#the human brain works in such profound ways i think

[crescentfool]

beaming everyone on the dashh with good brain day vibes!!! i hope that you all can remember to extend self-compassion to yourself whenever you're feeling down about something 💙

[celtic-crossbow]

A Sting in the Way You Kiss Me

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Early Alexandria

Warnings: Poorly written, raunchy smut, Dom/sub dynamic, p in v, fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), prostate stimulation

Summary: You and Daryl take the next step in your relationship. And it’s a big step.

A/N: Lawd, this took forever! I’m not 100% happy with it but happy enough to call it complete. I think I like Sub!Daryl. I’m sleepy now so I’ll proofread and fix errors tomorrow.

Daryl Dixon made you feel powerful. 

Given his nature, you could never be sure if it was intentional. From day one at the quarry, he was rude, standoffish, and vulgar. You found him difficult to tolerate, but hey, you didn’t get to choose the people with which you had survived an apocalypse. It was a random twist of fate that had brought you all together. Better to just make the best of it. 

So, you did. You made it a priority to get to know everyone in your group, saving the Dixons for last. Merle, you quickly surmised as a lost cause. Women, to him, were meek and fruitless, destined to die without a big strong man to ensure they were protected, fed, and bred like cattle to repopulate the earth. 

You found Daryl to be a tad more reserved. He only offered his opinion—usually loudly and to include several swears—when the conversation revolved around an important topic that would directly affect him or his brother. He otherwise attempted very hard to keep to himself. So when you began to follow him around, he naturally bucked against the idea. Still, you saw potential there and persevered. 

You took an interest in the things he was doing, namely hunting and trapping. He was a skilled tracker and a marksman with his crossbow. You started small, asking how the weapon worked. He had been skeptical and scrutinized you for sincerity, all with a glower in the span of five minutes. It was only uphill from there. 

When Daryl began to teach you his trades, he made sure you learned by doing. His only praise for getting something right was usually a curt nod and a “that’ll do.” By giving you weapons, having you track a buck that would feed the group for days, spear a fish, and skin and clean your own kills, he had put power in your hands. He had single-handedly molded you into a force that could survive in the new world. 

When it came to walkers, Daryl somehow knew things that others didn’t. “S’gotta be the brain! Don’t ya’ll know nothin’?!” You knew. Thanks to him. You had spent a lot of time in the woods, the perfect place to learn how to take down the undead. It was virtually impossible for them to sneak up on you. Too many ways to make noise if you weren’t actively trying to be silent. Once again, a weapon had been placed in your hand and you were thrown to the wolves…erm…walkers. The difference between this and hunting, you noticed, was that Daryl was never too far away with his own weapon ready. He knew how to make you feel independent without wagering your safety. 

The months and tragedies continued to pass slowly, each profound in their own way. Surviving was top priority and to continue to do so as time marched on became more and more of a victory. You lost people and homes, each leaving a mark on your soul that would never be erased, chipping away at your humanity bit by bit. Surprisingly, it was Daryl who kept you grounded. 

By the time you arrived in Alexandria, things between you and the archer had evolved into something just short of a romantic relationship. You had been sharing space with him for months now, falling asleep warm in his arms every night. You would show him affection in front of your friends and, though he scowled and grumbled, he accepted it. Kisses alternated between slow and passionate and long and needy, each accompanied by intimate touches that never seemed to go far enough. 

Today, you had been helping him with the bike Aaron had gifted him to keep him busy. He had shown you back at the prison how to make repairs, along with the correct name and function of each part. He was sitting beside you while you both diagnosed what could be causing the thing to sputter and die randomly. Your eyes were drawn to his muscles when he would tighten a bolt, and more than once, you had caught his gaze roaming up the length of your bare legs until he reached the hem of your shorts and quickly looked away. 

It was becoming a problem. An absolute dilemma that was resulting in a pulsing, wet need between your thighs. You chose to ignore it and focus your energy on the task at hand. Daryl, however, decided that he needed the wrench that just happened to currently reside between your lower thighs. When he reached for it, you were unprepared and reacted instinctively. You smacked the back of his hand before you even realized you had moved. He pulled back the limb with surprising quickness, wide blue eyes zeroing in on the red welt that began to form just below his knuckles. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” The words tumbled out of your mouth as you grabbed his hand to inspect it yourself. He let you pull it closer even though it meant he had to lean forward awkwardly. Your fingers brushed over the irritated flesh and before you could stop yourself, you pressed your lips to the mark you had left. A chance look from under your lashes showed he still wore the wide eyes, but the brilliant blue was merely a thin ring around his dilated pupils. 

‘Oh.’ Could it really be? You had honestly thought Daryl just wasn’t into sex since the world ended. He had never made a move, never given you any indication that he was waiting for you to make one. Sure, your make-out sessions would get pretty heated, but honestly, things were always too hectic or dangerous for anything more. Maybe, just maybe, now that your family was safe behind the walls here…

You knew Daryl had lovers in the past. It was a topic of conversation once during a night watch before the prison had fallen. Your head was on his shoulder as you recounted — in more detail than he had liked, if his growls and grunts had been anything to go by — your average-size list. When it had been his turn, he hadn’t been as forthcoming as you but you at least surmised that he knew his way around a pussy if ever the opportunity presented itself. 

On a whim, you flipped his hand and let your lips whisper over his wrist next, drawing up your legs to sit on your knees. He still didn’t stop you while you moved up his arm with hot, open-mouthed kisses and kitten licks. Eventually, you needed to skip over his clothed shoulder (for now) and his neck became your next target. He leaned back slightly when you threw a leg over both of his to straddle him, unleashing an onslaught of attention over his carotid pulse. His breath hitched, his palms hovering over your hips but seemingly not yet willing to touch you. You would use that to your advantage at some point. 

Salt, smoke, and earth were mingling on your tongue. “I like how you taste.” You whispered in his ear, smiling against his skin when you felt him shiver. You leaned back to bring your face in front of his, fingers grabbing his chin when he started to look away. “I think we need to go to your room.” He swallowed hard, his Adam's Apple bobbing. 

You stood straight up from where you were on his lap, leaving your feet on either side of his hips and the apex of your thighs directly in front of his face. Once again, he tried to look away. “Don’t.” You ordered before you thought better of it. To your surprise, he stopped short and turned back, even as he scowled from being bossed around. ‘Oh.’ The things he told you without saying a word. “Don’t keep me waiting, Dixon.” You stepped back and then over, swaying your hips more deliberately than usual as you exited the garage. 

You didn’t turn to see if he would follow. If you were reading him right, he would. 

And you were about to have the time of your life. 

Entering the home you, Daryl, and Carol shared, you passed the staircase that led up to your room and stepped into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. You probably had a good ten minutes before Daryl would stop pacing the front porch and actually come inside. 

Descending the stairs from the kitchen, you opened the basement door and flipped the light switch. Even though you had separate rooms, you spent more time in his room than your own. The things you used most were down there. You slept there. Nothing was really going to change if this happened, right?

Pursing your lips, you shook the thoughts away and placed the water on the nightstand, twisting the switch on the small bedside lamp. After you turned off the overhead light, satisfied with the subtle glow left behind, you grabbed the bottom of your shirt, pausing just before you were going to lift it over your head. No. You’d stay dressed for now. Your boots came off, along with your socks, and you sat on the edge of the mattress and waited. Sure enough, after a little less than ten minutes, you heard the slow, heavy footfalls descending the stairs. 

He must have needed another moment because there was a silent span of about fifteen seconds before the door slowly opened and Daryl entered, already gnawing on his thumbnail. 

“Hi.” You beamed, crossing your legs and leaning back. The bowman nodded minutely, looking so adorably uncomfortable that you came close to calling the whole thing off. You did need to ensure this is what he wanted. If it wasn’t, you could live without it. You had him and he would always be enough. 

When he closed the door and didn’t take another step, you rose to your feet and walked toward him, adding that extra sway to your hips. It was a pleasure in and of itself to watch him watching you. When you were close enough, you started by pushing the open vest off his shoulders, smiling when he dropped his hand from his mouth to let the garment fall from his arms to the floor. 

“Daryl.” You purred his name, and his eyes found yours instantly. “I need you to answer some things for me, and I need you to use words.” You worked at the buttons of his shirt agonizingly slow. “Can you do that for me?” He nodded. You shook your head and tutted. “Words, Dixon.”

“Yeah.” He answered immediately in a quiet tone. 

“Do you want me?” A button came free. 

“Yeah.”

“Do you know that I want you?” Another. 

“Yeah.”

“Will you let me be in control tonight?” Your fingers paused when he hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah.” He may have hesitated but his answer sounded certain. 

You smiled. “I’m going to give you a safe word. If at any time, you’re uncomfortable or you need or even just want me to stop, do you promise me you will say that word?” Another button opened. You had zero intention of going very far, but it would never hurt to establish rules when you wanted so badly to play with him. And he was letting you. You feared getting carried away in the heat of the moment, and his safety and comfort were the most important thing in the world to you. 

Daryl inhaled sharply and nodded, following quickly with a mumbled “yeah.”

“And if at any time, you can’t speak and want me to stop, will you double tap somewhere on my body to let me know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good boy.” You felt his sharp inhale beneath your fingers while you finished with the buttons, opening the shirt but not removing it. You could see a few of his scars like this. Not wanting him to grow self-conscious, you stepped into him, tracing one with a gentle fingertip only to follow with your lips. “You’re beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?” Daryl shook his head. “Daryl.” 

“No.” He whispered. 

“Well, you are.” You let your finger continue upward to stroke his jaw before abruptly turning away. “First thing’s first.” When you reached the bed, you turned back to him. “The safe word is chupacabra.” A flicker of annoyance was immediate in his eyes. “Say it.” Your tone remained no-nonsense.

“Safe word’s chupacabra.” He drawled, trying not to sneer. 

“And what do you do if you need to stop and you can’t speak?” 

“Tap on ya twice.” The archer replied almost immediately. 

You cocked a brow at him. “Good. I need you to understand that I will never be upset or disappointed if you need things to stop. Ever.”

“Alright.”

You smiled at him fondly. “Good. Now, come over here and undress me.” There was that hesitation again as his eyes raked over your body, pausing at every curve just long enough to let you know he was appreciating what he saw. Finally, he stepped toward you. Once he had reached you, he again paused. You let him. He had touched every part of you before through your clothes. This was the first time he would see you bare.

After a few moments, he reached for the bottom of your shirt while you raised your arms above your head. The garment was pulled from you and tossed aside. Your bra wasn’t anything special. Something you had grabbed on a run a few months back; white and at least one cup size too small. You decided to do this part for him, unfastening the clasp at your back and removing the thing yourself. Daryl didn’t seem to mind, his gaze lingering on the newly exposed skin. Men and boobs, a tale as old as time. 

“Shorts.” You stated simply, a smirk firmly plastered on your face when he snapped out his daze and met your eyes. There was a slight tremble to his hands as he reached for the button, his eyes narrowed. You watched him and he watched what he was doing. Button open, he dragged down the zipper, and his eyes flickered up to yours. You gave him a nod. 

His thick fingers dipped inside the waistband at both hips, but just as he started to pull, you interjected. “Panties, too.” You heard the shaky inhale as he adjusted his hold to grip your underwear as well, lowering to one knee as he pulled both garments down your legs. They were quickly shed and kicked to the side and your hand found the top of his head when he made to stand. “I think I like you there.”

Daryl tilted back his head to see you, taking the hint and lowering his other leg so he was fully kneeled. 

“Good boy.” You breathed, feeling a pulse between your legs. You had wanted to do a few other things with him before really jumping into the fun bits but your needy cunt simply would not be denied. The mattress dipped as you sat in front of him, spreading your legs in an obscene display just to gauge his reaction. The blush that crept across his cheeks should have been adorable but only served to stoke your arousal. “Come here, Daryl.” A few feet separated the two of you, so it was only natural for him to assume you wanted him to stand. 

That isn’t what you wanted at all. 

“I didn’t say get up.” 

The archer paused halfway. The look he sent you had you wondering if this was where he would end this game. He’d say ‘fuck this’ and do things his way, pounding into you until you were red and sore and screaming his name through your release. The thought was appealing. 

You arched a brow when he lowered back to his knees, a quiet curse on his lips. Would he do it? The minute he leaned forward to place one palm against the floor, you thought you might cum then and there. Daryl Dixon was crawling toward you because you told him to.  

He stopped just short of your spread knees, one of your legs coming up to rest on his shoulder. He looked over at it but quickly turned back to you. 

“Closer.” As soon as you could, you started digging your heel into his back, urging him onward until his warm breath was wafting over your core. You bit your lip, reminding yourself of the role you were playing. Your first instinct was to beg him to touch you. No, not tonight. He’d have his turn. The thought of Daryl taking charge sent another sharp pang of arousal straight to your center, your cunt clenching around nothing. The way his eyes left your face and focused on the wet mess between your legs confirmed that he had noticed. You had to reel this in if you wanted to continue. Clearing your throat, you placed your other leg across his other shoulder. “I can’t decide if I want to feel your mouth on me or those fingers inside of me.”

You tapped your chin, feigning deep thought. You had every intention of utilizing both of those delicious options. Dropping your hand, you rested back on your elbows. “Let’s see how good you are with your tongue first.” Daryl gave you a look that would have melted your panties clean off had you still been wearing them. Goddamn, he was handsome, even more so when he was showing some confidence. 

Before your mask had a chance to slip, you felt his fingers spread you open but dare not venture between your lips. Blue orbs stayed on you when he leaned in and pressed his tongue flat against you, dragging it from opening to clit before pulling back to repeat it. The second drag ended with the tip swirling around your bundle of nerves. Sparks of pleasure jolted from where he touched you. You could feel it coursing through your veins like lightning, burrowing deep in your lower belly. 

He paid special attention to your clit, taking his sweet time alternating between flicks and swirls of his tongue to gentle sucking to grazing his teeth over it with just enough pressure to make your head fall back and your fingers tangle in his hair. Then he moved down, lapping at your opening with the same attentiveness, the wet slurps and appreciative hums pulling the knot inside you tight. When he dipped his tongue inside, pumping in, out, in and then wiggling it against your inner walls, you were already close to orgasm, panting and pulling against his scalp helplessly. 

He was moving back toward your clit and you knew if he made contact, you would spiral. Not a satisfaction you were ready to relinquish to him. “Stop!” You ordered breathlessly. He almost didn’t, the brat. His breath hit hard against the sensitive nub but he didn’t touch it. “I want your fingers inside me.” You kept your head back, staring at the ceiling. “Nowhere else.” Your climax had receded but it wouldn’t take much to call it back. 

You never had a problem cumming from penetration only, but it took time and effort. It would give you a moment of reprieve to gather yourself and draw this out a little longer. 

Or would it? 

You were wet enough for his middle finger to easily slip inside, the feeling of your walls pulling him in further earning a drawn out moan from somewhere deep in your chest. You raised your head to look down the length of your body. Thank whatever deity that Daryl was watching his digit move in and out of you instead of meeting your eyes. He felt so fucking good. 

Your legs pulled toward you, leaving your ankles balancing on his shoulders and your thighs opening further. You couldn’t fucking help it. “Another.” You demanded and he immediately obliged, drawing his finger nearly all the way out so that his index finger could join the onslaught. “Mmm, so good,” You praised. Your hips began to roll in time with the slow thrusts of his hand, the hot coil that was low in your belly getting tighter and tighter. 

The sounds that filled the room were a testament to just how soaked you were, and they were only becoming more prominent. It was no longer about how long you could keep this up. Your body ached for release, your mind too clouded in a euphoric fog to care. 

“Make me cum.” You looked down again and his eyes met yours as he lowered his head, drawing your clit into his mouth. He sucked the swollen bundle and flicked it with the tip of his tongue, his fingers curling each time they pushed inside of you and tapped that sweet, soft spot that had your toes beginning to curl. 

“Yes, yes, right there. Don’t stop!” And he didn’t. He increased his efforts, humming around your clit. “I’m gonna cum!” You had no more than uttered the words when the coil inside you snapped and released wave after wave of intense pleasure; a wildfire of sensation burning through you while you cried out his name and pinned him against you with your thighs. Daryl didn’t let up, collecting all you offered as your cunt pulsed around his fingers. 

“Shit,” you murmured, your body going limp. Fingers carded through the archer’s hair while he pulled free from within you. He directed the digits toward his lips. “Let me.” The command came out breathless and shaky, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Daryl appeared almost sad that he was losing that last taste of you, but he did as he was told and leaned forward to press his fingertips to your bottom lip. You sucked both digits into your mouth, your eyes fluttering closed. 

“Goddamn.” 

