be successful high school or college dropouts. They have their own unique mission in life, and discovering it is their source of power. This person may also feel constantly tested or undermined by religious notions or organizations and possibly even the notion of God or higher power. This person may, alternatively, derive immense inner strength and fortitude by believing in God or higher power or the Spirit. This person may also form his own introspective, unique thoughts about life and produce philosophies or inquiries about the nature of existence. He could derive great fame or fortune or success or influence from disseminating his views, albeit controversial, whether positive or negative. In fact, he is sure to be polarizing. Nonetheless, his ideas will generate significant outreach due to the distinctiveness of his voice or message. His spirituality may be called into question, abandoned, or adopted. This person may struggle at school/in formal education, not necessarily academically or intellectually, but in terms of curriculum. This student may not agree with what he is being taught or feel like he cannot learn via compulsory schooling. The native may thrive in more organic settings where, opposed to sitting in a lecture or taking notes off a PowerPoint, for instance, he may be asked to design a project implementing his ideas or approach to something or invent a novel way to problem-solve an application. This, to him, may be a better use of his time, energy, and creativity. He may also flourish in home-schooling or alternative schooling, trade schools, or special schools. This person may feel restricted in environments where he is subject to other people’s beliefs or so-called knowledge, such as when someone insists fascism is the right way to live, for instance, and he argues socialism is the right way. He has to learn to contend with other people’s viewpoints, however challenging to hear he believes them to be, without feeling the urge to change or compel them, despite whether he believes himself to be right and they wrong. Other people don’t have to believe what he believes and he shouldn’t feel obligated or righteous enough to attempt to sway or influence them. He will find his personal power when he is able to separate the actions and beliefs and opinions of others without feeling the need to compete with, attack, or obliterate them. There isn’t always a “winner.” Not everything needs to be contested or debated, and sometimes, it really is best to say nothing at all.

Pluto in the 3rd house may feel intimidated, pressured, limited, or controlled in situations involving siblings, local spaces or regional transportation, or informal school as opposed to higher education. For instance, one may be significantly older than her sister and may be forced to help her parents raise her due to her family being large and having significant age gaps between children, or, her sister may have been made an orphan after their parents died in a tragic car accident, and the native thus may have been forced to intervene and take custody of her sibling to avoid the younger girl ending up in the foster system. She may resent having to take care of someone else as an adult when she is not even fully able to provide for herself and her own needs, or she may have difficulty relating to her younger sibling because of their large age gap, and may thus find herself in the mother role instead of the big-sister role. She can see this as an unfair constraint upon her own resources, time, and happiness. Or, in a different scenario, the Pluto in the 3rd house person may have parents who divorced when she was a child and one of her parents, say her father, remarried and her stepmother brought in 3 children of her own. This person may feel abandoned by her own father, especially if her mother remained her primary caregiver and her father acted as a birth parent to his stepchildren, treating her as an adopted or stepchild. She may resent her step-siblings for being closer to her father and in her eyes, ‘stealing’ her dad away from her. Tension between her siblings and herself could cause her to feel troubled or indignant and unable to change this deeply unsettling feeling of being replaced that dwells inside her and eats her up from the inside. Rather than letting this jealousy or envy consume her and ravage her insides, she can overcome this tribulation by fostering an intense self-love within herself and finding stimulating mental activities and hobbies (as Mercury traditionally rules the 3rd house) that make her feel powerful.

For example, let’s say she begins to read and write exceptionally well, eventually crafting a memoir about her experiences, and it turns into a bestseller. Or, perhaps, though, this is petty, she joins the chess or debate team at her school along with her siblings and constantly crushes them at debates or chess. She will have thus found a way to transcend those setbacks that made her feel defeated and less important, by becoming the best in a field or championing her story or becoming victorious in publishing or some type of Mercury-related field. She will have attained some sort of dominance or recognition and will no longer see herself as second-best in terms of her parents’ eyes/her father’s treatment of her. And who wouldn’t like to be the most successful sibling? The one who introduced the world to the family name? Sibling rivalry/competition can be healthy.

