Jan. 16th, 2009

sandandwater: (marcello's muse)
Posted some three or four months into Pippa's return to Venice.

[Filtered to Rory, Cait, Tadhg, Zippy, Aryn, Smecker, Bobby Barnes]

My friend Marcello, he’s someone I’ve known for a long while and we lost touch when I left Venice the first time. We’ve since reconnected and it’s as if we picked up right where we left off. Old jokes are still funny; we enjoy each other’s company as much now as we did back then…we’re slowly catching up on the details of each other’s lives. It’s…nice, actually.

He’s a photographer. A very gifted photographer. He sees the world through a camera lens, sees light and color, contrast and depth…thinks in macro and micro. He always amazes me with the way he can turn the ordinary into something extraordinary. I’ve been letting him photograph me lately. In the evenings when natural light is horrible and I’m dead tired from working with Alessandro all day, after I’ve had one glass of wine too many in an attempt to relax and unwind. After we’ve laughed too much, cried too little and probably not eaten enough to call it dinner.

Marcello is great at getting me to step outside my comfort zone. Convincing me that I want to do things I would never consider acceptable. He has a knack for getting me to trust him, his vision, the art. He’s also very, very skilled at reassuring me, giving me back the confidence I’d lost. He has a way of knowing what I need to hear, how I need to feel. He can make me feel beautiful.

My scars aren’t things to be covered up. My hand isn’t something to hide. Stretch marks, burns, freckles, moles…my big, ugly feet—he loves them all. Proof of life, that’s what he called them the other day. Points of interest uniquely my own. I didn’t really believe him at the time and I think it shows in some of the shots, the look on my face at times—I’m only humoring him. But others…if I step outside myself and look at them objectively, as pieces of art, the way he intends them to be seen and not as if I am looking at myself in the mirror—I can almost see what he means. I understand what he wants from me. And I can see that I’ve given it to him.

I can be beautiful. I don’t have to hide. I don’t need to be ashamed.

There is truth in nakedness, an honesty there. Vulnerability. Strength.


Photographs, not dial-up friendly and by American standards one is likely deemed not safe for work )



You might think I’m being disingenuous here, keeping this filtered to the handful of people I am sharing these with, but I’m not. I trust you. I know you. I’m comfortable enough with you seeing these images and knowing you aren’t going to look at them as anything other than what they are. One man’s art.

Besides, can any of you just imagine if James Potter saw a semi-nude portrait of me? I’m sure no one wants to listen to that little beast share his thoughts and perversions on the fact that Pippa Kerr has breasts.
sandandwater: (*flop*)
The Snuggle Meme. Because everyone can use a snuggle now and again.

If your muse has ever wanted a good snuggle/cuddle/hug with my muse, comment here.

I'll write at least 250 words with the pairing. Every fic is to be considered just that, fanfiction, and not actually RP history unless you request that it is. You're welcome to leave any sort of suggestions for the fics you want, be it genre, a prompt or scenario. Things can be platonic or romantic, just let me know which one you’d prefer.
sandandwater: (sleeping)
ooc: written for [livejournal.com profile] gifted_hands for the snuggle meme. Binding in terms of storyline, and I did choose to place it in the immediate aftermath of Pippa's ordeal with Larch.

“Shhh, a chara.” Tadhg ran long, steady fingers through her tangled mass of russet curls and spooned her body more tightly against his own. Knees bent to fit against Pippa’s, her back pressed against his chest and one arm looped around her waist with his hand resting on the outer curve of her thigh, the púca snuggled her close. Kept her safe.

She wanted Rory, he knew, but his older brother couldn’t put off outstanding obligations any longer, not without raising suspicions and questions no one wanted to answer. Rory would be back soon enough and until then…well, little brother would do what he could to soothe and comfort the girl. Tadhg had held her this way more often than Pippa was aware—over the last few days, in their efforts to repair the damage done by a disturbed, deeply twisted inhabitant of Manhattan, the MacEibhirs (save for Anrai) had all sat with or held the slight form as they used their unique healing gifts to mend wounds and sustain her life.

This afternoon the púca was more focused on calming her fitful sleep than he was on easing any pain she might still feel. He’d done what he could there, his magic crawling in and out of her brutalized body, slipping over bruised muscle and broken bone. Tadhg knew her injuries better and more intimately than she did in some ways…and he was thankful that the sleeping girl would never know just how well he knew the torment she’d suffered.

When she turned in his embrace, rubbed her sleepy face against his neck and murmured nonsense against his shoulder, Tadhg slid his hands over her back, hugging her tightly. He was very thankful that he would have the chance to get to know Pippa Kerr as a person, whole and healed. “Just sleep, lass. I’ll be going nowhere soon.”

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