Your eyes peeled open to find the bowman watching you intently, those blue pools brimming with desire. You smirked and made a show out of opening your mouth and letting your tongue sweep across his skin, gathering every drop of your nectar. The man looked as if he was going to jump your bones. He was trembling from restraint, among other things, you were quite sure. With a hum, you pulled your mouth away. 

“Stand up.” The authoritative tone was back now that you were focused on a new goal. Daryl blinked, arousal replaced with irritation. His scowl deepened but once again, he obeyed. Rising up onto your elbows, you watched him stand, flexing his fingers at his sides. Using the ball of your foot, you pressed into his groin, against his obvious desire. The archer hissed through his teeth but he dared not move. 

“Take off your clothes, Daryl.”

A smile crept across your face at how quickly he began following that command. His shirt was shrugged off in seconds and you couldn’t even be sure when his boots and socks had been removed, but you pressed your foot into him again when he reached for his belt. He stopped with a grunt. 

“Slower.”

If looks could kill, you’d soon be a walker. His hair blew away from his eyes with each hard exhale through his nose. Once again, you wondered if this was where your fun would end. And once again, he surprised you and began to follow your instructions. Your foot fell away once he had worked the belt loose and popped open the button. Your eyes tracked the downfall of the zipper, only barely concealing your excitement. 

His pants fell first and the regret of not demanding he remove those and his boxer- briefs simultaneously was immediate. Though his underwear left very little to the imagination in his current state. You met his eyes for a moment and raised a brow to urge him onward. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, Dixon.” You teased. Moving up onto your knees at the edge of the mattress, you barely waited until the last garment was kicked aside before your hands were on him. You wanted this experience to be positive for him, and while you had so, so much planned for him tonight, taking a moment to just appreciate how stunning he was wouldn’t hurt. Your lips found the skin just above his clavicle, sucking gently. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous.” You whispered before dragging your tongue up the length of his neck to his jaw. “Sometimes, I can’t believe you’re real. And you’re mine.” Your hand wrapped around his cock just as your mouth pressed against his, allowing you to swallow the delicious whimper he offered at the new contact. You kept your grip loose, pumping him at a tortuously slow pace. His mouth fell open and gave you the opportunity to delve inside with your tongue, tangling it with his when he responded to the advance. His breath between the intricate dances of your mouths had begun to pick up, an excellent moment for you to pull away completely. Your cunt clenched in response to the whine he emitted. “Be a good boy and sit down for me.”

Daryl moved a little more slowly now, almost cautiously, watching you when you crawled up to the top of the bed to grab both of your pillows. Your feet met the floor just as he sat down. You circled around to stand in front of him, lifting your foot and wedging it between his knees. “Open up, pretty boy.” The archer snorted quietly as he complied. The pillows fell between his feet with a quiet sound, and then your knees dropped onto them. You wiggled a bit to get comfortable and looked up to find him watching with his head tilted and a dark brow arched. “What? I’m shorter than you.” 

His mouth formed a silent “oh” and he nodded. The adorable moment almost had you forgetting your role, but you were able to rein in your adoration just before the giggle could bubble up. To bring things back into perspective for him, you raised your hand and whispered the tip of your finger along the vein winding up the underside of his cock. There was a choked off sound, his hands balling into fists on his thighs. You splayed open the fingers of the same hand across his chest and gave a gentle push. 

“Lie back.” 

There was a deep, steadying breath and then he did as you ordered. Your fingers laced through his on both hands and moved them to the mattress, out of your way but still within sight. 

“These stay here.” You commanded without a single centimeter of room for argument. You felt him shifting and just knew he was nodding. “Words, baby boy.” You chose that exact moment to wrap your soft palm around the base of his dick. 

“Yes.” He finally answered in a rush of breath. You weren’t certain if he was responding to your words or your touch but decided to forego clarification. He wasn’t going to last long, so you were ready to play with him through that first release. Then your needy cunt could finally get its fill of him. 

“So good for me.” You purred. You pushed yourself away from sitting on your heels, bringing you just where you wanted to be. You released him quickly, rewarded instantly with him rising onto his elbows to see what was happening. The urge to reprimand was forced down. This was your first time with him and his first time allowing this. If he felt better watching, you’d let him. 

For now. 

Palm open, you dragged your tongue from wrist to fingertip, your lustful gaze never leaving his face. The way he watched you sent a surge of wetness dripping from your core. God, you couldn’t wait to fuck him. First thing was first, though. Your hand met his cock again, warm and wet and stroking from base to tip, a twist, and back down. He couldn’t watch you after all. You nearly laughed when he collapsed back onto the mattress with a groan. 

Movement in your peripheral had you looking to find his hands returning to where you had placed them. He must have realized he had moved them when he sat up. As a reward, you pumped him a bit faster. When you saw his chest heaving but heard nothing more than the harsh breaths, you found yourself pouting before remembering the power you had. 

“You’re so quiet, baby. Don’t you wanna let me know that it feels good?” 

He didn’t respond at first, and you wondered briefly if pushing him would be the right thing when he was such a quiet person to begin with. He had taken a lot of shit from you already and this just might be the straw that broke the camel’s back. So, you just moved on with your delectable torture. 

Your pace slowed significantly. There was no time for him to investigate, though. Your lips were immediately wrapping around his tip, sucking lightly and lapping at the opening to gather the sweet little drops of pre-cum. Oh, were you rewarded for that move. 

His fists white-knuckled the sheets, a guttural moan working its way past his lips. It was the absolute sexiest sound you had ever heard in your life. You closed your own eyes in restraint, almost cumming on the spot. You had to keep moving. Sudden pauses might have him second guessing what he had just done and you most certainly did not want that. He needed to make that noise. Often. 

Swirling your tongue around the tip, you pulled him back into the warm cavern of your mouth. This time, your hand slid down the length of him, followed by your lips. He pressed against the back of your throat and had you cursing your gag reflex when you couldn’t hold him there long. It didn’t matter to him, apparently. The simple move had his back arching and his cock twitching against your tongue as you dragged your way back up. 

You bobbed your head several more times, delighted in the way he began to writhe and twist the sheets in his fists. You gave him no warning and pulled off with a wet ‘pop’. There was that whine again that had your nethers pulsing. 

“Look at me.” You ordered with an authoritative edge to your tone. Daryl lifted his head, still panting through parted lips. “I want to try something. I hope it will make you feel good. But I need you to know that if it doesn’t, you can stop me. Remember what I said. I won’t be upset. Okay?” 

He nodded but followed it with a breathless “okay.”

“Such a good boy.” You kissed the weeping tip of his cock, parting your lips to pull him back into your warm wetness. With your hand and mouth stroking him at a steady pace, you knew he was ready to fall apart within moments. His cock began to twitch every few heartbeats. His breathing was uneven and shallow. He was a complete mess and you couldn’t seem to get enough. 

You used your other hand to cup his balls, not remaining there long. They were a marker so you could find just the right spot. Starting at the base of his scrotum, you applied gentle but firm pressure, dragging the pads of your middle and index finger back and forth to massage his perineum, stimulating his prostate from the outside. Every ‘ah, ah, ah’ he fed you in response to the new sensation was a sound straight to your pussy. He definitely liked what you were doing.  

Once again, however, your greedy little cunt couldn’t be ignored, begging to be stretched and filled. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard, your mouth squeezing him all the way up and off. Your tongue slithered out to break the string of saliva that stretched from your lips to the head of his dick. “Mmm, I think that’s enough of that, pretty boy.” 

“Y/N.” He whined, keeping his hands right where you had placed them. 

“You’ve been so good for me, baby. Move to the middle of the bed.” He complied in eager yet jerky movements, lust blown eyes on your every move as you followed him up. You stopped with your hot center hovering over his groin. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of me and you.” You lowered, grinding against and soaking his cock with your slick. “I want you inside of me. Would you like that?”

“Yeah.” Daryl reached for you but thought better of it and put his hands back on the mattress. 

“Look at you. Wanting your hands on me so badly.” You moaned as the tip of him slid over your clit, providing the friction you so desperately craved. “But waiting for permission. Would you beg for it? To be inside me?” 

His lips pressed into a thin line. Had you found the limit to how far you could push him? You drove your hips down harder, shifting back and forth, and he pressed his head into the pillow with a hiss. 

“Beg me for it. Beg me because I want it just as badly as you do, but you have to be a good boy.” His heart thudded wildly beneath your palm as you caressed the muscular plane of his chest, his muscles twitching and contracting when you scraped your nails over his abdomen. “Beg and I’ll let you touch me.” You dipped toward him, letting your hard nipples touch his heated skin while your lips sucked at the hollow of his throat. “I want to feel you moving inside me, filling me up, Daryl. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Y-yeah.”

You sat up, going completely still. “Then beg.”

You watched as the defiance left his eyes, replaced by pure, unadulterated need. His fingers flexed in the disheveled sheets, his jaw clenching and ticking with how hard he ground his teeth. You smiled as desire beat out pride. 

“Fuck, please, Y/N. Wanna touch ya. Wanna—wanna fuck ya. Need ya bad!” His expression morphed into something akin to desperation. “Please!”

“You can touch me.” 

He didn’t wait, large hands grabbing your hips; spreading his fingers as he dragged calloused palms up your sides to cup your breasts. You couldn’t help the hitch in your breath when he pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers. 

“Wanna be inside ya.” He breathed, one hand traveling upward from the swell of your chest. For a moment, you thought he might wrap it around your throat. The thought of him choking you was delicious, sending a warm gush of arousal from your cunt to coat his groin. He groaned and pushed his hips up into you. 

“No.” You breathed. “Be good for me and I’ll give you what you want.”

“M’good—let me fuck ya. Please, Y/N.”

You hummed, more than satisfied, bending forward to drag your tongue from his chin to his lips. He opened eagerly, his own dipping into your mouth to taste you with abandon. You reached between your bodies, keeping your mouths connected, and positioned him at your entrance.

“Let me take care of you, baby.” Every syllable was spoken against his mouth, your cunt stretching around him inch by inch, drawing him into your fluttering, wet walls while you swallowed his desperate groans and panting breaths. “Fuck. You feel so good.” You made sure to move slowly, inch by agonizing inch, taking several heartbeats before you had taken all of him. 

“God, Y/N.”

“I know, baby.” You were so full, stretched nearly to the point of painful but longing to feel him moving within you. He wouldn’t last long, but you wouldn’t either. You lifted your hips, feeling the drag along your insides in such a way that you needed to bite back a cry. “Oh, god, Daryl.” 

His hands settled in a bruising grip on your waist but he didn’t try to move you. You had promised to take care of him and he was letting you. But you couldn’t take it anymore. You began to ride him in earnest, bouncing above him with your head thrown back. 

“Goddamn!” He keened through gritted teeth, his eyes screwed shut. 

“So—so good.” You felt the heat twisting low in your belly, pooling toward your clit while he throbbed within you. “Touch me, Daryl. I wanna cum with you.” His hands squeezed your hips before he brought one of them to where he was splitting you open, sucking in a sharp breath when his fingertips brushed his cock slipping inside you. He barely had the coherence to drag through your slick up to your clit, but the moment the rough pad of his finger pressed against you, you saw stars. 

“M’gonna,” he panted, “gonna cum.”

“Me too.” You leaned forward, shifting into a brutal grind against his pelvis. “Fuck, Daryl!” The logical part of your brain screamed for you to move off of him, that you couldn’t risk him cumming inside you but you were both too far gone. 

Your vision whited out just as you heard him shout your name, his finger pressing against your clit harder than you were sure he meant to, but it was just what you needed: that perfect amount of pain to send you toppling over the edge with him. You barely registered the warmth flooding into you with each pulse of his cock. Or the way his hips jerked up while his hand squeezed your hip so tightly that his fingertips turned white. 

When you could see, could breathe again, his arms were around you and holding you against him while he struggled to catch his breath. 

“Oh my god.” You whispered against his collarbone. You were both covered in sweat, trembling. He was still inside you, drained and softening, when his arms fell away to the mattress. You sat up with a great deal of difficulty, your thighs burning from exertion and your cunt deliciously sore. You’d be feeling this for at least a day or two, and the thought was exhilarating. 

You lifted your leg to move away, feeling the mixture of you and him begin to drip out of you but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Obviously, he didn’t either, his eyes tracking you until you curled into his side. Sated and tired, you smiled and reached up to brush the damp strands of hair off his forehead, watching his eyelids grow heavier and heavier. 

“I’m gonna get something to clean us up, okay? And then we’re gonna drink some water. Then you can go to sleep.” When he didn’t answer, you turned his head to face you with a gentle touch against his jaw. “Are you okay?” Daryl took a deep breath, almost as if he had forgotten to breathe before it. “Use your words, baby.” You kept your tone soft, no longer playing a role. It was just you and Daryl now.  

“Yeah, m’okay.” He gave you the smallest lopsided smile and you knew he was still floating in that space between reality and euphoria, absolutely fucked out. You couldn’t stifle your chuckle. 

“Alright, just stay awake for just a few more minutes.” You patted his chest and then climbed out of bed to fetch a damp cloth. Daryl struggled but he managed to stay awake. He was silent as you worked, wiping away the mess on both your bodies. The sheets would need washed but that was not a problem you’d solve tonight. “Okay, baby, just drink some water for me and we can go to sleep.” If he had any objections to the pet name being used outside of sex, he didn’t voice them.

It took him a moment and a bit of struggling but he managed to rise up onto one arm, letting you tilt the water bottle to his lips for a few long swallows. Then he collapsed back onto the mattress. You drained the bottle and placed it on the bedside table, climbing out of bed one last time to fetch your pillows. The archer was out by the time you returned only a few short seconds later. 

You grabbed the duvet and pulled it up over both your bodies before curling into his side, smiling when he unconsciously pulled you closer and pressed a sleepy kiss against your forehead. He was done for then, breathing deep and even, sound asleep. 

You watched him until your own eyes could no longer stay open, a muttered “goodnight, pretty boy” before you fell asleep to the thoughts of next time, when he’d be in charge. 

[topofmythighs]

demon dean smut 👀👀👀

speaking in tongue

demon!dean winchester x she/her reader

rundown: it's gettin' hawt in here!!! demon!dean fucks his gf and that's basically it

word count: 3k

warnings: where do we start? corruption!kink, sub x dom themes, oral, p in v pen., master!kink, cnc???, pain!kink, breeding!kink,

navigating the depths of her relationship with dean has always been difficult; he is the definition of closed off. working through typical relationship issues is easy for the two of them, but it’s the most profound secrets that dean keeps locked away even from sam that drive them apart. still, even with the disagreements and frequent pleas for dean to let her into his mind, she stays, because she promised she would.

it’s difficult, though, to not poke and prod at the mind of her lover as he shifts from mortal to demon.

dean’s more violent — hedonistic, even — but he’s almost more open than her true lover is. as the two of them sit across from each other at the bunker’s table, drinks in hand, she can’t help but purse her lips at the thought of asking more.

“go ahead, sweetheart,” dean smirks. 

she sighs as she stares into her drink, nervous to look up and see the green eyes of her lover replaced with depthless, soulless black ones. she wishes sam was here — she knows he would want to ask questions, too — but he had to flea the bunker with castiel. (he begrudgingly left her there, but with dean’s lack of plans to harm her, sam trusted that she would call him if something went wrong.) 

“it’s hard to not pick your brain,” she finally says, looking up slowly at dean.

he smirks, taking a swig of his drink. “i’m an open book.”

“yeah, but, he’s not.” she sighs, also taking a drink of her whiskey. “i just - i want to know what he thinks of me. i need to know. i know he loves me — we’ve been together for what feels like forever — but he’s just so shut-out and--“

“and don’t you think it’s time you know what he thinks of you, sweetheart?” dean asks, looking at her with a quizzed look so human that she almost believes she’s talking to dean. within an instant, he’s at her side, leaning against the table. his warm, calloused hand, the same as dean's, cups her jaw, forcing her to look up at him. she swallows thickly as her blood freezes up in her body. “you know he loves you, sweetheart. i’ve always been here — watching, waiting to come out and talk to you. to tell you what he thinks of you, how he feels about you.”

“do i want to know?” she whispers, feeling the grip on her jaw tighten. 

she’s scared and flustered. her mind is swirling, trying to wrap around itself that this is not dean in any other way than physically. he lets her jaw go with a quick jerk, crouching down in front of her. 

“he thinks about you all the time. touching you, fucking you,” he purrs. he watches the blush rise on her face, and just to be an asshole, he tacks on, “it’s gross, to be honest.”

“keep it in your pants,” she mutters, glaring at him and drinking down her whiskey. 

he spins her chair to face him. sitting down on his knees, he places his hands on hers, gripping hard. 

“ow,” she winces. “please,” she says, “please take your hands off of me.”