Pluto often brings the potential for struggle and demise and defeat, but it also rules comebacks and success stories and champions the role of the underdog. There is no ‘failure’ or setback that cannot be overcome with Pluto, so long as one constantly and consistently transforms and generates a second skin, so to speak. Pluto is a test, and you can’t ace every test, but you can’t flunk them all either.

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windstormwielding · 3 years

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Drabble: New Orders

The wounded officer assumed the Sternritter who shot him would give chase to stop his attempted escape, but his heart dropped when he felt their attention shift to the reiatsu of nearby shinigami in his stead. It sank further when he then felt his kind’s presences getting wiped out as fast as he could blink while he flash-stepped from the scene, as more innocents have paid the price of their predecessors’ hubris in wiping out the Quincy in centuries past.

Grim thoughts supposed any target in a shihakushō would’ve done if it meant culling more of their number, and though ensured he was no longer being followed, cruel terror continued to overwhelm his being with the harrowing realization that he could’ve just as easily joined the fallen mere moments ago.

Still mid-stride, he felt the frosty reiatsu of the Bankai-less 10th Division Captain and the shinigami spiritual pressure of who he assumed to be his second-in-command cutting off that Quincy’s warpath. There was relief in that the Sternritter of fire definitely would not be pursuing him anymore, but how for long could Captain Hitsugaya and Lieutenant Matsumoto put up an actual fight against these honest-to-god monsters?

If there was any opportunity to seek respite and escape from the pending horror of his own mortality getting snuffed, now was the time to do it. With the last of his shunpō and feeling no Quincy spiritual pressure in the immediate vicinity, his hand still firmly pressed against his gut to quell bleeding over seared open wounds, the soul reaper left luck to fate as he spotted an open window six stories up.

He guided his flash steps up the smaller two-story building next to it, then launched himself from its roof through the open window he spotted. Unfortunately, it was then his strength gave out to the heat of his pierced liver and torso as he staggered mid-step at last. The silver-haired shinigami crashed shoulder-first onto the floor with a pained groan as momentum caused him to slide until his back harshly met the wood of a crate.

Despite the noise his intrusion made, there were no signs of nearby Quincy encroaching on his position to finish the job. Held breath turned strained yet relieved as the 13th Division’s 4th Seat found sanctuary amidst the chaos of the Wandenreich’s second invasion. Kōtarō Ryōhei finally had time to think.

He rolled onto his back with teeth grit as he tried to keep his thoughts off of his injury. The hand against his abdomen began to glow with the relieving light of Kaidō to mend the partially cauterized perforation through his body – though he’s no expert, Kōta was glad that he thought to take up the healing arts in hindsight, but lamented that this will be a slow recovery for him. It would be one thing if he ran into somebody from the 4th Division, with two wells of reiatsu to pull from to facilitate the healing process, but having to use his own energy alone to fix up his body will take him some time.

It would only amount to a patch job, but right now that was better than nothing. Once done, it should be enough to last him until he returns to the barracks... or where the barracks last stood.

His emerald gaze sharpened to scrutinize this unfamiliar room, walls a perfect marble white with hints of ice clinging to their surface. Head turned from one side to the other as he took note of old boxes and sealed barrels. Kōta reasoned he was in a storage room of some kind – supplies gathered from the Wandenreich empire’s thousand years of hiding in the Seireitei’s shadows, perhaps.

Before he could think on his surroundings more, Kōtarō found his thoughts drifting to his superiors. What he would do for their counsel right now...

Captain Ukitake was outside of the Seireitei when the Quincy got the drop on them all yet again. Ryōhei knew his Captain had begun his own ritual to prepare for the conflict, far outside of the Sekkiseki walls and deep into the Rukon districts, but that brought no comfort when it mattered most. There was no Captain at the helm to come to their defence thanks to the Sternritter’s surprise attack. Not even Kotsubaki and Kotetsu were around right now, shadowing Ukitake as they often do to best tend to his good health and safety.

Lieutenant Kuchiki was also indisposed. Suffering mortal wounds from the first invasion that already decimated the Gotei 13, Rukia’s frail form frightened him all the more when there was nothing more the 4th Division could do. She was taken to the Soul King Palace to make a full recovery not long ago, and Ukitake assured him she would be alright, but how long would it take for her to heal up and come back? Would he really die down here before he could reunite with her again? Was back at the 4th Division the last he would ever see his friend?

Without them, there was no one else left who could come to the 13th Division’s rescue. With no Captain, Lieutenant, or 3rd Seats standing by to lead and give out orders, there was no other guidance for him to lean on.

He was alone. Marooned. Without direction... and so were the rest of his men.

“...I’m still here.”

All it took to tether the storm of panic that overtook his composure earlier was those three little words of dawning realization. They may be gone, but the 4th Seat still remained as the highest-in-command officer of their Division within the Seireitei’s walls. Captain Ukitake, Rukia, Sentarō, and Kiyone – he’s still here for his superiors, to act in their stead until they return.

“I’m... still breathing... for fuck’s sake...!”

Pushing one foot after another to crawl against the ground, he fought against the body-wracking bouts of pain streaking up his nerves urging him to lie back down and relax, all while a streak of red followed his path. He’s still here to look after his juniors, who need some direction if they have any shot of surviving this war – that’s what he’s here for, isn’t he?

“I’m... still... ALIVE!”

With spiteful determination flooding his being, and a hand pressed against the floor for support, he shuffled back some more until he managed to sit upright against one of the crates. He’s still here to protect as many from his squadron as possible, to ensure they’re not abandoned and alone.

They needed orders. That much was clear. As he wracked in his mind to strategize, he figured there was one way to reach out to them in immediacy, but he could not think of a method to execute it.

What Kōtarō would do for some powder right about now. He didn’t even have it in him to open and inspect every odd container on the off-chance the Quincy stored something he could use here. Time was of the essence, but if not ink, then...

...the 4th Seat’s eyes trailed down to his crimson-stained hands.

“That’ll work,” he huffed, nodding to no one in particular. He can finish healing himself when he’s done. His colleagues and subordinates—whoever was still standing—need him.

“Black and white net.”

Arms shot up so that his sleeves may fall. Bloody palms then clapped together to share in makeshift red ink, and his arms became his canvas to draw lines and symbols along their length, as well as runes on the floor—careful not to draw where his life force had already been smeared.

“Twenty-two bridges... sixty-six crowns and belts.”

Beads of sweat dripped from his brow as his mind focused with renewed resolve to generate the white rectangle coming aglow before his eyes.

“Footprints, distant thunder... sharp peak, engulfing land, hidden in the night... sea of clouds, blue line.”

Though stilted, his hands moved like a conductor’s guiding baton, channeling his power into roots of spirit energy encroaching from the box of white light. His mind reached out to every one of his squad who he knew survived the first wave as he mentally reached out in the direction of the 13th Division grounds.

“Form a circle... and fly through the heavens."

Before their numbers could dwindle more and more, until there wouldn’t be a division left to save, he can still try and make a difference among those who remain.

“Bakudō #77... Tenteikūra.”

Relief flooded Kōtarō’s soul as he could now clearly sense the familiar auras of the handful of seated officers lingering in the area. Among the unseated, less than half their total number from before this sickening war started still stood.

Time to do his job.

–

Attention, officers of the 13th Division. This is your 4th Seat, Kōtarō Ryōhei, speaking.

Today... is no doubt the darkest time any of us have ever faced as shinigami. War has come to our doorstep with retribution and violence the likes of which we have never seen. The Quincy intend to wipe us all out, for our forefathers attempting to do the same to them a long time ago.

This battle, though we in the present never noticed the shadow of its approach... was a long time coming for all of us.