“ah, ah, ah. what you aren’t getting, sweetheart,” he says coldly, “is that even if you hate me, you love him.” he pushes himself up off of the ground and leans in close to her. “and right now, we are one.”

she stares into his eyes and shakily puts her hands on his cheeks as his hands grip tight on the arms of the chair. “baby,” she whispers, pleading. “if you can hear me, please know i’m here.”

“he knows, sweetheart,” dean whispers. “he can hear you. we can hear you.” dean looks into her eyes, smiling pridefully at her. 

she takes a deep breath in, looking one last time into his green eyes, before guiding his lips to hers. she kisses him deeply, trying to feel dean amidst the demon.

“not so fast,” dean says. his ultimate speed has their positions flipped within seconds. she sits on his lap, hands still on his cheeks. “if we’re doing this, and trust me, we want this,” he purrs, “you need to understand that you don’t control me.” she nods quickly, frightened to do anything he doesn’t want her to. “but just because i’m some cold-blooded killer that has it out for every mortal around him,” he chuckles, “doesn’t mean i’m gonna hurt you, sweetheart. i don't want no angels or hunters after me. i don’t have a death wish.”

“they couldn’t stop you anyway,” she whispers, feeling herself relax into his hands that are tight on her hips.

he smiles at her. “that’s my girl.” 

his hands find her hair quickly, pulling her down into a deep kiss. her arms wrap around his neck as her body slowly sinks down onto his. she’s still unsure if her heart has stopped beating, but she feels his hand find her lower back and gently press her body down more.

“you’re okay, sweetheart,” dean murmers, and she swears that was really him. her legs finally relax and settle themselves on either side of his thigh, feeling the denim-to-denim contact. her arms tighten around him, and her lips find his neck where she places small kisses up and down it. 

testing the waters, she grabs a fistful of dean’s hair at the back of his neck as she kisses it, and she feels his hips buck up to hers.

“god,” dean whispers. “don’t make me feel like some desperate teenager here, baby girl.”

she smiles as she continues to kiss. she gently grinds her hips down against his thigh, staying very close to his body and keeping her movements slow. “don’t mean to,” she whispers back. “just trying to enjoy all of you.”

"we've got time, baby," he purrs, his hands roaming her thighs. he tilts his head back, savouring the wet, open-mouthed kisses that she continues to leave all over his throat.

the grip his hands have on her thighs leaves a searing pain behind, so she pushes herself away from his delicious skin to peek and see if the denim of her jeans has been burned away. she grabs his shoulders to steady herself, wincing as he squeezes harder.

she stares at her thighs, expecting burning flesh to be escaping the denim, but there's nothing there.

"ow," she whines, eyes meeting the demon's soulless black ones.

he smirks at her, peeling his hands off her thighs. "feel that?"

"yeah, it hurts like hell," she mumbles.

her jaw is grabbed once again by the familiar calloused hand, and her mouth hangs open slightly.

"i didn't ask for the attitude, sweetheart," dean snarls. "all that pain? means your little boyfriend is here, feeling all of this and watching us like a pervert in a movie theatre."

his eyes melt green again, and the combination of a mention of a mortal dean mixed with his luscious green eyes allows her body to fall slack. she drops back down onto dean's thighs and drools, coating his hand in spit. he smiles slyly at her, pulling his hand off her face before leaving a hard, aggressive slap to her cheek. he places his thumb in her still-open mouth and forces her face back to his. her mouth instinctively closes around his thumb.

"my good girl," he says, a hand finding her waist.

she smiles around his thumb, her cheek wet from her own spit being slapped onto it. she very slowly leans forward until her head rests on dean's shoulder and gently grabs hold of dean's wrist. she rests against him for a moment, feeling the pulse of his cock against her core every time she sucks on his thumb (she swears her heartbeat matches the rhythm of his dick.). her body goes slack, recovering from the pain in her thighs and on her face.

if she was in any other state of mind, she would be the utmost apprehensive woman in the world. if dean truly is watching, she has no doubt in her mind that he will condemn her for feeling safe in the arms of a demon. but as she lays here with her head on his shoulder and his protective arm around her, she wonders if there's some form of loneliness that drives a demon's anarchy.

she sits up, tired of thinking. she gently pulls his thumb out of her mouth, then presses a kiss to his lips. her shakey fingers unbutton his red shirt, and she feels a surge of wetness overtake her when she feels how incredibly hot dean's skin is.

dean can't help but admire her. he watches her as she licks her lips, and he feels his shirt coming undone. her eyes are huge and innocent, glistening like she's experiencing this for the first time. he knows she's focusing too much on the heat of his skin, overthinking about how close dean of the subconscious is watching, so he guides her hands to the tent in his jeans.

"we want you, sweetheart," he purrs, his hand looming over hers.

"take me," she whispers, so quiet that even with exaggerated senses, dean can barely hear her.

his inhumane speed brings her up onto the table with her jeans pulled off her legs. he smirks at her soaked thong - once a baby pink turned a deep rose from the amount of wetness her body has made. he pulls her to the edge of the table, kneeling down on the floor to press kisses to her thighs.

her hands try to push his head away. "no, please! he hasn't - it's been too long! i don't want you there, i want him."

dean smiles up at her from in between her thighs. "he's always here, babygirl."

he pulls her underwear to the side, immediately licking up all of the slick that her warm pussy made. she releases a loud, pornstar moan, her hands finding dean's hair quickly. he kisses her pussy, and she swears she can hear him growling from in between her thighs. she moans louder, hoping his dick throbs harder.

it must have, because his mouth finds her clit and sucks hard, eliciting a long, loud whine from her spit-covered lips. her hands are tight in his hair, the tension in her body having nowhere to escape but her hands. dean continues to lick and suck at her clit, making her whine and moan like she's never been touched before.

"need, need you," she groans, feeling dean's fingers dig deep into her thighs.

he comes up for air, pressing kisses anywhere he can. she swears she feels her dean here with her.

"need me?" dean whispers, his eyes staring into hers. she moans at his deep voice, swearing it rumbles through her. her head tilts back, and, within mere seconds, her body bounces off of dean's soft, memory foam mattress. she hears her breath catch in her throat, to which he smirks. "too fast for you, sweetheart?"

she shakes her head quickly as her hands find his belt and button. "like it," she mutters, her thoughts flowing too quickly to focus on anything but touching dean's cock.

when it sits in the palm of her hand, hard and hot, she whines and feels a gush of wetness fall over the tops of her thighs. she immediately tries to position his cock against her entrance, but he grabs her wrist.

"one thing about us, sweetheart," dean says, "is nothing turns us on more than watching those angel eyes suck cock." he smirks at her as she nods feverishly.

he flips their positions, allowing himself to sit against the headboard while she lays in between his thighs. her ass is high in the air as she wraps her hand around his cock again, licking up his long, veiny cock. he grabs her hair immediately, allowing her brain to turn off and her mouth to be used.

"pretty girl," dean mumbles, moaning as he face fucks her. her eyes are glazed over when she looks up at him, and she moans around his cock as those beautiful, green eyes watch her suck his cock. he holds her head down, her nose just an inch away from his pelvis. she gags, and usually dean would let up, but this time, he holds her head still.

she moves her hands up his thighs, digging her nails into them, letting him know it's too much. he doesn't let up until she draws blood just one gag later.

"bitch," he mutters, as he pulls her up by her hair. he watches his doll catch her breath, a long line of spit keeping her mouth connected to his cock. her eyes are watery, and a few tears have slipped down her face. small traces of makeup are smeared over her face.

their eyes meet, and his black, soulless ones switch back to his crystal clear, serpentine green eyes. he immediately pulls her onto him, his large protective hands rubbing her back. "i'm sorry, angel," he mutters.

she pulls herself up, and her legs straddle his hips. she keeps herself close to him as he kisses her head. his kisses lead onto her face, eliciting a small, fucked-out smile from her.

"it's okay, master," she whispers, peeling his hands from her face and pressing kisses onto his wrists, desperate to feel the human in him. as she does, he rubs his cock over her wet pussy, making her whine and hide her face in his hand.

she grabs his hand and tangles their fingers together, pushing herself up onto her knees to sink down onto his cock. she watches her boyfriend's face fall into the expression it always does when she takes it all; his mouth open, eyes closed, and his chest tight with air.

"i'll always let you do whatever you want to me, sir," she says, rocking her hips back and forth on his dick.

he smacks her ass, and a deep burning sensation flows through her veins. she knows her dean is gone again, taken over by the demon yet again.

"good girl," he says, watching her intently. he watches exactly where their bodies connect.

whether it's the demon's energy coursing through her boyfriend's body or the fact that she hasn't been fucked this hard in a few months, she finds it hard to take all of dean's cock. still, she does her best, feeling electricity course through her pussy whenever she sinks down all the way. she knows from the burning that dean is there. trapped in his mind, but he's there.

knowing he's there brings her an odd source of comfort. she wants to put on a show for him, and she wants to stay on this demon's good side. she hopes that he can feel everything the way she is. she rocks her hips again, feeling dean's fat cock hit her g-spot. she lets out a very loud moan, squeezing dean's hand harder as she rides.

dean groans, too. "fuck, babygirl," he mutters. "so fucking wet."

she caresses his face with her free hand, stilling her hips. "sir?" she asks quietly.

he smirks at her shyness, bucking his hips up into her. "yes, sweetheart?"

she squeezes his hand again, and to her surprise, he squeezes back. her hands feel like she's touching a hot stove. she blushes, knowing dean's right there. "make me squirt?"

his eyes roll back as he groans, and his lightning speed flips them into doggy quickly. he places her head into the pillows and grabs her hips, fucking her soaking wet pussy hard and fast.

"sir, sir, fuck!" she screams, feeling her hips burn where his fingertips squeeze. "i need," she moans. "need your cum."

"fuck, sweetheart," dean says, slowing down his speed a bit. he chuckles. "your boyfriend in here does not want me to do that."

her laboured breathing makes her choke out, "since when did you care?"

he laughs again. "you're a dirty whore. i like it."

she smiles into the pillows and wiggles her ass, begging for him to fuck her harder. he finds his rhythm again, and within a moment, she's finding his wrist and squeezing hard as she cums around his cock.

"don't stop, sir, please, don't stop!" she can feel the tension in her tummy build up again, and she's excited to see how worked up her mortal body can make a demon.

he keeps his pace, slapping her ass and fucking her pussy deep.

"fuck, your pussy is so good, doll," he mutters. "you want a demon to cum in you?"

she nods her head yes. "want your babies," she whispers, instantly regretting her dirty words.

dean haults, flipping her onto her back. "gonna watch that pretty face."

she smiles, grabbing his face for a kiss. his hands fist the pillow around her head, and he fucks her wet, warm pussy until his cum spills into her. the feeling of his thick load inside her makes that rope in her tummy snap, and she's begging him to fuck her hard again. he does, and she squirts as he fucks his cum deeper into her.

she cries out loudly as her body winds down from its high. dean switches them so she can lay on his chest. he rubs her body all over, and if her mind wasn't gone, she would easily overthink why he's showing her any sort of care.

her leg loosely wraps around his hips, and her arms wrap around his chest. he presses kisses to her head, petting her hair.

"y'know," he starts. "takes a real strong man to fight off total possession." she nods dumbly against his chest, just happy to feel the vibrations of his voice from his chest in her ear. "your man's got a lot of willpower to get back to you, sweetheart."

she nods again, pulling herself onto him more. "thank you for not hurting me, dean."

he smiles at her, and his hands continue to rub all over her body. "i still don't have a death wish, babygirl."

[milk-ducts]

[Brief] Thoughts on Film Theory's Analysis

I was gonna post this on my priv twt.. but moots convinced me to post it here so here we are.. beware of spoilers, gore, bla bla bla ..

FIRST OFF I'm gonna start by saying, I AM ESL. I may or may not have misinterpreted some of his words, but this is mainly how I thought of his analysis. This is not meant to be ill-guided or rude ! so sorry if it comes off as this way. I will be very repetitive.

Another thing, most if not all of the information matpat gave out i alr discussed with a few mutuals on discord about a few months back so this is not new territory to me 😭😭 I thought most folks would already knew the concept of how the brain deteriorates overtime But honestly, that indisposition shouldn’t even apply to omni man??? matpat tried to compare an immortal Viltrumite's psychology to that of an aging human's, which can be misguided.

Let's start by how he compares Nolan's brain to the average aging human's brain so the audience could understand his psyche more and how empathy declines overtime. First and foremost, Nolan is not a human, second; Nolan wasn't raised with empathy or around an empathetic environment - it was an alien concept to his race. Something frowned upon. He was raised from birth to conquer and destroy without remorse. His brain never developed those neural pathways for empathy in the first place. It's not that they deteriorated over time, they were never even formed.

By the time he came to Earth, all this familial stuff was new to him. Sure, he knew he was gonna outlive them, but He didn't think he'd get attached. HE didn't process that he'd grieve over them when the time came.

Interacting with humanity for the first time ignited unfamiliar emotions in Nolan that he didn’t know how to process.

His time living amongst humans caused conflicting feelings he’d never experienced in his centuries of systematic slaughter. Loving Debbie and Mark went against everything he was taught, but he couldn't help it. For once, the lives he was manipulating to further Viltrum’s goals meant something to him. He developed a [what he presumed, NOT what he felt about them in reality, his love for them is far more profound than he assumed it to be which we later on see in the last ep of s1 and the second season] petty facsimile of love for his ersatz family.

So no, his capacity for empathy didn't decline with age as MatPat claims. His empathy was stunted from the start. An underdeveloped skill, not a deteriorated one. We had characters like Debbie to help him understand those notions, help him grow it. With Mark in the mix? it only amplified that development.

Viltrumites are societally and culturally predisposed to violence and domination. Nolan was never accustomed to forming emotional connections or grieving loss. Those were entirely new experiences for him after arriving on Earth. He was not jaded. he was grown into jamais vu in viltrum.

This is why the whole conflict in s1 happened, he was treading between double lives he wasn't sure of. He was conflicted because his past values were refuting with his new experiences. He found love on Earth, he found himself unable to accept how he'd lose Debbie. Of How jaded Mark might become. Everything he said to Mark till that point was his own self-projections, his own fears, doubts.

While the video did provide some interesting facts about neuroscience and aging, the application of those facts to Nolan's character was inaccurate. IT is educational for those who don't know, but it isn't recent news that the brain begins to deteriorate overtime so this video wasn't that informative which kinda disappointed me. Their analysis lacked alot of information about the Viltrumite race and Nolan's character. Comparing him to humans with normal life experiences just doesn't work. His immortal nature combined with a lack of empathy from birth created a psychology unlike anything seen on Earth.

SORRY FOR RANTING ALOT AND OR IF IT SEEMS LIKE I'M GIVING MATPAT SHIT ... i really liked their analysis on immortal so i'll give them that. Immortal, unlike Nolan, was born human. He has lived among humanity for over 3000 years, inhabiting different identities of public and devoted historians. Because of this, his psyche developed quite differently. Immortal knows how to form connections, experience loss, and adapt to social changes. His perpetual existence didn't harden his heart like Viltrum's brutal culture did to Nolan. Instead, Immortal's immortality allowed his empathy and compassion to blossom.

Humans are social creatures. Our brains have evolved to seek out interpersonal relationships, crave affection, and find meaning in community. For an immortal like Immortal, social interaction is vital to staving off boredom, depression and detachment from humanity.

By inhabiting mortal lives, he stays tethered to the human experience. He continues learning, growing, and developing empathy.

This is why he's devastated when the guardians die.

This is also why he goes fucking mental and tries to kill Omni-man.

If Immortal had lived in isolation all this time, unable to connect with people, his psyche would likely resemble Nolan's more closely. Without social interaction, Immortal's brain would atrophy in ways that preclude complex emotions and moral reasoning. His sense of purpose would fade, achievements would lose meaning, and life itself might feel pointless. By engaging with humanity, Immortal gives his endless existence purpose and direction. He finds value in each temporary life, so loss still impacts him deeply. Socializing keeps his emotions and cognition flexible, which prevents the apathy and hardness of heart seen in Nolan. Nolan never had these opportunities in his early years, this is why it's more difficult for him to stray away from his indoctrination. It's that he's unused to it, underdeveloped.

60 years to Nolan would've been a year and a half, so what's 20 measly years on Earth for him? Yes, he found profound connections in that little speck of time, but Immortal's emotional capacity is far more extensive.

In summary, Comparing Nolan to a human, whether mortal or immortal, is kinda inaccurate. His Viltrumite psyche rules out him from possessing JADED human qualities. You could say he's desensitized to violence sure, but no.. unfortunately.. he does not have [boomer] brain. He has [indoctrinated alien-fascist brain]

Leave your own thoughts down below or through reblogs, I'm really interested on what others may think of this! (URGHHHNN... my hcs r slipping away from my fingers cuz now people r gonna accept what matpat says as truth.. someone gun me down from the hills..)