I... I know things look bleak right now. They have the advantage in information. They have the advantage in number. They have the advantage in military tactics, in home territory, and in sheer power. There... really is no easy way to say this, but we may very well be staring down our last days... not just as individuals, but as a collective. I won’t fault any of you for feeling helpless and outmatched, or having lost the will to fight, because for a minute there... I did too-

—

A harsh grunt cut him off as pain flared in his gut. It was tempting to bring a hand back down to resume self-treatment, but he could not end the transmission now. Not yet!

—

-but... our Captain—our Division—lives by a creed, in that there are two types of fights: fights where we protect honour, and fights where we protect life. We may not fight for the honour of the Gotei 13 or the division right now... hell, I don’t know if either will still exist when this battle is over, yet... we can still—and absolutely must—fight to protect life.

We have lost too many among us already. Close allies. Loved ones. Lifelong friends in the 13th and out. But though there is no bringing htem back from the dead... they still live on through you. Their hopes, their dreams, their memories... their hearts. You die here... then that’s it, they will all die for good, along with you. If the Quincy take that from you, then there really will be no Gotei 13 left to return to-!

—

Breathing turned laboured as he felt his mouth go dry. He needed to lie down and rest. No, he needed to be seen to. But that hardly mattered to him now. He couldn’t count on the 4th Division this minute. He had to stick to what he can do and see it through to the bitter end, if that is what it will come to!

—

So... it comes down to this, in what could be our final hour: the fight to protect life—your own... and that of the soul reaper standing next to you. Until further notice... until Captain Ukitake or Lieutenant Kuchiki return to issue new orders, then follow this one single command... by any means necessary: survive.

Whether you regroup, run fast, watch your surroundings, hide, or even strike them from behind... just survive. If all else fails... then stand your ground, give the Quincy hell, and make sure their job is not an easy one.

I... I will try my hardest to return to you all, but... in the event that... this is the last you hear from me... just know that...

—

“...it’s been a privilege... and an honour... for me to have served and fought alongside you all these many years. Ryōhei out.”

The moment connection terminated, his bloodied arms slackened, but he made sure his palm fell back over his wound to pick up where he left off. In his self-imposed strain, some of the work he already put in towards healing came undone, so it was back to doing it all again from scratch. Fantastic.

As his body slid so he may lie down fully once again, bleary sights looked up to the dimly lit ceiling in worry for the immediate future. Eyelids grew heavy, and the urge to sleep grew ever tempting, but Kōtarō feared that the time he closed his eyes again would be his last if he drifted off right away. He did not want to die yet. This war had only just begun in earnest, and he would be damned if he allowed himself to be done in by a single attack.

Once he finished patching himself up, rested, and got back on his feet, then it would be time to face the Quincy properly. For now, however...

“Captain Ukitake... I... hope I did the right thing.”

#{ rock you like a hurricane ☁ verse ☁ }#{ drabble tbt. }#{ cut for length }#{ ooc: ohhhh yeah I started writing this several months ago- }#{ =u=;;a so I uh... finished it up on a whim today- }#{ god this feels incredibly self-indulgent lmfao bUT HEY PUTTING IT OUT THERE AND YA CAN'T STOP ME }

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honeycup21 · 3 years

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Fraud, Deceptions, and Downright Lies About Valve Pvc Exposed

The sort and volume of fittings and pipe required is based on the purifier's mounting location and the kind of pipe used. The PVC pipe fittings are offered in three distinct varieties of connections. https://www.inoxcamlockfittings.com/hose-coupling/ are available in grey color as per the normal standards of pipeline manufacturing.

PVC is not as heavy than steel. PVC stands for Polyvinyl Chloride that's utilised to create unions of distinct parts of PVC pipe. PVC is famous for its durability that's one of the 5 major factors for picking a material type in construction, production and plumbing sectors. PVC and ABS are not as likely to corrode than the metallic slice valves.

Valve Pvc - the Conspiracy

The plumbing and water solutions' sector demands plenty of mechanisms where pipes ought to be joined for a suitable flow. Whether it's in plumbing, making furniture, or anything, PVC can be utilized in nearly every construction work. Third-generation Pex plumbing is the best method to go for plumbing.

If You Read Nothing Else Today, Read This Report on Valve Pvc

Provided that the valve can manage the heat and pressure of a normal water line, it is going to work nicely. The valves also operate at a wide variety of water pressures. As well all recognize that valves are by and large installed in several pipelines to take effects. Check to be certain the pipes, fittings, and valves being joined are made from precisely the same sort of plastic. Most PCV valves include a spring-loaded device.

Generally, it shouldnat be difficult to work out how the pipes are running in your home. In hot summertime, it isn't uncommon to locate the pipes sweating in basement and crawlspace locations. Pipe is accessible in unbending joints, which arrive in various lengths relying on the material. Galvanized pipe is rarely utilised in residential water systems today, though you may still discover it in many homes. Fortunately, insulating pipes is a somewhat straightforward endeavor. The most suitable size pipe is dependent upon the total capacity of your system.

There are several sorts of pipes. It's normal for tree roots to wedge their way to pipes. When it is perpendicular to the pipe, it's closed. In case the pipe is leaking, make certain you know precisely where the leak is before you switch off the water. Both kinds are offered in both rigid and flexible pipes, making them versatile and simple to install in just about any plumbing situation. Plastic pipe is a favorite as it is lightweight and typically less expensive than copper or galvanized pipe. Some forms of plastic pipe are employed in underground applications since they're less likely to burst whether the water inside freezes, as some metals will do.

In the event the pipes or the pipe valves are damaged, it is critical to replace it immediacy. Repeat till you sever the pipe. PVC pipes are among the most used products on the planet. To prevent frozen pipes, step one is to make certain that your pipes, especially the pipes along an outer wall of your house, are properly insulated. Copper pipe is fabricated in four grades or thicknesses meant for residential plumbing usage. It is widely used by professionals in most applications but some knowledge of plumbing is required to install it because of the use of soldering compounds and various fittings needed to join sections of pipe.

#camlock coupling #camlock #Ball valve

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halfwayinlight · 3 years

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Title: Stay A Little Longer Part 1/2 Fandom Star Trek TNG Rating: PG Pairing: Will Riker/Deanna Troi Notes: follow up to Star Trek TNG season 6 episode Frame of Mind, aftermath of Will’s ordeal. Gratuitous hurt/comfort fic for @cleverdistraction I think it will be a 2 parter

Deanna knew that he wasn’t cleared to return to work, yet. She was sure he hadn’t even finished half of his report. Might not have even begun it. Will certainly hadn’t been cleared by his psych evaluation because she was the person who had to do that. But she was surprised to find that he was still in sickbay.

She hated sickbay. It was one of her very least favorite places to be because emotions were always heightened. Raw. And she could sense the anxiety and a deep, underlying exhaustion emanating from Will Riker before she even stepped out of the turbo lift. She used the corridor to plex and made a more conscious effort to shield herself from the spike of distress.

Walking into an ICU that was empty except for one ensign checking the bio beds was a relief. She hadn’t expected to see Will there, but it was still a relief to have as few crew and no injured or sick patients. But she could still sense that his distress was not easing any time soon. Deanna winced at the flare of emotion and paused.

She’d intended to speak to Beverly first, but her concern and the immediacy of it drew her to the private room. “Will?” she asked, pressing the quiet chime so she didn’t take him by surprise. But when there was no answer, she entered.

The Enterprise’s First Officer was sitting on the floor, his back against the bulkhead, knees bent and feet on the floor. His hair was a mess, and the dark circles under his eyes were only darker. His hand rubbed over his beard, and he gave a sigh. “Sorry,” he mumbled, head falling back to rest against the wall behind him.

“May I sit with you?” she asked, wanting to move immediately to him but recognizing the signs of post-traumatic stress. So she chose to stand where she was, angled slightly in an automatic positioning that gave her access to the door but also to step aside in case the person she was working with became volatile.