[tanadrin]

Do you think it's possible there's a planet with multiple stable sentient species who interact? Or would such a situation inevitably end up with one getting wiped out or the two hybridizing

Well, they could only hybridize if they were closely related, like humans and Neanderthals. And IIRC there's some evidence that humans and Neanderthals/Denisovans probably weren't all that interfertile to begin with, with most coding Neanderthal alleles getting weeded out of our genome.

I think it would be very difficult for two sentient species that shared overlapping niches to survive. H. sapiens and Neanderthals were both smart, seem to have both had language and culture, and had similar levels of technological sophistication, but the latter had a much lower population and so couldn't really compete when their cousins invaded their territory. And maybe some of this is a function of the wider human clade's tendency to engage in warfare and ecologically disruptive hunting--there's a big wave of megafauna extinction that seems to have followed the expansion of human populations all over the globe--but I'm not sure how many species of big-brained tool-users any niche could support.

But I do think that species with very different niches could coexist peacefully, at least long enough to work out that species in other niches were sentient, and to develop the ethical frameworks necessary for coexistence. If there were superintelligent squid, they wouldn't ever compete directly with humans for habitat (though we might have eaten a fair few by accident). We have also managed (just!) not to render extinct cetaceans, which are fairly intelligent, or our close cousins the chimpanzee. I could also imagine a science fictional scenario where two intelligent species were in some kind of important symbiotic or commensalist relationship that would stabilize their coexistence.

I think the other tricky thing though would be timing. It took a long time for the genus Homo to develop intelligence. AFAICT the australopithecines were closer to chimpanzees in terms of intelligence than they were to us; H. erectus was a lot smarter, but probably didn't have language; it's not until 700,000 to 200,000 years ago you get human species that are more fully developed in terms of their intelligence, and that feels like a super narrow window in terms of evolution for another intelligence species to also emerge. Because once you do get intelligent tool-users who spread over most of the globe, they seem likely to me to start to modify their environment in profound ways, like we have. So if another intelligent species doesn't already exist, the circumstances in which it is likely to arise after one species comes to prominence are going to be very different--more of an uplift scenario, maybe. Like I think if we discovered a group of chimpanzees with rudimentary language tomorrow, we would do our best not to fuck with them, but we would inevitably have some kind of impact on their existence for better or worse, right?

Maybe your best bet for multiple sentient species would be to have a reason that the first species (singular or plural) that arose didn't come to dominate the entire planet--they were aquatic, and so never mastered fire; or they were otherwise highly restricted in the biomes they could inhabit; or they were small in number like the Neanderthals, but could retreat to refugia in mountains and forests rather than be wiped out; or they were a diverse clade like early humans, but they also spread out very rapidly, and were subsequently isolated by climate conditions. Like, imagine Denisovans (who were already in Asia) had crossed the Bering Strait land bridge to the Americas, and then sea levels rose cutting them off until the Age of Discovery. If you had a planet that didn't effectively have a two supercontinents like Earth, you might have many more opportunities for related-but-geographically-divided species to develop (though that doesn't avoid the problem of what happens when they meet each other and start competing then).

[doctorprofessorsong]

Destiel Fic Recs

Are You Writing From the Heart? By luckshiptoshore @luckshiptoshore (Explicit, 86k)

This fic is equal parts hilarious and touching. A ride of meta delight.

Cas Novak has been hired to ghost write the hit book series Supernatural after the original writer disappeared. He spends his days in a coffee shop trying to somehow write something compelling from Chuck's messy notes. 

But a chance meeting with a cute boy turns his life and the narrative upside down. As they grow closer, Cas finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.

This fic ties in canon in such a fun way as Cas works through the plot. It also features a deeply repressed “straight” Cas who is struggling in a way that will make you want to shake and hug him at the same time. 

Theres a lot of humor, but underneath is a really beautiful story about the stories we tell. It's a gorgeous journey that will leave you emotional.

(S)ex Parte by corrupt_touch (AmberXBoone) @corrupt-touch (Explicit, 25k)

Listen. I'm a burnt out lawyer. So on the very rare occasion I will read a lawyer fic, it's about burnt out lawyers and this one certainly hits that part of my brain. 

Dean is miserable in his job as a corporate defense attorney, and his current case where he has to defend a soulless pharmaceutical company isn't helping. Desperate to get away for a few hours, he finds a cute guy in a bar for a mind-melting night of sex. It would be a total win, except the same guy walks into the courtroom the next day. He's the judge. Can Dean and Cas forget their wild night of passion, or will they risk everything to recapture the magic? 

The desperate, needy, immediately profound bond between Dean and Cas is what makes this fic. Truly, they are two magnets pulled together. Also, there are some beautiful themes about leaving the past - and parental expectations -behind. 

Phantasma by thisisapaige @thisisapaige (Explicit, 30k)

Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in awhile. Dean considers trying to get his brother Sammy to help, but he seems so happy. 

So he decides to buy a haunted house and settle down. He'll clear out this ghost (some lady named Naomi) and the place will be all his.

Except it turns out the ghost isn't a lady, but a hot dude named Cas. A lonely phantom and a lonely human finding comfort and companionship together. 

This fic does have a happy ending, so don't worry! The fic has a nice mystery as Dean and Cas work to try to understand what happened to him, but it's the softness of these two together that really stands out.

Theres something so beautiful about these two guys, both alone for so long, finding joy in each other.

Ghost Town by blue_morning, xfancyfranart (Teen, 25k) (art by @xfancyfranart )

Speaking of ghosts, this one features a soft tropey love story with a really fun setting and a meddling ghost (Jo) who ships it.

When Cas inherits a ghost town from his eccentric uncle, he isn't sure what to think, but he decides he wants to check it out. Unfortunately for Cas, what he doesn't check out is the weather.

Luckily, the grumpy town caretaker, Dean Winchester, is there to save him. Unluckily, they have to wait out the snow storm in the abandoned ghost town.

There's only one bed and they're snowed in. throw in a surprise mystery treasure hunt and a bored ghost and you have yourself a fun, soft story.

I'll Follow You Into the Dark by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta (Explicit, 15k)

This one hurts so good. A fix-it (but Dean lived because fuck that), this fic explores Dean’s grief and desperation to get Cas back. 

When he realizes the price of admission into the Empty is being an angel or a demon, Dean takes extreme steps to save his angel. But will Dean lose himself in the process?

It's a beautiful story of love and sacrifice with a soft landing. Even if it ruins a certain item from Ikea for you.

The Princess Bride by foxymoley @foxymoley (Teen, 20k) 

Like peanut butter and chocolate, the marriage of The Princess Bride and Supernatural is a combination that works.

Its a retelling of the movie featuring all your favorite lines. There's humor! There's true love! There are pirates! 

Some of the details are changed obviously (Dred Pirate Cas and Inigo Montoya Dean, for example, are the main love interests), but it works really well and I found myself grinning like a fool the entire time I read this.

See all my rec lists at @riversrecs

[comradekatara]

ooh the bolin ask got me thinking and i’m curious as to how you’d rewrite/edit asami’s character and specifically korra and asami’s relationship if you had full creative autonomy. obviously we would have to retread some familiar points here (like, lok’s entire unfortunate politic and the often shoddy secondary character work) but i’m always interested in hearing what you think on the korrasami front!

this is such a good question to ask me specifically (the ghost of tumblr user bloodbenderz pointed out in my bolin post that i was the wrong person to ask abt his character bc he’s been the bolin champion since day one whereas i. do not care for him, but i have been asami’s champion since day one so YES HELLO) i have thought extensively about asami like truly so much, especially post finale wherein i reevaluated my entire weltanschauung because korrasami simply broke my brain. asami’s position within the narrative is almost paradoxical in the sense that she is established as a primary player but her inner life itself is afforded very little room for exploration. atla does such a great job of fleshing out characters and giving them these truly human dimensions, which is probably why it’s had such a chokehold on me for well over a decade, but lok fails abysmally at this with pretty much every character except korra herself (my baby my angel light of my life etc etc).

but asami is interesting, at least conceptually. obviously id give her more narrative space to figure out her shit, but also it’s a matter of understand what kind of narrative space is the right space to afford her. as ive gestured to in other recent posts, the most interesting facets of asami’s character are her relationship to her father (ie patriarchy, the nuclear family structure, systems of interpersonal abuse), her wealth (ie the guilt that stems from possessing capital built on exploitation and violence and how she reconciles with that as a deeply principled & ethical person), and her latent feelings for korra (ie actually going further into the implications of homoeroticism in a way that doesn’t veer straight into the mawkish heavyhandedness of the comics but also doesn’t leave it entirely subtextual until the last minute).

I think korra and asami’s relationship is actually one of the strongest aspects of the show, and i like that it’s largely lowkey instead of employing the shallow trappings of heteronormative romantic troping that turned me off other relationships in avatar (eg aang and katara, korra and mako, mai and zuko). there’s a poignant subtlety to their development that i appreciate, even as i also recognize that it was largely due to network restraints. i think that korra and asami kinda have a utenanthy thing going on but like. obviously not as profound. (also korra is utena and asami is anthy dont be racist.) so a lot of what rgu does with their largely unspoken, hidden feelings that are nonetheless evident to any viewer with a brain is what i would also employ to make korrasami more powerful. obviously lok (and atla, yes i voted rgu in those polls) pale in comparison to the masterpiece that is utena, but you get it.

that said, if i really wanted to improve asami’s character, i would focalize her relationship to her father. at no point in the show does lok ever state that hiroshi was abusive, despite concrete evidence that he tried to kill his own daughter. asami loves him unconditionally despite his role in funding a terrorist movement (let’s not get into that rn ok) and attempting filicide. we’re told that asami and hiroshi fostered a sort of codependent relationship after yasuko’s death. hiroshi retreated into his grief, and asami, an isolated heiress further isolated from her peers by her staggering genius (again, her being a genius is largely only implied but like. heavily), was left to depend on him financially, physically, and emotionally, while also sort of playing his pseudowife/caretaker as he failed to take care of her and himself (and of course it’s no coincidence that she’s the spitting image of yasuko). so in some ways, asami has been very independent from a young age, and in other ways, she is completely dependent on her father in every way. the subtext simultaneously goes unaddressed and is also thoroughly evident to anyone who bothers to tease it out. asami was, in some ambiguous configuration, abused by her father, and it culminates in him trying to kill her once she asserts her independence. her taking him down with the glove is literally a direct parallel to zuko redirecting ozai’s lightning, it’s not even subtle! it’s just. ignored!!!

moreover, asami’s struggle as she inherits the company in book 2 is handled so poorly it’s almost crazy. i have a post where i compare asami to azula and shiv roy (love seeing tags on these posts that are like “who the hell is shiv roy?” shiv my best friend shiv) and talk about each of their relationships to their fathers and how it informs their relationships to power. obviously lok refuses to acknowledge that asami was abused and operates on a psychological platform of paternal abuse in any real way, but it’s honestly one of the more logical readings of her character considering her actions. so again, if i had the power to write her well this time, i’d tease that out more, exacerbate those implications in a similar way to how azula, zuko, or even toph and sokka operate psychologically. and of course, that also would inform her relationship to her wealth and position as ceo, as both a great burden and a responsibility she feels she must adopt (it’s her biological destiny lol). and of course doing a better job to illustrate how that crisis of identity parallels korra’s, because, you know, it’s like the whole point? also (and this is tangential) but asami needed to hire zhu li and then they should’ve both killed varrick with hammers. but in general asami’s character needed to better serve as a critique of capitalism and patriarchy through her unique role in the system. like, it was really so close to achieving that anyway, but they continually dropped the ball so that the implications of her character were always fascinating, but her character itself was simply. there.

in summary, if mako’s character should function as an interrogation of intertwined structures of family and class within the society lok establishes, asami should have a similar function through different means. mako implicates the role of the impoverished orphan in a neoliberal patriarchy (and bolin, ideally, further complicates the dynamic by being more visibly earth kingdom than fire nation), whereas asami implicates the role of the abused yet wealthy girl in the same neoliberal patriarchy. in a good show, each character supplements the broader critiques being made by the narrative. but while mako, bolin, and asami all have the right pieces set in place to do so, they never quite stick the landing. because liberalism, or nickelodeon, or obama, or girlboss feminism, or whatever.

[andromeda3116]

okay but some of the ideas in jupiter ascending are literally so galaxy-brained? like, the concept that capitalism taken to its utmost extreme would result in a "superior" (read: ultra-wealthy) class exploiting whole planets of people for their own gain? the way that the three siblings play off each other, when you're ultimately left like "shit man at least balem fucking told her he wanted her dead even though he had some seriously fucked-up emotions regarding his dead mother like holy shit can you say oedipus complex my god". but the sister is like, "the ultimate resource, the only one that matters, is more time" and that's a profound concept and also again so horrifically accurate and dystopian because she's literally stealing time from not just people but whole planets' worth of people, and has been for thousands of years, they've grown them for this purpose and of course that would be elon musk's fucking wet dream, to be able to buy himself more time, and while i don't think he or anyone else would just like. immediately jump to "kill whole planets for it" i also think that if he felt like that was the only way, he would be like "it's the Greater Good. i have Unlocked Immortality For The Human Race" and be totally blind to the fact that it was only for the rich ones, on the backs of everyone else. and yet she's still nice? just because you're a genocidal self-serving ultra-capitalist immortal monster doesn't mean you have to be a jerk about it. which is so. how the human condition works?

and yet this movie also has "bees can sense royalty" and whatever the fuck was going on with channing tatum's character and a wooden (yet somehow refreshingly horny*) love story and an exhaustingly-long chase scene that could have been thirty seconds and the Great Disappearing Sean Bean Daughter and

like it's somehow simultaneously "terrible idea, flawless execution" and "flawless idea, terrible execution"

(*in contrast to the "everyone is beautiful, no one is horny" trope, channing tatum looks like a snack and by god is mila kunis ready to eat him)

[cyberpunk-20xx]

Kerry's situation is a very painful reminder of how fucked up the game's canon society is, even to the rich people. Which is maybe my biggest gripe with the game. A game where I'm not given even the slightlest chance to change shit around me, a game that's just so pessimistic and cruel in how it treats its characters, so hopeless, is not punk. but that's smth else entirely to talk about.

Back to Kerry. He's less suicidal at the end of the game when V reached out and helped some to sooth his trauma about Johnny, even if one could argue it's maybe just, well, putting him back where he started or indulging a toxic fixation. Depends on your interpretation. But his situation hasn't actually changed, he's still held by his label in a death grip, even if at least his current manager's supposedly out of the picture. But even that i don't believe. All we know for sure is that we burned his yatch. Like. Kerry tells us that his MSM Record manager (can't remember his name and be bothered to check) makes him drink on purpose to get him to sign shit, which is blatant abuse and all we get to do is fucking burn a boat? Let me make the dude a corpse, even if you make me have to work for it jfc.

I really love when fanfic writers actually address that issue btw, because it really hurts me to think about him being left in this bullshit. And in so many endings we know his situation is less than ideal even with V.

Kerry's profound unhappiness is visible in many ways: the state of his house, his insinuated addictions, his impulsive, self-destructive behaviors, his tendency to lash out and paranoia to assume people are against him, and overall defensiveness, his fear of the unknown, his clinging to fame, his refusal to see his kids, his mentioned and hinted suicide attempts. He's a guy who, at 89, doesn't seem to me like he knows what he wants, what he needs.

Personally, it both hurts me and makes me really like him, because I find him relatable in how he reacts to despair. In that aspect, I find him very well-written, even if a lot of shitty tropes and pop star stereotypes are used. Yes, pop stars one.

(One other thing that's devastating about Kerry is that he's a rocker, but he doesn't act like one, according to his own definition (which seems to really just be Johnny's shitty macho definition altho it's a whole label that precedes both of them in the TTRPG lore). Which wouldn't be a problem to me if he also didn't find the genre inferior to rock.)

But what fucks me up the most is that he's dealing with despair at all, when out of the four LIs, he's the one that has the safest, most stable life. Hell, he could even easily leave Night City and never look back, and still create, he's got the money for it, it might sound terribly materialistic of me but the man has enough money to just no longer be dealing with all this shit. But he's stuck there because even at nearly fucking nine decades of life, he's not yet felt seen, heard, or acknowledged. He's still scrambling for his roots and something to look forward at once.

Kerry is 89 and has the self-esteem of a 23 years old still.

If I just listen to my basest instincts, I blame Johnny for a lot of that, but that's the easy way, actually. If I actually think about it, Kerry's responsible of his own life too, and Johnny got nothing to do with how he feels out of touch with his Filipino roots, or him being a burnt out rockstar, Johnny is not that powerful at all, and mostly I blame Arasaka and the corps, and i blame the music industry in the game especially actually, i blame the media and the fans for how Kerry bit by bit stops feeling human in the spotlight, but the thing is, it's harder to be angry at those, even in game. Because we're not actually given meaningful ways to do something about inequality in game, and when you're unable to fight something, your brain becomes apathetic to it. It's just a survival thing. my brain does that a lot. i prize my anger a lot because of that (probably why i am so attached to Johnny tbh).

I think Kerry craves to be seen as the man he is, but his ways to try and fix that is to feed the demigod image his career upholds. I'm mad we can't do something about it, nor see the change he deserves happen. I'm mad a game with "punk" in its name is so hopeless and cynical.

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 20: Talking Dirty

Author's Note

Word count: 9.1k

Read the rest here!

Damiano was sure that when this moment came, he wouldn’t pause. He’d be pressing his mouth to yours before it’d even finished forming the last syllable. But he hadn’t anticipated the request coming out of nowhere, when he was in the middle of trying to make you laugh.

“Kiss me.” Really? When? Like, now? You rolled up onto the balls of your feet, waiting for his brain to function.

“Kiss me.” Oh my god. Wait, it’s happening?  It’s happening right this very moment so fucking do something.

“Kiss –” Finally Damiano reacted, but not as smoothly as he’d hoped. Your knock teeth and his hands were so sweaty that he wiped them on your hips without thinking. You were wearing work clothes. Why didn’t he wipe them on his pants? Or keep his shit together enough not to stress sweat? As the mortification sets in, you giggle into his mouth, and Dami reminds himself to just be a human being. A gross, flawed human being trying their best was all you’d ever expect of him. There was profound refuge in that.

“Sorry,” he murmurs into the kiss. He’s smiling, but your lids are closed so you don’t see. Again, you knock teeth, and the corners of your eyes crinkle in response. On the third try, Damiano gets it right, leading with soft lips. The first few kisses are without tongue, but both mouths are parted and willing, in case the other initiates. It’s endearing to feel Dami tense up from excitement so potent that his technique faltered. It’d probably been close to a year since you asked him to kiss you for more than an obligatory peck.

Taking a bit of initiative, you tilt your head and slow things down, introducing hints of tongue. After two more kisses the both of you find your rhythm. He steps all the way into your personal space while pulling you onto your toes. You maintain balance from your arms around his neck, which leaves your entire torso open for his hands to do as they may. Initially, they run up and down your curves with stilted movements, unsure what's allowed. You nod as encouragement. Finally, Dami finds his confidence and touches you with the assurance you’d been hoping for. 

 His right arm wraps all the way around, so the curve of his pointer finger and thumb fit under the curve of your breast. It’s as close as he can physically get and Damiano pairs it with pushing his tongue against your lips. He’s asking, not demanding. It’s so unlike him in this situation that the corners of your mouth turn upward. Dami’s trying to keep some level of composure so he doesn’t smother you, but his left hand didn’t get the memo. It dips underneath your blouse and runs along your lower back, raising goosebumps. 

But apparently this isn’t enough intimacy. The way you’re positioned, back arched dramatically, creates a gap in the waistband of your trousers. He slides his fingers under the fabric, curious what underwear you’ve got on – or if you’re wearing any. It was not a no underwear kind of day, but you’d luckily worn some cute ones to boost your mood. Damiano snaps the fabric against your skin, which earns him a lip bite. At that he finally loses his cool, pushing his tongue into your mouth with a low-pitched grunt. Simultaneously, and without conscious thought, both your heads tilt to improve the angle of the kiss. This little gesture of synchronicity does something to Dami. 

He pushes you against the wall accompanied by a more guttural grunt. It borders on too passionate, your head audibly bumping against the plaster.

“Shit! I – hmm.” You coax him back in because the pain doesn’t even register now that you’ve realized it was the same grunt he made when nearing orgasam. Specifically, during more strenuous rounds of fucking that left you both sweaty and silly with endorphins. The realization gives you a hot flash and Damiano uses the subsequent gasp to suck on your tongue. He tries to slide his whole hand down the back of your trousers, so he can grope you skin on skin. There isn’t enough space. Dami externalizes this frustration by another one of those grunts that make your cunt throb. You can feel yourself getting wet and the proximity of his hand isn’t helping, even though you know there’s logistically no way for him to finger you. 

Unless you asked. If you asked he’d do it in a heartbeat. He'd make you cum until you were exhausted. At which point, he’d request that you try for one more and tell you how much of a good girl you were being. Two words. Three syllables. Finger me. 

 Damiano moves back just enough to get some air. This would be the moment. Instead, you place a hand on the back of his head and bring him in. He doesn’t get the chance to properly catch his breath and he lives for the fact that you didn’t care. Again, things are awkward, but it only takes one kiss to adjust this time. Your fingers run through Dami’s hair the way he loves, but what turns him on even more is your unbridled enthusiasm. Your every action had been so measured otherwise. He struggles to externalize the scorching intensity of his desire within the constraints of this embrace. As a result, he digs his fingernails into your ass while trying to bring you closer and accidentally scratches you.

The pain is sharp, burning, unexpected. But you’re aroused enough, and the moment is impassioned enough, that it’s thrilling as well. There's an insistent pull from your core that demands more intimacy, so you try to hook a leg over Dami’s hip. He catches it, his thumb brushing back and forth, affectionately. Balancing on the tippy toes of one foot results in a lot of wobbling. You’re ready to admit that you've reached the limits of this position, when Dami tries to pick you up. As invigorating – and quite possibly disastrous – as that would be, there's a decent chance that it would trigger headspace right now.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you pant. Also breathing heavily, Damiano gives you back the use of both legs for balance’s sake. With the change in position, you can feel the raging boner he’s sporting and let out a huff.

“I don't think I can reposition that to make it more comfortable for either of us. Sorry.”

“You’re the one that’s suffering.”

“I’m more than content,” he assures, coaxing you back in. This time the kiss is slow, no tongue, focusing on sensation. He sets his hand on your ass and wraps the other forearm around your waist. Your attention is drawn downward: to the scratches, to your throbbing cunt, to your uncomfortably damp underwear, to the erection digging against your hip. It's a relief that this rhythm requires less technique, because you couldn’t keep up otherwise. Dami cups your face, delicately, languidly kissing all the high points.

“I think I want…” you open your eyes and are assaulted by context. He was less than 12 hours sober, interrupting his routine for this. You were still sleeping separately, not each other’s primaries, not having sex. Things weren’t normal and that robs you of the previous moment’s confidence.

“What do you want?” he whispers, a hand on your jaw guiding you in for a kiss. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” After a couple seconds of making out with an occupied mind, Damiano falters and sighs heavily in potent disappointment. “You’re in your head again.” His eyes open. You want to fix it, but the complexity of this morning’s circumstances isn’t something you can solve. 

“Yeah. Sorry.” You lean your back against the wall and direct your gaze just to the left of Damiano’s eyes. That way you don’t have to meet them and see how you’re failed him. 

“Progress,” Damiano states decisively, a hand rubbing your flank while the other brings you back into a hug by your waist. You allow this, tentatively. Your arms wrap around Dami’s torso to avoid exacerbating the omnipresent sexual tension hanging in the air between you two. 

“Oh,” you accidentally exclaim as he brings you close. Dami’s hand is under your blouse again, wrapped so completely around your body that his finger tips brush the sensitive skin of your stomach. The fingers of his other hand slide into your hair from the base of your scalp, gathering it in his hand. Damiano gradually tightens his fist, but it doesn’t sting. It doesn’t even really count as hair pulling, more like he’s lifting the scalp from the skull just slightly, to release all the tension that caused headaches.

“Oh my fucking god,” you whine, pornographically, slumped against him, toes curling in your boots. Dami goes to simply stroke your hair but you object. “No, do it again you bastard!” 

“I don’t wanna pull your hair out,” he chuckles. You nip his pec through his t-shirt which earns a noise of surprise. “Okay, just one more time.”  He’s gentler, but scrapes his nails along your scalp on the way. You shiver violently and outright moan, open mouthed. His cock twitches against your stomach as your eyes roll back. 

“Massage therapy was one of the treatments at bougie rehab and I had so much time I got them to teach me. The hair pulling thing isn’t strictly allowed.”

“Because clients demand a happy ending?”

“Well, no because – a happy ending, you say? How happy?” You stand upright with a groan and a deep breath. He actually does smell a little bit like liquor. That fact has exactly one upside, which is that it curbs your horniness. 

“I need to get to work and you need to get ready for treatment, Dam.” He’s trying to figure out how you went from putty to capable of higher brain function.

“You also need to shower. I need to drink my espresso.” He boxes you in with his arms, intent on deducing the reason for your energy shift. “Booze. I can smell it on you. Go shower.”

“Fuck.” He covers his face with his hands out of embarrassment and throws his head back. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, y/n.”

“I just noticed it a second ago.” You decide to reheat your espresso and grasp the handle of the mug.

“No, I mean – I am sorry about that. It’s fucking disgusting, but…I’m really sorry about all of it. And I…” He winces while squinting his eyes and shaking his head again. Whenever Damiano was disparaging himself, that gesture usually accompanied it. “Fuck, did I even properly apologize for it? I don’t think I did. I don’t think I –”

“Woah! Are you ready to take this apart and examine it right this very second because I sure as shit am not.”

“...no. Definitely not, no.” 

“Okay, so we’re going in circles right now, babe.”

“I know you’re right. I know you’re right.” He speaks rapidly while pacing the living room.

“Hey, Damia, remember that it's okay for us to be at odds sometimes. We’re highly compatible, but we’re also individuals. We can’t honor our individual needs, desires, and experiences while always being in perfect harmony.” He stops moving and looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

“You’ve always been better at that part than me.”

“It's that toxic monogamous narrative that love is measured by self-sacrifice and pain for the sake of your partner.” Damiano shakes his head “no” and resumes pacing.

“But it’s not that for me it’s just – desperate! I get desperate for things to be fixed. Its so fucking uncomfortable for me to sit with this feeling and to not know exactly when its gonna get solved.” This gives you pause and your insides twist.

“Uncomfortable enough that you’d relapse?”

“No” He spins to meet your gaze intensely. “No and that's a toxic precedent to set, that you just being yourself could trigger me to relapse.”

“I know. We just talked about it and I agree. I can’t keep walking on eggshells.”

“Fuck we are going in circles,” he groans. “We were just at odds for months and it felt so fucking unnatural and god-awful and I thought it’d never get fixed, ever. So I started to really, really loathe this feeling. And now I have the worst associations with it, so there’s some part of my brain – not the rational part – that is screaming at me to fix this before you walk out that door.”

“Because what if I never walk back in since you just relapsed?” Damiano’s expression is surprised and exposed. 

“Yeah…but it was my fault then and it was my fault now. So I have to learn how to deal with it and that's not your problem.” You soften and take a couple steps towards him, hoping this will establish something productive instead of getting the both of you worked up again.

“Damia, we’re fine. I hate the idea of you suffering like that.”

“It’s not gonna make me relapse, I promise.” There's exasperation creeping into his voice that you choose to ignore. 

“Hey, look at me.” You step close enough to reach out and take his hand, clasping it in both of your own. There's tears in his eyes. “I don’t want you to suffer, simply because I don’t want you to suffer. I don’t want you to hurt Damia, that's it.”

“But I…I just, just – I just – I did to you…”

“Why on earth would I want to put you through that pain after personally feeling how excruciating it is? That’s not love, Damiano. That's not love.” He sort of throws himself into your arms, clumsily. “We’re adapting to some new elements and we’re out of practice with the old ones. Growing pains.” He nods and wipes his tears on your shoulder.

“Yes. Yes, we’re good. Things are good.” He straightens up, saying the words like positive affirmations. “Whoo, okay. I feel grounded. Thank you. I feel grounded. Okay.” Dami takes a couple deep breaths like you had earlier, in through the nose and out through the mouth. You recall the pledge you’d made with yourself to employ more verbal affirmation.

“Damia, you are doing incredibly well for the circumstances. I’m proud of you and I want you to understand that. Your integrity is intact. My respect for you, as a person, is intact. You didn’t falter in being a supportive partner or a good Dom.” Besides the pace of his breath doubling, he doesn’t react. Damiano stares at you, wide eyes full of emotion and unblinking. Maybe you’d overwhelmed him, accidentally.

“No pressure to respond! I know you’re already fielding a lot, emotionally. I just love you. Um,” you tuck your shirt back into your pants while trying to determine if any of the content’s of your purse went under the fridge.

“Wait, I…” you turn back around.

“Yes?”

“I am going to find the words to express how deeply I feel for you. Because I am so grateful for you and your character.”

“I know how you love me. That's enough, Dam.”

“How I’ll always love you. How I’ll always celebrate you.” Even the meeting of your eyes is dangerous. Because it acknowledges what you both know independently. If you were to rabidly strip away each other’s clothes and make love, quite possibly on the floor, it would be the most intensely intimate act in memory. Panting, thrusting…

“I should go.” Sweating, gripping…

“But –” Grunting, whining…

“Dami –” Grinding, licking…

“Your makeup. You cried off all your makeup. You’re gonna get some weird looks at the office.”

“Oh. Um…yeah.” You rush into the bathroom and the aftermath of several minutes of sobbing is truly something to behold. “Oh my god, I looked like this the whole time and you didn’t tell me!?”

“It didn’t seem relevant!” he cackles in the background.

“I made declarations of love looking like a horror movie extra!”

“I think the tear tracks of mascara down to your chin actually bring out your eyes. You know, contrast!” 

“Hey, honey. How are you?” asks the front desk receptionist.

“I’m fine. Wha – well, I’m holding it together, to be honest. Yeah, just trying to get through the day.” For a second, you forget the story about your grandfather and almost ask why several of your co-workers are wearing expressions of such pity.

“Let me get you the name of this serum that keeps your eyes from getting all puffy after crying,” Teresa says, as you set your purse down. “Actually I have a travel size of it in my car let me just –”

“No thanks, I’ll be okay.” You place a hand on her forearm.

“No, no! It's no problem and I haven’t opened it or anything. You can just keep it! I remember when my grandpa died I looked like a mess as well.” Several people give Teresa a side eye for being so tactless, but it's exactly the response you’d expect from her: unfiltered, generous. 

“Tess, I really just want to get through today, okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m here if you need me.” She falls quiet, uncertain how to proceed since you’ve rejected her help. As she slips away, you feel bad for not accepting. Then you feel worse for faking an illness in the family. News of which had, apparently spread like the gossip it really was. You come up with a plan to milk this as little as possible, feigning a text from your mother around lunch that the whole thing might just be dehydration and the doctors weren’t worried.

Y: I can feel my integrity shriveling every second I keep this acting job up. D: Hah! Welcome to my world. Y: Pretending not to be hung over isn’t on par with pretending your grandparent is on death’s door to get out of work D: Remember that you didn’t lie about going through something. You set down your phone and take a deep breath. It was exactly the right thing for him to say. Y: Thank you.  D: And if the world had a properly adjusted perspective on panic disorder, you wouldn’t need to lie at all.  D: If your brain is being mean to you, please don’t use this to measure your goodness as a person. It isn’t accurate. You’re incredible. <;3 D: I also had them send you an automated email when I checked in for treatment today, so you’d know for sure that this is where I am. 

At first you type “thank you,” already knowing that’s too lame to send. Damiano is being so damn attractive (dependable), that it's distracting you from crafting a heartfelt response. So you go for witty, joking that you can’t focus on work with all this dirty talk. Then you get an unhinged, naughty idea which you’d discard any other day, but after Dami’s insistence on just being yourself, instead of being his keeper…

You slip into the bathroom, hoping no one sees your grin and asks questions. Back to the door, you unbutton and unzip your pants, letting the clasp hang open and reveal the baby pink mesh underneath. After snapping a few photos of your underwear, you position your hand suggestively, as if about to masturbate. Sending one of those to Damiano makes your heart pitter-patter. Inspired, you send a second picture, sucking on your fingers, making sure everything is messy and spitty in the fluorescent light.

The walk back to your desk is deliciously anticipatory. You’ve got to keep your smile controlled, but your phone buzzes about seven times right away. However, you also can’t check it on the way and risk wandering eyes. Getting seated, you slide your phone out with one hand while the other covers the bottom half of your face.

D: WHAT?!? D: OKAY!!!!!!!!! D: Like don’t get me wrong HELL YEAH! AbsoMOTHERFUCKINlutly! But WHAT!????? D: Christ you’re so sexy I’m not gonna be able to sit still D: I know exactly how you taste too. This is fucking torture.  D: I don’t have enough time to get off in the bathroom either. Like a fucking teenager. That's what you’ve reduced me to. Y: Oh, we were not sexting before? You were just being such a turn on I got confused. D: No, no, no. I was confused. ME. Y: You seemed confused this morning…or maybe the word is curious. You seemed curious about what underwear I was wearing. Y: Thought maybe you’d still want to know. D: Another EXCELLENT assertion on your part. Y: I haven’t even sent you my ASSertation yet. Maybe you’ll earn that at a later date. D: You know there's a guy here who keeps going on about building a time machine. Maybe I’ll talk to him. Y: Ask him what it runs on first.  D: Ah ha! A third excellent assertation. I asked and it did not run on hopes and dreams, unfortunately. Y: Knew it. D: I’m gonna use the gym they have here after therapy and you’ll get another automated email when I leave. I’ll pick up some Greek and see you and your ASSertations back at the apartment about 7? Y: Sounds good!