“Yeah,” he rasped, rubbing his eyes and sighing.

Deanna moved slowly across the small room and eased herself down, leaving a foot between them so as not to crowd him. “Will,” she stared quietly, “Can you tell me about how you’re doing?”

He stretched his legs out, grimacing a little, which told her that he had been sitting with his legs tucked in for too long. “I’d really like to sleep,” came his quiet reply, suddenly preoccupied with the floor and his fingers toying with the edge of a non-descript top that sickbay kept on hand.

Despite all her training, she still had to fight the urge not to rush to ask the next question. Deanna let the quiet linger and took a moment to focus on her own breathing to retain the calm in the room. “I’m sure it would help you feel better.”

He nodded and started to say something but close his mouth and swallowed. “I know I give you hell about it, but who can relax here?”

It wasn’t, exactly, a rhetorical question. Sickbay was not designed to be relaxing. Generally if crew were here, it was serious. The very rumpled bed told her that very little, if any, sleep had happened last night. The blanket was a crumpled pile at one end, and the pillow had clearly been through it. He needed sleep. Desperately. And the plate at the small table was barely touched, telling her that he hadn’t had much of an appetite this morning, either. “Did Beverly tell you how long you need to stay?”

A shrug was his reply. “She wanted to monitor me tonight. Her shift hasn’t started, yet.”

Deanna took in this news. She had hurried down to sickbay this morning, and alpha shift wasn’t quite beginning. “I know you’re very tired, but can you tell me about last night?”

He shifted slightly and peered down at her before taking a few breaths. “I tore down the set last night. The play was over… it needed to come down anyway. It… it felt good.” He rolled his shoulders, and it didn’t escape Deanna’s notice that his right foot was suddenly restless, despite Will’s attempts to keep his hands still by clasping them together. “Beverly stayed and helped me drag some of it to the reclaimator. And then she said she wanted me to go back here for observation. It… seemed like a good idea at the time.”

She wanted to turn to face him more directly, but vast experience with Will had taught her that he was more relaxed when they sat side by side. “Now—”

“But—” he had paused long enough that she didn’t think he was going to continue. But now they were talking at the same time.

Go on, she nudged gently.

Will sighed and shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t really remember what I was going to say.”

“You said it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“They ran scans, everything seems normal… But it doesn’t always feel real. Everything felt real. I told you about that… And I felt too restless to sleep much. I’d say it’s stupid, but I know you’d say—”

“Your feelings aren’t stupid, they’re real,” she said quietly in unison with him. Deanna offered a small, affectionate smile. “Will, I don’t think staying here is helping you.”

“I agree with the counselor.” They both blinked up in surprise to see Dr. Beverly Crusher standing in the doorway. She moved into the small room and perched on the abandoned bed. “And I should’ve realized that last night, Will. I’m sorry.”

He tried to shrug it off with a chuckle, but the smile and laugh weren’t there. “So I’m getting evicted.”

“I’m releasing you into Deanna’s care,” Beverly clarified. “I want to give you a boost first, and either of you should call me if anything comes up. But given what you went through, I think this room is too clinical for you to rest.”

Deanna stood and offered her hand to him. “Please, Will.” It took all her energy to project the warmth and comfort. She moved forward slowly, giving him time to be aware of her movements until fingers brushed through his thick but soft locks of hair. Fingers soothed and stroked, and she cupped his cheek. Imzadi? Can you trust me? She implored.

He finally gave a nod, then took the hand in his. Although she pulled lightly, it was mostly Will who pushed himself up and straightened, taking a moment to get his bearings and balance. Deanna led him to the bed to sit long enough for Beverly to give him a hypo and orders to get eat, to rest, and to let her know if she needed to make a house call. Her eyes met Deanna’s for a long moment, enough to impress the point even if they didn’t communicate telepathically.