You quite literally clutch your phone to your chest and smile dreamily.

“Good news?” your project manager calls out, before speed walking behind you. Thank god Dami had sent so many texts that your spicy pics were no longer visible on the screen. Still, your heart stops.

“Huh?”

“Your face…good news about your grandpa?” Izolda simultaneously answers an email on her phone and speaks, lacking appropriate intonation. She comes off as cold but had offered you the morning off, at least. Teresa looks up from her computer, not so subtly radiating resentment towards your shared boss.

“Oh! Uh, yeah. Yeah, the doctor still thinks it's just dehydration. Just getting old…I guess.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” she calls over her shoulder, entering a conference room.

“I’d bet money she didn’t even hear you,” Teresa murmurs. She’d been at the company ten times longer and had utilized that time to curate a potent dislike of her superiors.

“Izolda has more important things to do than experience compassion in real time,” you joke, in a whisper. You watch her through the glass walls of the conference room, speaking to a table of mostly men. She takes a power stance, probably something from a book about female leadership. Izolda used a small stack of such books as a coaster for her coffee. It was a pretty grim metaphor, but not as grim as spending her free time strategizing how to trick men’s perceptions into taking her seriously.

“God if that ever becomes me, just shove me out the window,” Teresa jokes. You have to force a laugh. Damiano’s comment was still too fresh.

It feels like Damiano’s first night on break from the never ending tours. That's the level of anticipation, just waiting for Greek food and a movie with cuddles. You make yourself busy, but the emotions from all those nights he kept you on the edge of a panic attack creep in. His eventual return between 12:30 AM and 4 AM – if he came home, that is –  always included sketchy behavior you’d come to identify as signs of substance abuse. And there was always a good excuse. The breakup had afforded you an inhumane excess of time to ruminate on the actual events behind those excuses.

You metaphorically dig your fingernails into the hard earth and pull yourself from the pit of despair. He’s not even late. Even if it was 7pm, that’d been an approximation. Damiano had no control over traffic or if the restaurant was short staffed. Maybe a line cook didn’t show up for work and everything was taking 20 minutes longer. Or maybe it was a hostess, the person who ran the food out to Dami’s car so he didn’t get recognized and mobbed inside the restaurant.

It evokes a memory that fills you with compersion. When things were in the early stages between Damiano and his companion Rosa, she’d witnessed how loyal certain restaurants were. They kept the fact of Dami’s patronage secret, despite what the publicity could do for them, because of how well he treated the staff. From discussions with the chef to friendliness towards the janitorial staff. Everyone in the service industry was his equal, just as his assistant and booking agent were his equals. Rosa was enamored by the way he balanced humility and the necessity of ego to project megawatts of charisma as a front man.

Witnessing other people come to appreciate, value, and celebrate the best parts of Damiano – ones the public didn’t see – was infinitely rewarding. The parts that made him bashful. The parts that made him blush. He would never be all yours and he wasn’t intended to be. You were both too numerous, too aware of the others' multiplicity to claim ownership. To love was to remove limitations on how others might cherish him. And being cherished for who he is, not the persona, was vital for Damiano’s well being. Just as the dependability you found in companions was vital for yours.

When Dami comes through the door, you’re lost in thought and don’t properly calibrate your reaction, running into his arms with a squeal.

“Hey so – hey you!” His eyes are clear, mannerisms not delayed, and there's no smell of booze. All signs pointed to sobriety. “What are you so excited about?” he exclaims, setting the food down on the floor so he can return the embrace. 

“Oh, uh…” You realize that you’ve practically climbed him like a tree out of nowhere. Typically you greeted Dami warmly, but never at the door like this. It was an undeniably girlfriend-level reaction and you weren’t there yet. Last night was evidence that Damiano’s sobriety wasn’t there yet either.

“Well, I didn’t mean to kill your joy!” He hugs you closer, hands sliding across your back. Dami tilts down his head to catch your eyes.

“You didn’t! I just realized that running into your arms probably skips a few steps.”

“Can I be honest?” You’ve got one hand resting on his chest and the other brushing the base of his neck.

“Mhm.”

“We’re partners. We’re going at your pace day to day. I’m not confused.” He tilts his head further down, until your foreheads are brushing. Even though Damiano is trying to compensate for the height difference, the fact that he has to compensate just brings attention to his stature. His stability. You wish he hadn’t showered after the gym. Even better, that he was still panting, slick with sweat, all the muscle definition he’d gained back visible.

“You know, maybe we should try going to the gym together again.” He’s read your mind, so you hide against his neck while turning red. He chuckles, running his fingertips along your spine. The sensation is delicious. From this new vantage point, you can tell that Dami hadn’t washed his hair after working out, probably didn’t have shampoo. You roll up onto your tiptoes, the hand on his chest encircling his mid-back. Damiano rests his face on your shoulder and relaxes, bringing the nape of his neck closer to your nose. Home.

“I was a coward today. I told my doctors I relapsed, but not the group. It was just so many fucking people looking at me.”

“As long as you told the ones that needed to know.”

“I’ll tell the others tomorrow, I promise.” Damiano straightens up to meet your eyes again.

“You don’t have to promise me that. Do it in your own time.”

“No I have to tell them,” he groans, removing one hand from your back to rub his face harshly. “It’ll keep me accountable. Speaking of which…” He goes to use the breathalyzer and takes a drug test while you unpack the food.

“But today wasn’t all bad,” he calls from the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” You momentarily forget about the pictures, then burst into laughter when you realize what he’s referencing. “Your timing was impeccable. We had just started a five minute break.”

“Plenty of time to have impure thoughts.”

“And yet, not nearly enough!” 

“I don’t know, it was just a…a random little impulse I had when I couldn’t find an answer that encapsulated what I wanted to say. It was silly, but I thought about what you said this morning and I thought that…even if it was totally inappropriate, you’d still enjoy it.”

“Oh, it was inappropriate and silly and I very much enjoyed it.” Damiano switches the bathroom light off, wearing a feral grin. “What exactly did I say, again? Remind me, please.” He rests his elbows on the dining table and leans forward, something vaguely feline about his physicality. Feeling the blush returning, you shake your head and turn your attention elsewhere. “C’mon, I need to know precisely. This is extremely important to me.” He goads you while moving closer in small increments, lent forward, like a predator on the hunt.

“I…” For once, Damiano doesn’t realize that he’s arousing you. He’s just being playful, smiling like the Chesire cat while you flush up to your ears and try to hide. Looking out from under his eye brows in some sexy version of the Kubrick stare, he creeps across the kitchen. Before Dami is even within feet of you, he’s backed you into a corner. The cats look on, impressed.

“What you said…” If not for the killer anticipation, you’d be able to complete a sentence. However, Dami’s hands are extended to capture and tickle you, elbows tucked to his sides. You make a run for the bedroom, but he catches you, momentarily lifting you off the ground. Then his fingers poke at your side's, nefarious laughter right in your ear as you’re overcome with giggles, screeching during half-assed attempts to get away.

“Gonna get’cha,” he chants in your ear, but allows you to escape. You spin around to see if another attack is imminent and immediately want to kiss the hell out of him. So you do, because you’re not thinking. It catches Damiano off guard. By the second kiss, you’re emotionally overwhelmed and remembering why you put more thought into the physicality. By the third, you pull away. It was comforting to know that you could kiss him and regret it without the sky falling.

“Whoops!” You peck him on the cheek to keep the moment sweet, still feeling bubbly. As you turn back towards the plates, Dami catches you by the waist. Initially, your stomach drops, but he doesn’t try to kiss you. He just admires.

“Oh! What you said about just being myself, that I didn’t have to consider your sobriety or our relationship status – I guess I inferred that part by extension – when I act.” He continues gazing at you without acknowledgment. 

“What?”

“You’re looking at me how you used to, like over a year ago. You don’t…feel a difference?”

“Not like…I don’t know. What should I be feeling?”

“Nothing, necessarily. I was just wondering.”

“I mean, I feel different today, in general, obviously...”

“There wasn’t a right answer,” he reassures, genuinely. “I was just curious. Wanted you to stare at me some more before I screw it up somehow.” You scoff, but Damiano is reprimanding himself before you even get a chance. “Fuck, sorry. We had such a good mood going and I just eviscerated it, god damn. Ugh! Why do I –” You shush him with a finger placed to his lips.

“You plate the food, I’ll choose the movie, and you’re only allowed to drown in self-loathing for as long as it takes to walk from the kitchen to the couch. Deal?”

“Deal.” Damiano fails in concealing how bad he wants to kiss you.

“Okay.” You take a couple steps back to establish a safe distance. Dami smirks and the whole boundaries thing is almost in vain. Luckily, looking for a movie provides a necessary distraction. After that first phone call post-breakup, you started saving movies and the occasional series to watch with Dami, eventually. He could be so god damn particular about what he liked. While reading those names off, he hums and haws at various levels of lukewarm enthusiasm until a Clive Davis documentary earns actual speech.

“Yeah, I’d like to watch that again.”

“But you’ve already watched it?”

“While pretty wasted, yeah.” He sounds unbothered, but you check if his expression appears triggered and are met with an unexpected visual. As Dami picks up the plates and turns from sideways to front, it's obvious that he’s half hard.

“Did you not masturbate after working out?”

“There were other people at the gym!” he says, scandalized. “And you just interrupted my self-loathing time!” You take the plates from Dami and dramatically gesture for him to do the walk from kitchen to couch again. 

“Hey, if your boner gets worse, does that make you an exhibitionist?” As he puts on a contemplative expression, you interrupt the walk of shame again. Damiano throws his hands up in pseudo exasperation. 

“Can we not talk about it?”

“Why? Touchy subject?” You wiggle your eyebrows and he bursts out laughing. “Do you really need to get laid that bad? Like if I described the anatomy of the penis, would that get you off?”

“Depends on if you did it in that whispery, sexy voice.” He shimmies his shoulders while grabbing two sparkling waters from the fridge.

“I do not have a whispery, sexy voice!” 

“Sultry?”

“When I’m submitting, I –”

“No, no, no. This is a different thing. When you want something – well, usually its sex, actually. When you want sex and I’m busy or I’m tired, you’ll use it.”

“You mean dirty talk?” 

“No! Well, yeah, but it’s its own thing.” He sits down beside you.

“You have never told me this before.” 

“I absolutely have,” he counters, both enjoying the empty bickering.

“No way.”

“Yes! It's that thing you do when you get on top of me and tell me how good it feels to ride me and how there's nothing like it, so you can’t just use one of your vibrators. And ‘oh, I promise I’ll do all the work.’ But half the time you end up with your ankles by your ears asking for harder.” Damiano enjoys the satisfaction of proving his point before the explicitness of his explanation dawns on him. And while sitting on the couch, no less. You bite your lip to stop a scream and stare straight ahead.

“Your feet are –”

“I know.” On the verge of kicking, toes outright curling. “Ugh, why’d you have to point that out?” Trying to escape the asphyxiating sexual tension, you hide your face in your hands.

“I mean, you did point out that I was –”

“I know, I know. Why didn’t you do something about it in the bathroom?”

“The food would have gotten cold!” You raise your face just a couple inches to look at Damiano doubtfully. “It would,” he insists.

“No, it wouldn't.” He scoffs in offense, sitting back, and things are playful again. “You last when it counts, I’ve got no complaints.” 

“Clearly.” His eyes sweep up and down several times. Initially, it's part of the joke, but lust takes over as the driving force.

“Will you just eat your damn food while paying attention to the damn movie? Maybe try not impale me when we cuddle?”

“Sure.” You look at the remote and then you stare at the screen because, based on his tone of voice, Damiano is licking his lips while staring at the shape of your’s. He’s not even trying to be civil. The sound of fabrics brushing indicates him getting comfortable. His legs part as he takes up space, showing off his erection rather than hiding it. Dami’s still staring, probably waiting for you to snap and clamber on top of him. You can feel his gaze and it burns.  Burns between your legs and on your face, ears even.

With a nearly trembling voice you request, “please stop looking at me.”

“You’re more interesting than the movie right now.” He’s perfectly cool, collected.

“We’ll pick a movie you haven’t seen.” You press the back arrow on the remote, intending to look through other saved titles. This turns out to be a huge mistake, because the tension only tickens without the movie’s audio to serve as a distraction.

“Your reaction is more interesting than any movie, michetta.”

“What? Me turning redder than a tomato?”

“I had no idea that you were this into riding me and I’d like to think I know your preferences pretty well by now.”

“It’s not – it’s just, ugh! What I said in my whisper, sexy voice or whatever, I wasn’t just saying that to get my way. It's true.”

“Intending to do the work?” 

“No, that there’s no toy that can replace it. It has –”

“Riding my cock.”

“Riding your – it hasn’t become my new, like, holy grail or something. But when you want something and you can’t have it – even though you know you could have it – sometimes the mind just fixates.”

“And that's what happened? You fixated on riding my cock? That's why the new toy?”

“How did you –”

“I was here when it arrived. Got curious. My apologies for invading your privacy.” He’s not sorry at all. Damiano has your wrapped around his finger, wound tighter than a spring, and he’s relishing it. “You should know that thing isn’t gonna feel nearly the same as riding my cock. That extension is for the g-spot, it’s tiny. It's not gonna reach nearly deep enough to make you feel full and girth-wise –” You squeal and curl into a ball, entire pelvis throbbing. “Girth-wise, it's not nearly enough to satiate you. But it vibrates and I can’t compete with that, so...” His audible smile alone would be enough to get you worked up. 

“But what about the days when you wanted the girth of my cock to be so challenging that it bordered on injuring you. ‘It hurts. It’s too much. I don’t think I can take it. You’re too thick. What about foreplay?’ Then we’d both pretend you hadn’t made me swear to god that I wouldn’t give you foreplay no matter what.” A hot flash causes your face to get damp with sweat. “But hey, you get to rub your pussy on a silicone, vibrating surface. And that’s something new you’ve never tried before, right? Sounds exciting.” Your head is empty besides several forms of horniness. Too aroused to think, you stand up and walk the length of the apartment. Nervously shaking your hands is a mildly effective way to mitigate the lightning bolts of energy.

“What…” Damiano knew that relapsing had effectively negated all progress towards love making. You needed confidence in his sobriety to feel safe. However, this spontaneous bout of confidence was very convincing.  

“What are…what are you tryna –?”

“Were we not talking dirty before? You were just being such a turn on I got confused.” You stop pacing and look over at Dami for the first time. He’s wearing a shit-eating grin, having gone from sex god to nuance in record time. You ignore the disappointment that his seduction was motivated by vengeance.

“I sent you a picture of my underwear. You almost gave me a stroke!”  He belly laughs, a loud, crowing cackle that takes up the entire room. “For fucks sake.” You sit down with a huff and unpause the movie while Damiano carries on beside you. Eventually, he ends up with his head in your lap, complaining about a side stitch. 

“Serves you right.”

“You know, if you want to ride a cock attached to a human being, there are several other options besides me. Ceilia, Sam –”

“I literally talked to Sam today. We’re hanging out this week. I was just with Ajax.  Ceilia, I haven’t talked to recently, but she has a new primary partner and we left it at a really good place. It’s not like there was a high level of commitment there.”

“Woah, I –” Damiano sits up and pauses the movie.

“I keep up with my friends. I keep up with my companions. I’m not ghosting people, I’m not a bad poly – fucking polya person!”

“I didn’t say you were, baby.” You open your mouth, but pause to think first.

“No, you didn’t. Fuck, you didn’t say that at all and I got so defensive. I’m sorry, Damia.” You collapse against the back of the couch. Dami props himself up by his elbow. “Well, I guess it's obvious what I’ve been insecure about.”

“Being closed off?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“So things have felt more than disjointed for you? Because, I know, for me, that you were my starting place with polyamory. I wasn’t quite sure how to do it without you or really, a lot of things, honestly.” He runs the pad of his finger down the bridge of your nose. “My anchor.”

“It’s…” you take a deep breath and remind yourself not to take on responsibility for Damiano’s wellbeing. “It’s that, but also I, um. I – god damn, it’s never this hard for me to get words out.” His face softens with concern. “The dom…sub stuff. The dynamic was more holistic than I realized, than I could have ever anticipated.”