And then Deanna was urging him up again. Her hand wrapped around his arm like it often did when she sought him at receptions and other formal events. They had lived this walk way too many times to count. One leading the other out of sickbay. It didn’t even garner attention from the rest of the medical staff, who were busy with reports and labs. Deanna was grateful for the very normal day going on around them.

Good. The more normalcy that they could have, the better for both her and for Will. It wasn’t a magical solution, but as they gained the turbo lift, Deanna could feel the edge of his anxiety easing a bit more. “Deck nine,” she called as the doors slid shut, giving them privacy. Her hand slid to his, the other hand coming to meet it and giving it a gentle pulse as she leaned against him, offering her physical presence. When they finally gained their deck, it was empty, so Deanna laced her fingers through his and led him down the corridor.

She’d considered for long moments which cabin to go to—hers or his. They were nearly identical. They were equally comfortable with either. But she settled on his and continued on until reaching his door. His fingers twitched slightly, subconsciously tightening his hold on her hand. She made a mental note as the door slid shut. Home again.

Turning slightly to face him, Deanna gave him several long moments to absorb the familiar surroundings. From the little bit he had shared, it didn’t seem like this room had factored into his experience. But the intense emotion left her as breathless as he was for long moments. “C’mere,” she coaxed, guiding him as the first cry broke out. I’m right here with you, she sent him.

She took a seat on the sofa and used one hand on his arm to guide him down. “Let it out, Will,” she encouraged, knowing he needed the release. He was being swept away in the immediacy of the emotions and didn’t really seem to notice much more as she eased his head into his lap. Her left hand stroked through his hair, right arm wrapping around his chest and giving as much pressure as she could in hopes of grounding him to the moment.

The ache was intense, and Deanna knew she would be spending some time mediating later to let go of the residual emotions pouring out of him. But for now, she was simply here and present with him. “You’re here with me. We’re on the Enterprise. And you’re safe,” she murmured, offering soft but steady reassurances.

Minutes ticked by, and Will’s emotions ebbed and he shuddered before going lax and letting both the sofa and Deanna support his weight. “That was awful,” he breathed against her thigh.

“I know,” she agreed, rubbing his upper arm for a long moment before gently wiping moisture from his cheeks. “I know,” Deanna echoed again, “Don’t you dare apologize for that. You’ve been through a very difficult and traumatic experience.” Her hands continued to move and offer soft words, her mind pressing gently at his. She was pleased when he gave a soft sound of contentment and opened a bit to her thoughts against his.

Deanna took her time thinking back through calmer times between them. Walks in the gardens at Betazed. Late night conversations in their own quarters. Drinks in Ten Forward. Dances shared. Dinners. Desserts. Late night walks on the decks. The warmest moments between them.

“In a little bit,” she said quietly, “you’ll need to drink something. Beverly will have my head if I let you get dehydrated. And maybe you’ll feel like eating something.” She could sense the weariness and exhaustion starting to tip toward something that might be sleepiness but there was a hesitation to it as well. “What’s stopping you from letting yourself fall asleep?”

He was still, enough that if she didn’t know him so well, she might have thought he was asleep. “The thought I might open up my eyes and be somewhere else again when I open them,” came his hollow reply, words a little muddled with congestion from his crying session. “I know it’s not sustainable for an officer.”

“For a person,” she countered.

“Want to stay here right now,” he breathed. His eyes, red and swollen from tears, slipped shut, and his breath hitched for a moment before evening out a bit more. Could you stay a little longer?

“I’ll be here,” she assured, hand flattening against his shoulders and rubbing in slow circles. “I’m staying with you.” She leaned down and pressed a warm kiss into his hair, continuing to offer soothing touches even as her own eyes slid shut, and she let herself drop into meditation as Will’s body gave way to the last of his tension, and she sensed his mind drift into slumber.

#star trek tng #imzadi #otp: imzadi #will riker #deanna troi #my messed up space cinnamon nugget rolls #counselor troi #commander riker #my fanfic

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