“I saw some of that when you visited me in rehab. I was waiting for a good time to bring it up.” You nod and stare at your hands. “Does this feel like an interrogation? Does the way we’re –” In your peripheral vision, you see Dami gesture between your bodies.

“No, not really.”

“Because I know I love seeing your expressions, but you don’t like feeling examined. So…c’mere.” He makes a decision and gestures for you. “Come over here.” You end up tucked in the corner of the couch, your back to Damiano’s chest with his arms wrapped snugly around you. He sets his cheek against your head and you let out a breath that somehow he knew you’d be holding

“It was brutal. It was absolutely fucking brutal losing my dom.”

“Yes.”

“It's like with polyamory, we didn’t one day say ‘hey, lets try sadomasochism and age play. Let's try fetish. Let’s try relationship anarchism.’ It’s just stuff that naturally occurred between us, so I don’t really feel like a submissive in the same way that most other subs do when they say that.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like…I would never say ‘I like submitting to doms or I have a daddy kink.’ I have you! I have the way we do things. I don’t feel like I fit into the language of the scene or the scene itself, period. So when you left, it…I still don’t really have the words for it.” 

“You became less open…with everyone.”

“Yeah, but not consciously.”

“Of course not. The system of love making and power exchange that you constructed your world upon was yanked out from under you.” He puts it a lot more eloquently than you could. “The ability to be vulnerable comes from the presence of safety and I ruined that.”

“It’s not all your fault. If I was a normal per –”

“No.” Suddenly you’re talking to your Dom, not your partner. Damiano gets his reaction under control and clears his throat. “I mean conformity is not an asset.”

“It’s still not all your fault,” you whisper. “I had to learn to take care of myself, by myself at some point. I’m an adult for fucks sake.”

“Our relationship, our polyamory, our personal shit – it’s in flux. We keep that separate from our dynamic for a reason. Submission is innate to you and I…” He sighs heavily and falls silent.

“Don’t worry about articulating it in the perfect way.”

“You have this vulnerability that…People need people. That's why the polyamory. That's why I –” He pauses and starts again. “Modern day individualism in a fucking plague on humanity. This, like, interpersonal estrangement is unnatural. We’re supposed to be dependent on each other.”

“Agreed.” It was a core belief of both you and Damiano.

“Your vulnerability reflected that and it's one of the things that made me fall in love with you.” Princess sees her parents cuddling and decides she must be included immediately. It's a welcome respite, watching her neck craning to get closer to Dami’s pointer and middle fingers scratching behind her ears. She sits between your legs and begins purring as you pet her back.

“Babygirl,” he coos. Cheeto looks on from the bedroom doorway.

“She noticed your pointed attention and couldn’t fathom that it wasn’t intended for her.” Dami huffs, but in the following moment, the pressure returns. 

“Do you really think that you’re supposed to be invincible?” Princess preening while Dami poses such a weighty question creates a harsh juxtaposition.

“No.” You swallow compulsively. “But maybe I want to be.”

“Because of me.”

“Because life hurts! You just happened to be the final straw.” Sensing the shift in energy, Princess jumps off the couch. ”People always told me I’d lose my idealism once I got older.”

“I love your idealism.” Again, anger flares up internally and again, you check yourself. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Scowling, you rearrange so you’re facing Damiano, legs still entangled. Anxiety flashes across his countenance.

“Please just finish what you were saying.” He’s thrown for a couple seconds.

“I, um…Okay, so you agree that humans are designed to be vulnerable with each other. But you want to be invincible because life hurts.” Damiano momentarily struggles to remember his point. “Hurts enough that you’d decide to be invulnerable, even though you know it's wrong?” Your eyes narrow at his word choice. Dami catches himself. 

“No, no, ‘wrong' is a value judgment. It’s also simplistic. I mean, um…Have you reached a point where avoiding pain supersedes your value system?” Well, shit.

“I…” just wanted a low stress evening, for fuck’s sake. “I don’t want it to.”

“Okay, that's all that matters!” he rushes, accompanied by the beginnings of a smile. After jumping down his throat a few minutes ago over nothing, you’re hesitant to abide the anger twisting up your intestines. But who the fuck was he to decide that any part of your life was “all that matters?” 

“Of course you need time to heal. As long as you focus on that instead of – Okay, I can see that I’m pissing you off because you wanted to have a relaxed evening to recuperate. I should have respected that, I’m sorry. Let’s just talk about this tomorrow.” Tomorrow? Did you not get a full 24 hours off? When to have emotionally laborious conversations used to be a mutual decision, to make sure you both had the mental space. Damiano had just thrown a timeframe at you, as casually as if he was deciding on a dinner recipe.

“Okay, so what do you want to watch?” Dami picks up the remote and leans back, clicking through your saved titles. Then he casually sets a hand on your lower thigh and you finally snap.

“Ask me.” Damiano’s focus rapidly shifts in response to your tone. “Ask me why I’m angry, don’t tell me.” He looks like a fish out of water: wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing several times before the words come to fruition.

“Why are you angry?” 

“Because you’re ignorantly ordering me around. Because you started listing off my vaults without prompting.” His brow furrows in confusion.

“Baby, I –”

“No.” Dami bows his head.

“Y/n, I wasn’t listing your faults. I was listing things I love about you.”

“You said you fell in love with my vulnerability, then lectured me about how I wasn’t vulnerable anymore. You said you fell in love with my idealism, then lectured me about how I’ve given up on my ideals. So what I’m hearing is that I am no longer the girl you fell in love with!” He leans forward with intense eye contact. 

“Your ideals are stronger than they’ve ever been. Trial by fire. As for your vulnerability –”

“All that matters is that I get it back, right? I should focus on healing that part of me so I can be the version of myself you find loveable.”

“Every version of you is infinitely lovable to me.” It's a beautiful sentiment, but your guard is up so it doesn’t permeate. Is that why Damiano wanted you to be vulnerable? It’d make you receptive to his platitudes as tools of manipulation. But when had he ever behaved that way, outside of addiction?

“I want you to get back to your authentic, happiest self, before I marred everything.”

“Just…gimme a minute.” You decide to rinse your face with cold water. As soon as you stand up, you feel sick with guilt. What a horrendous thought to entertain: Damiano saying he loves you with the intent of manipulating you. The inverse was far more likely to be true: honestly without ulterior motives. Where had that idea even originated? You felt intensely secure in Dami’s love, knew it in your bones. 

“You okay?” he calls, getting up from the couch. You’d spaced out, staring at your reflection instead of washing your face.

“Yep.” He stands in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. 

“Panic attack?”

“No. My brain is just…crowded.” Damiano huffs and nods, leaning his forehead on his hand, eyes squeezed closed.

“I’m really fucking sorry.”

“You were talking at me.” 

“Yeah, I was.” 

“But irritation would have been a proportionate reaction. I could feel that my anger was tingeing my perspective. Whatever the opposite of rose colored glasses…”

“Shit covered glasses?”

“Yeah, exactly.” You hop up on the bathroom counter and lean the back of your head against the mirror. “Not to sound like a narcissist, but today was really hard for me.”

“Yeah.” There's a moment of heavy silence as Dami thinks. “Yeah, I think you had it worse than me.” You scoff and shake your head. He was overcompensating. It was ridiculous and moderately uncomfortable to watch.

“No, don’t dismiss it. You may come in second for emotional anguish, but you’re got absolutely none of the support I do and very few of the coping mechanisms. You’re surrounded with constant reminders that you’d got no control so you have to sit with the worst feeling in the world, alone.” It’s disarming to be so profoundly understood. You haven't grown reaccustomed to it, yet. “Tell me something you need from me.” When your focus turns inward for a request, the loudest voice is the one insisting that you don’t get to ask anything of Damiano today because it could compromise his sobriety. 

“I just wanted to watch a fucking movie, Dam. I don’t have your kind of stamina. When I spend most of my time at an eight, nine, or ten out of ten on the emotional intensity scale, I start losing my fucking mind.” His expression is so layered that all you can pick out is contemplation.

“How can I help you to get below an eight? What do you need?”

“I need…” the argument still sits in the pit of your stomach, unresolved. “I need you to understand.”

“Okay,” he agrees softly, coming to stand between your knees. He doesn’t touch, instead shoving his hands into his pockets.

“At my fucking hellhole of a job, the men that share my rank especially, treat me like a sex toy that writes emails to make themselves feel less powerless.”

“It’s fucking disgusting,” Damiano seethes.

“That’s not even the worst part! They think so little of me that they don’t even bother hiding it! Their actions, body language, speech – I can see all the disgusting fantasies they’d like me to endure. So a vulnerable, receptive woman is exactly what they want because she’s easier to subjugate. That’s why I have to be guarded and unavailable.”

“Why stop there? Be a mean-spirited, vengeful harpy. Fuck, if theres anything I can do to make their lives difficult –”

“Dami, you said you wanted me to be vulnerable!” 

“With me, baby,” he coos, making you melt just a little. “Just with me and our trusted people.” Damiano slides one hand onto the outside of your thigh and braces the other at the edge of the counter, leaning forward slightly.

“Oh.” You sit upright. “See, this is what I mean about not having enough marbles.”

“And I assumed the most important detail of the conversation was implied,” he groans.

“I think you’re right about having the big talk. Because of our communication…”

“Leaves an immense amount of room for improvement.”

“But not tomorrow.” 

“No, of course not.” Dami sets his other hand on your leg, observing your expression. “Wait, did I say tomorrow?”

“Yeah, ya did.” 

“Fuck…What were we even arguing about?” He tilts his head to the side and squints, trying to mentally follow the path of this disagreement back to the source. A nagging feeling of importance tugs at the edge of his conscious mind.

“Hug?” You extend your arms and Dami drags you to the edge of the counter. It's not quite as physically intimate as this morning, but the embrace is still firm. Your breasts pressed to his chest, the inside of your thighs against the outside of his.

“I don’t think you’re no longer a vulnerable person. Well, speaking for myself, I guess. I can see it just below the surface.”

“Or right at the surface,” you grumble. “Ah ha! Thank you for reminding me!” Dami moves away enough to see your expression, bringing the bottom half of your torso closer. “Society portrays independence as the hallmark of successful adulthood, but it’s not.” He cups your jaw in his palms. “Please don’t suppress your submissiveness over the fact that it makes you dependent on a dominant. Submission is the most complete expression of your vulnerability. You can only suppress it by shutting that off, but the best parts of life come from vulnerability. The most exquisite parts of the human experience are found in the soul-baring act of needing someone. For the love of god, do not attempt to sever that, y/n.”

Damiano unintentionally holds you in that moment, utterly captivated. His thumbs brush against your cheeks in an effort to reanimate you. 

“What are you thinking?”

“Stop rushing.”

“What?”

“Stop rushing onto the next moment. This one’s so beautiful.” He nodes minutely, pulling you as close as possible without overextending your neck. Hugging him still, your hands rest barely above the small of his back. Damiano always keeps one hand cupping your jaw, the other usually stroking your face. Pointer finger from widow's peak to cupid's bow, over your lips, eyebrows, temple to jawline, cheekbones, eyelids. His stomach grumbles and you accept that it's time to move on.

“Okay. Let's see if we can avoid getting impatient and watching Friends, hmm?”

Notes: *malicious, unhinged cackling*

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Dear @mrschrissturniolo,

If you're seeing this, its the consequences of your actions. Unfortunately I can't tag you because your blog is hidden (probably. Or Tumblr is being fucked).

[lily-orchard]

Jumoing off that post about Andy and Leyley, what do you think about the merit of taboo in storytelling?

Hmm...

I should start off by saying that nobody is more annoying than people who are obsessed with taboos. The only reason we're currently having to deal with an army of proshippers screaming their heads off all day is because some people genuinely think "breaking taboos" is going to "stick it to the puritans."

This is ironic actually because a lot of these people find the fact that taboos are taboo alluring in and of itself... and that itself is a Catholic notion. Only Catholics believe that "forbidden fruit" is tempting.

Most people don't want to taste human flesh or fuck their own kin, and we all know (even if some people only intuitively) that for someone to get to the point where they want to do those things, something has gone seriously wrong somewhere.

That's the part that make taboos good vessels for horror. The point where that line is crossed is also the point where normal human behaviour has completely broken down.

There's a video of a guy confessing to murder, and he does it with all the casual air of a guy talking about the weather, and it's often described as bone-chilling because he's just so blaze about the whole thing.

This is creepy, because his calmness creates this sense of profound wrongness the same way a liminal space does. Killing someone is supposed to affect you in some way, and there's nothing more unnerving than when it simply doesn't.

Cannibalism and incest are the same way. We're social creatures, and so everything about evolutionary biology has hardwired us to avoid these two things because they're bad for us.

Genetic Diversity is crucial for human life to survive, and so our brains are hardwired to make you as unlikely to mate with your close relatives as possible. The only way that changes is if something fundamentally goes wrong, and 9 times out of 10 the culprit is social isolation.

Think about the kind of mind it takes to look at something your own brain is screaming at you "this is bad, don't do this, it'll doom us all" and say "I don't care" with a completely straight face.

Cannibalism is the same way. We are social creatures and work together to survive, so the idea of turning the "hunter gatherer" mindset on each other is fundamentally incompatible with the very concept of survival.

So on a fundamental level, there's a sense of eerie wrongness when these lines are crossed. Especially when they're done so casually. It's one thing to play these taboos for drama or comedy, but like the murder confession above nothing is more unnerving than taking a relaxed attitude toward it.

This is a very good vector for horror, but the question you have to ask yourself as a writer is "is it worth it?" Because unless you have something to say, the answer is probably no.

[ramenrescue]

If it’s alright with you, can you talk a bit abt Asirpa and Ogata? I wanna know ur thoughts on them and their dynamic?

Yes!

Apologies in advance that this is just a looooong disorganized stream of consciousness. Also I don't own all the volumes and bingeread most of it during a "read everything for free" campaign, so please excuse any inaccuracies!

GK spoilers below

Firstly I find it so interesting that despite Shiraishi being part of the main squad with Sugimoto and Asirpa, that Ogata is the first person out of the main cast of people to come in contact with the protagonists. If he were the Sailor Scouts he'd be in the Sailor Mars position. I don't know how much Noda had planned when he first started serialization and I don't know how much I should read into this symbolism-wise, but still! cool!

I also really like how despite Sugimoto being there (who has a similar physical appearance to Yusaku enough to pass off as his double), Ogata fixates on Asirpa due to her pure soul giving off similar vibes as Yusaku. He draws parallels and projects his brother onto her (and arguably his own mom, too) which is very unhealthy and anyone aside from Ogata can see from a mile away this is not going to end well, but alas, this is how Ogata's brain works.

Ogata and Asirpa's interactions are interesting to analyze because there's a couple different interpretations for each one. I have my own biases but always love reading all the different ways others have interpreted them!

Ogata saying "citatap" or "hinna" and Asirpa being the ONLY one to hear it, and everyone elses' unimpressed faces -- I tend to interpret this as partially Ogata playing nice and partially him plotting to trick Asirpa into thinking he's a good guy -- mainly because at this point he kind of joined the squad by chance. Asirpa acting like a mom by feeding Ogata and treating him like a newborn who uttered his first word is honestly very heartwarming.

Ogata shooting Asirpa's father and Sugimoto -- I'm still not well-versed in the whole Kiroranke subplot but it seems like the plan only included Asirpa's father, correct? The fact that he also tried to kill Sugimoto is just so funny to me because it's just exhibit 724793274 of Ogata doing whatever he wants. There was no logical reason to kill Sugimoto, but the illogical, completely selfish reason to kill him is to isolate Asirpa from anything she loves and anything that loves her back. I'm like almost sure he went along with Kiroranke's plan to kill Asirpa's father mainly for the aforementioned reason and because he wanted to see Asirpa grow up without a father, like how HE grew up without a father and eventually got rid of him with his own hands.

Essentially, Ogata treats Asirpa as a fresh test subject for his whole nature vs. nurture experiment. Before, Ogata himself was the test subject: he was experimenting by killing the people around him. He killed his mom to test if his dad would care enough to come to the funeral; he killed Yusaku to test if his dad would start caring about him instead; he killed his dad to see if Tsurumi would start caring about him (I'm taking Usami's analysis of Ogata's character at face value here). Unfortunately, his experiments are all failures. He hypothesizes (the oddly optimistic) outcome that SOMEONE will start caring about him, and they ALL fail. His dad doesn't come to the funeral, his dad doesn't suddenly dote on him because Yusaku is dead, and Tsurumi's attention is divided amongst like 3~5 other dudes.

Ogata fixates on Yusaku and how different he is compared to him despite them sharing the same father, to the point that Ogata starts a side experiment in which he tries to test his hypothesis that "no one feels guilt when killing another human and this is true regardless of ones' upbringing or bloodline". He experiences a PROFOUND failure in that Yusaku not only refuses to kill the prisoner, he straight up tells Ogata he is wrong and that "there is no way a person does not feel guilt upon killing another person".

This failure is so profound (I'm almost certain he killed Yusaku as 90% because of this and 10% as trying to gain attention from his father) that trying to prove Yusaku wrong becomes his main experiment. For this he needs a new test subject - and this is where Asirpa comes in. Ogata is his own n=1 (success?). Yusaku was an n=2 (failure). Asirpa is his n=3. It's interesting that Ogata killing Sugimoto and Asirpa's father can also be a test to see if Asirpa would start caring about him, like he's trying to test his old hypothesis while setting Asirpa up for his nature vs. nurture experiment. How efficient of him. We love to see it.

The Karafuto confrontation(?) with Asirpa -- okay it lowkey broke my heart to see Ogata saying "I guess it can't be me after all" which is just him accepting yet another failure to manipulate someone into loving him by killing someone off. I feel like someone with Ogata's level of perception would be able to foresee (bad) outcome of his experiments, but he always ends up going for the pie in the sky?? and inevitably failing every time?? It's almost as if he's failed so many times he knows he's going to fail so he keeps going and self-sabotages by going for things that are impossible. Also it's poetic that the way he gave himself away is that his irrational side that yearns for love overtook his rational side and he inserted himself too much into his bullshitting about Sugimoto.

His final confrontation with Asirpa on the moving train -- Chapter 309/310 is so beautiful. I constantly have this part open on Bookwalker (app where I buy and store my manga) and give myself psychic damage every time I open the app. First of all, I love the way Asirpa's eyes turned PITCH BLACK when she shot Ogata. And the way Ogata LOOKED AT HER right after...with the sweat oozing out of his forehead and him being drawn with the outline of his pupil (rare)!? The way his mouth was contorted into a grimace AND a grin!? Stop everything right fucking there. I think that might've been the highlight of Ogata's life. His experiment worked! The n=3 has shown him that yes, even pure people like Asirpa, are capable of killing without remorse (or so he thinks). Now he can use Asirpa to prove that Yusaku was bullshit until he reappears and Ogatas from Christmas Past come out of the woodworks to tell himself "actually you were wrong, you DID feel guilt". The Hivemind of Ogatas defeat him by reaching some kind of state of acceptance, and it almost feels like they're honored that Asirpa is the one to kill him.

Who can blame him? Asirpa fed him, cared for him when he was ill, appreciated all the birds he hunted, appreciated all the reindeer he hunted. Asirpa is very special to Ogata. Going back to the "citatap" "hinna" moments, it makes me wonder if part of that was genuine. What's interesting and a little tragic is like, Ogata views Asirpa as a source of "light" but Asirpa isn't just a ray of sunshine to Ogata -- IIRC Sugimoto also refers to her his "light" as well -- and she manages to tease out a lightheartedness in the most hard-core dudes like "Dick-sensei" Ushiyama and "Grandpa" Hijitaka. Ogata's no exception.

And I think that's why I've analyzed most of their dynamic from a Ogata-centric perspective: Asirpa is very special to Ogata, but Ogata is not all that special to Asirpa. She's like Jesus and Ogata's just one of the disciples. Ogata (and other characters) arguably had a profound impact on Asirpa's life, but her defining influences are her father and Sugimoto. Even her motivation to kill Ogata is driven not because she was influenced by Ogata, nor is she trying to get revenge for her father's death, but because she is acting on her commitment as Sugimoto's partner. What is kind of ironic and beautiful is that in that moment that Asirpa shoots Ogata and contributes significantly to his death, he does, in fact, become special to her: by becoming the first person she intentionally killed.

The act of Ogata shooting himself is an interesting point of discussion because I can argue that "technically, Ogata killed himself" OR I can say "Asirpa's poisoned arrow would've killed him eventually so it doesn't matter whether or not Ogata fired that final shot: Asirpa killed Ogata." I actually think both are true!

It can be debated that Ogata shot himself because he would've rather died than accept that he was wrong this whole time. I do see that. I think it's also highly plausible that Ogata, who rapidly psychoanalyzed himself in the last moments of his life, had some kind of spiritual awakening to do a good deed for once in his life and try to take away Asirpa's impending guilt by killing himself. This is analogous to Sugimoto ripping out Ogata's poisoned eyeball in Karafuto and preventing Asirpa from getting her first kill. It seems like there are "many" rational Ogatas (plus Yusaku) arguing against the one sweaty, irrational Ogata, and the final action of the physical Ogata appeared to be very calm and rational -- I mean he was rational enough to balance his gun just right and carefully used a sword to pull the trigger -- so the one making decisions in the physical world could arguably have been the collective hivemind of rational Ogatas moving Ogata's physical body in one last action of empathy towards Asirpa.

What is interesting is that this act of supposed empathy did nothing to assuage Asirpa's discomfort with killing a human being. After she shoots the bear, Asirpa is seen squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head to look towards the direction that Ogata's body fell. There are a few characters in the story with completely darkened pupils and there are a few others like Sugimoto, Kiroranke, and Wilk who manage to keep the "glint" in their eyes despite having killed many -- so I truly do not know what makes them different, but I do know what Asirpa's mental strength far surpasses that of Ogata's (and possibly everyone in the story), and I think her eyes regaining their natural glow (catalyzed by Sugimoto reminding her that she has proved herself to be his partner by this intentional kill) is symbolic of her rapid acceptance of her own guilt.

TLDR: I think Oripa is a little fucked up, and it's great!

[amewinterswriting]

I was going to post this as a reblog of @writingwithfolklore 's post about gaining confidence with your own writing but it wound up about as long as the original post, so I'm posting it myself.

I think the key is reading widely and getting involved with the writing community/other writers.

As a reader, you tend to seek out the 'best' of your preferred genre (whatever best means to you in this context - it could be a writing style that gels with your brain, or fabulously detailed world-building, or profound messages about the human condition - there's no one objective way to say one work is better than another). Which makes sense, why would you, if reading for pleasure, want to read things that are less pleasurable?

But this (at least in my experience) sets up an unobtainable standard, where you as a writer want to be as good as the highly edited and polished work that you are reading. You don't get to read first drafts, and you don't read the stories that didn't quite work.

Something I've been doing lately is reading stories which are likely to be less 'polished' (drafts from writer friends, zines, first-time indie authors, first-time trad published authors) with a more critical/analytical eye to really dig down into why they work or don't, and how I might have approached the same subject myself. I keep those critiques to myself unless explicitly asked, but they are useful for me to work out what kind of standard I expect from my writing, and to get it to a more realistic place of 'done' rather than 'as perfect as my favourite author'.

(Because I know this might be misunderstood: I am emphatically not saying that self-published work cannot be as good as trad-published work. I am saying that someone's first work is unlikely to be as good as their future works, since writing is a craft you develop with practise, regardless of whether they trad-publish or self-publish. Sometimes this is mitigated by some really amazing editors and they do tend to cost more than most indie authors have got in their editing budget. But trad-publishing is only really good at producing the kinds of stories that trad-publishing and their readers are already familiar with, and self-publishing can take a lot more risks with storytelling, which I personally find vastly more interesting.)

If you found this interesting and you want to give me a tip, I'm always accepting over on Kofi.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley on Music and Life: A Rare Interview with a Rare Soul

BY MARIA POPOVA

In 1995, while working for an Italian radio station, journalist Luisa Cotardo conducted a candid, soulful, and profound conversation with beloved musician Jeff Buckley (November 17, 1966–May 29, 1997). His only studio album, Grace — which includes Buckley’s now-iconic cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” — had been released a few months earlier and he had just performed in the town of Correggio in Northern Italy as part of his European tour. Less than two years later, at the age of thirty, he would drown by a tragedy of chance while swimming in Tennessee’s Wolf River during a tour. Rolling Stone later proclaimed him one of the 100 greatest singers of all time.

Cotardo has kindly shared with me her recording of this rare and remarkably rich interview, in which Buckley discusses with great openness and grace his philosophy on music and life. Transcribed highlights below.

On why he chose not to include lyrics in the album booklet, a deliberate effort to honor music as a deeply personal experience interpreted and inhabited differently by each listener:

So that instead of people being compelled to read through the blueprint of the songs — instead of them looking at the dance steps ahead of time, they would just go through the dance. So that they would let the songs happen to them. Later on, they will find out what the meaning is, but for now — I mean, you know, we’re just meeting for the first time and it’s better… It’s better to grab your own reality from it right now instead of like, you know, read.

On what he seeks to communicate with his music, echoing composer Aaron Copland’s conviction about the interplay of emotion and intellect in great music:

[What I want to communicate] doesn’t have a language with which I can communicate it. The things that I want to communicate are simply self-evident, emotional things. And the gifts of those things are that they bring both intellectual and emotional gifts — understanding. But I don’t really have a major message that I want to bring to the world through my music. The music can tell people everything they need to know about being human beings. It’s not my information, it’s not mine. I didn’t make it. I just discovered it.

On the problem with Western charity efforts like LiveAid:

I would like for the starvation and oppression to end in Africa. I like for money from concerned people to go there, you know, to go to Africa, to aid. But … the real solution will come from Africa ruling Africa and not Britain ruling Africa, not America ruling Africa — it’s the only real key. If Africa rules Africa, that’s the only way that pattern of oppression from the outside can be stopped — not money, not only money. Money is a tool and it can be, I don’t know, I really don’t… It’s great that Mandela came out and took office in Africa. I think that’s the real revolution.

On place and what constitutes home and belonging for a global nomad like himself:

I don’t know what belonging means… I can only use my brain and intellectualize. I really wouldn’t able to tell you from the heart what belonging means… My memories of that place are my link to the place — memories of your experience in a place is your link… All people belong to the world. There is no exclusivity in that… The soil from America can differ from the soil in Malaysia, but its soil, it’s still the same. And the color of people’s skin can differ from place to place but it’s still skin. And, in that regard, there is no difference. People must belong to the earth and a traveller must belong to world somehow and the world must belong to her or him somehow. But, you know, then there’s the social level — that’s just the archetypal level, people usually live in the social level.

Echoing what Jackson Pollock’s father so poetically told his son in 1928, Buckley parlays this into his humble yet wonderfully wise advice on being in the world:

I have no advice for anybody except to, you know, be awake enough to see where you are at any given time and how that is beautiful and has poetry inside, even in places you hate.

On one’s journey of self-actualization and the organic letting go of dreams that no longer fit that journey:

It’s part of maturity, to project upon your life goals and project upon your life realized dreams and a result that you want. It’s part of becoming whole … just like a childish game. It’s honest — it’s an honest game, because … you want your life to hold hope and possibility. It’s just that, when you get to the real meat of life, is that life has its own rhythm and you cannot impose your own structure upon it — you have to listen to what it tells you, and you have to listen to what your path tells you. It’s not earth that you move with a tractor — life is not like that. Life is more like earth that you learn about and plant seeds in… It’s something you have to have a relationship with in order to experience — you can’t mold it — you can’t control it…

[quillify-tries-to-talk]

On Art

I just remembered I had this thought but forgot to write about it so making a note here before I forget again.

Okay, so this was prompted by my brain remembering, out of nowhere, V.E. Schwab's The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue and that led me down a rabbit hole of more thinking. My main point can be summarized as this:

In the 21st century, any form of art is seen as disconnected from the larger world around it.

I picked Addie LaRue because obviously, a book about art and books and literature with supposedly philosophical underpinnings would talk about the inherent connection of art to humanity. There is a tendency, I believe, in today's world to see art as an entirely separate realm: pure, beautiful, untouched by the messy realities of politics and war and humans being cruel and callous etc. It is a beautiful thing, it is a lovely thing, it is a redeeming thing. Creativity is a gift to be given for consumerism, to remind people that they are good no matter how rigged the systems are in the favour of the top 1%.

This is all true. Creativity is a gift.

But I think we forget that it depends upon the creator to utilize or manipulate it according to his own wishes. Addie LaRue presents art as this beautiful, humane thing entirely disconnected from the realities of war or politics. Actual history. The events that the main protagonist lived through are left out in favour of presenting this fairytale ideal, so wholesome that it connects all humans.

(Yes, I know I sound cynical)

Except, this fairytale-esque, profound connection was not the reality for several thousand groups for years. Yes, of course, there was joy. Everyone was creating art and writing books, all our cultures are replete with thousands of years' worth of beauty and knowledge. And of course, the book does not touch it. It is unabashedly Eurocentric, right down to its ideals of artistry and literature.

Because guess what sort of art the Europeans were also making c. 1700s-early 2000s :) You think those heroic portraits of Britannia or Germania were created for funsies :) just a cutesy little project for a cutesy little artist totally disconnected from what was happening in the larger world :)

Addie LaRue, as a protagonist, has the kind of features that allow her to move through the world with a certain level of comfort and anonymity. Had she been any other person in the world, the book would be called The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.

Several other books take the same course even as they promise to tackle these prevalent issues in sff or historical fiction or any genre, really. A few familiar names pop into my mind. Even those in different genres, such as romance, seem detached from anything real, even if it's cultural joy or pride. They exist. They move towards the culmination of their arc or their love interests, quite anonymously like Addie LaRue. Their view of the world, and their art is entirely sanitized: hollowed out of any and all substance only to be pretty for an aesthetic, fit for consumption by everyone. There is this idea of appealing to an anonymous, universal gaze that is mostly white American (and quite obtrusive, because any reminders of actual history are panned and demonized, or simply brushed aside as happening in tHe OrIeNT). If you really think about it, this is how the world seems divided even today.

As Edward Said said in Culture and Imperialism (in context of the classics):

"Critics have often, I believe, relegated these writers' ideas about colonial expansion, inferior races... to a very different department from that of culture. Culture being the elevated area of activity in which they 'truly' belong and in which they did their 'really' important work."

Incredible how this is applicable to criticism in any way, shape or form today. In addition:

"Culture conceived in this way can become a protective enclosure: check your politics at the door before you enter it."

I think this idea has become extremely predominant in modern culture too. Art is equated to a disconnected aesthetic with no bearing on reality. And while I acknowledge that this approach is useful in reviewing a work without personal biases or based purely on our own enjoyment, completely stripping a text of its socio-political realities does not serve any purpose. The goal, to borrow Said's words again is to admire works for the pleasure and profit they give us while simultaneously observing "the imperial process of which they were manifestly and unconcealedly a part; rather than condemning or ignoring their participation in what was an unquestioned reality in their societies..."

To sum up, our constant struggle to achieve a pure and untouched aesthetic is ultimately fruitless because art is not created in a vacuum. It never will be. Art is born of human hands. You cannot run from its history any more than you can run from your own reality.

[atundratoadstool]

Hi, if you happen to be taking asks right now, do you have any thoughts on Jack Seward and his place in the story? A lot of people doing Dracula Daily seem to find him creepy and off-putting and expect him to become a villain. Was he maybe intended as a sort of red herring? Especially his odd arc, which flirts with him becoming a full-on mad scientist? Are we intended to be waiting for him to fall into that behavior or was Stoker doing something else with Seward?

[Spoilers: Extended discussion of Jack Seward, his patient, and later portions of the book under the cut; also CW for mention of medical abuse]

I have many many many thoughts about Jack Seward, his arc, and his multitude of personal and professional failures. He was the topic of my Master's Thesis, and I feel that if I keep up with Dracula Daily through September I will be revisiting a lot of old posts about him and writing a lot of new ones.

I do think Seward's poor medical ethics and his temptation toward even worse medical ethics are incredibly significant to what I see as being as the major themes of the novel, and I think the reader should be apprehensive about his potential for villainy. The basic argument of my own work as regards him is that both he and Renfield are both committed to fundamentally materialist views of reality at the opening of the novel and are dehumanizing one another within those paradigms. Both of them treat the other, at some point, as experimental animals, with Seward explicitly discussing Renfield in terms of vivisectionist research and Renfield attempting to include Seward in his vitalist project by literally consuming him. I hold that Dracula asserts the reality of spiritual existence by allowing each man to have a transformative moment as regards the human soul. Jack, in being confronted by a Lucy who is not Lucy, can see a physical body in which a soul is absent--which affirms the soul’s existence as something beyond the physical contours of the brain. Renfield, in being confronted by Mina’s overabundant empathy, is made to confront the horror of his own vitalist project to the extent that he abandons his attempts to extend his own life in a profound moment of self sacrifice. I also believe that Seward and Lucy (who were a couple in the original outlines of the novel) can be read as a failed version of Jonathan and Mina, with Jack’s skepticism and Lucy’s passivity making them vulnerable in ways that the Harkers are not. I feel that poor Jonathan--for all the flak people give him right now--is a character who adapts to the reality of the supernatural with a grace that Jack cannot.

So that’s the very very brief rundown as to what I think is going on with Seward. I will hopefully be revisiting a lot of this in the future.