#makes me want to cast him in resin but that is perhaps far more out of my skills than even this

[hallowforest]

my disaster son with my sleeping disaster daughter. i am way more pleased with how his body looks but his back legs are still an absolute MESS.

you cant see it from this angle but they're the same size as the front legs which makes those bigass thighs look goofy as hell

[imnotwolverine]

The Wolves Return - Part 1

Geralt of Rivia x OFC

| Part 2 >

Summary: After a long life of monster hunting, Geralt has retired to hold keep at Kaer Morhen. Winter is now fast approaching and though he expects visitors, not all of them are quite as welcome.  

Word count: 2.297 (8,5 min read) 

Disclaimer: 16+ - Thrilling, some sexual references 

--

The world goes eerily quiet when laid in white. Even the finest ears may not hear the migthiest cries. 

--

There hung something in the air today. 

A tempest that tinged the skies a hue of purple. There was a restlessness that made Geralt’s medallion tremble. And then there was of course the annoying old ache in his thigh bone, causing him to limp as he returned to his trusty steed. 

Hoisting up the poultry he had hunted down that morning, Geralt kept a watchful eye on the trees. Nothing much seemed out of the ordinary. With the day still early, a mist clung to the ferns and fallen over branches. It would look gloomy to anyone unfamiliar with the terrain. But to Geralt it looked perfectly normal. And yet.. Hmm. 

Stepping out into the forest clearing, his golden eyes brightened up. Roach had for once not left her spot -- which was quite a feat for the obnoxious, black and white coated mare. He grinned at her, clicking his tongue in hope she would meet him halfway. His leg was really a bother today and after his hunt he couldn’t wait to be back at Kaer Morhen and settle back in a chair. 

Roach, unfortunately, wasn’t so easy to convince. Blinking at him, she made absolutely zero effort to move to the Witcher. Instead she took a step or two back, twirling her ears as if challenging him. 

‘Oh don’t do that..’ Geralt sighed. He was really getting too old for all this. Reaching out a hand he leapt forward to catch her reins, his other arm swift to throw his bounty over the saddle. 

‘What is it with you women? Always eager to give me a challenge.’ 

Roach snorted. 

‘Yea yea. You laugh. Teasing an old man now, huh?’ 

She shook her head. 

‘Alright. Enough adventure for today, let’s get back and see if my brothers have arrived yet.’ 

Climbing up in the saddle he ran a hand through Roach’s manes, comforting himself with her warmth and accepting little huff. Without another word they set out, returning to their home at Kaer Morhen, where soon enough not only first snow would arrive, but also his Witcher brothers. Ready to outstay the winter. Like old times. 

--

[an age ago]

‘Oh come on old sock!’ Young Ciri jeered. She chuckled as she saw a hint of white hair peeking out over the turned over cart. 

‘Or what? Scared to lose?’ Geralt poked his head out over the makeshift barrage, eyeing his daughter as she stalked around a few wooden barrels. First snow had fallen last night and though it was hardly enough for a proper snowball fight, the two couldn’t be kept from having a little fun in the courtyard. 

Not far off sat Coën on one of the stair steps, his dark long beard sparkling with the little snowflakes that danced in the air. He had started down the stairs to gather Ciri for her daily training, but had decided a few minutes of fun wouldn’t hurt. 

Having settled down with his arms crossed, he watched the two dance around the courtyard, hands clinging to powdery balls of white snow. 

‘Oh now you’ve got it!’ Ciri darted forward, earning an exasperated little sigh from Coën. 

‘Footwork Ciri, footwork!’ 

She slowed down, turning around dramatically to give him an eyeroll. That moment, however, was all it took for Geralt to take the victory, his hand lifting the back of her collar so he could land a fresh heap of snow in her shirt. 

‘AYEEEEE!’ She yelped, twirling around at lightning speed to tackle Geralt before he could step away. The two fell tumbling and Coën couldn’t help but chuckle as he got up. As he made his way back up towards the main entryway, he found Vesemir standing there, looking down at father and daughter tumbling around in the snow. 

‘Quite a pair, aren’t they?’ 

Coën shrugged, brushing a hand over his long dark beard. ‘She’s a special one.’ 

Vesemir stepped aside to let him through, but Coën remained. Turning on his heel he looked back at Ciri and Geralt. The contemplative stare of his golden eyes hid something he wouldn’t speak of. A quiet sorrow that one would only find in the kin of Witchers. 

‘Ai Geralt! No!’ Ciri screeched, gasping as another launch of snow was squashed into her face. 

A moment later Geralt stepped in next to Vesemir and Coën, smirking as he wiped some frosty hairs out of his face. 

‘Well there’s someone who likes winter.’ Coën said. 

Geralt shrugged, smirking as he turned just in time to catch Ciri before she could return the assault. 

Growling in frustration the young girl tried to fight against Geralt’s grip, but there was no use. 

Coën sighed, shaking his head as he nodded in the direction of the great hall. 

‘Alright. Let’s get you soaked kittens dry before we start training. Can’t have you wet as a rat out here in the cold.’  

‘Say that to those who still have to arrive.’ Ciri huffed, blinking up at the sky where thicker and thicker flakes of snow were starting to fall. 

‘All come in due time.’ Tutted Coën. ‘Witchers can handle a wee bit of snow.’ 

--

The hour had grown late and Geralt had settled back in his chair before the fire. First snow had arrived, as expected, but his fellow brethren had not yet. With a thoughtful expression Geralt watched the flames in the firepit before him dance around a few pine cones he had thrown in. Every few seconds the fire would find a residue of the pine resin, causing the flames to rise higher and cast long shadows over the recently swept floors. 

He felt ready for his winterly guests, especially now he had gone some months without much adventure. He couldn’t wait for the joy and laughter to return, because though retired from the Trail, he still felt every bit the Witcher. He still trained whenever his leg allowed, and kept his sword sharp and closeby. 

Living in the quiet keep of Kaer Morhen, like his late teacher Vesemir once had, meant that most of the year there was little companionship. Winter, however, meant the return of the others. Of bawdy laughter, drinking..and perhaps some impromptu dress-up parties in Yen’s clothing. 

Yen. He hadn’t seen her in more than an age. The raven haired sorceress with her snappy remarks and dizzying scent. He couldn’t quite remember it now. The scent. He even bought it from a merchant some years ago, just to smell it every now and then. But it just wasn’t the same without her own scents mixed in. It didn’t make his heart race the way she could. Was she still alive?

A howling draft whipped through the hall, making the medallions of his fallen brothers jingle. They hung from an old tree that had been dried and placed like a huge ornamental shrine on the far end of the spacious room. Geralt inhaled deeply and willed himself to relax. For a moment he could have sworn that his medallion had trembled, but perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks. There was nothing there. Nothing to beseech his immediate attention. 

A voice called. 

Sitting up Geralt turned his nose into the draft, scenting what it might be. Just the winds again? Or a visitor? 

It was quiet once more and with a grunt he returned his annoyance to the fire before him. Perhaps he should get a hobby, like the old bard had once suggested. There. There was another person he didn’t want to admit to missing. Jaskier. The one most obnoxious, but beloved friend he ever had. Not even Regis’ uncalled for remarks or Milva’s unnerving singing could light a candle to the amount of suffering Geralt had undergone in the name of his friendship to Jaskier. Had it not been for having to save him from trolls, it might have been from angry mobs of highborn duchesses -- you’d be surprised how many there were of those. 

It had been years since Jaskier had found his rest, and still Geralt could very much remember the stories they had lived through together. The great tales that had been created with perhaps a touch of fantasy to make Geralt into one of the greatest Witchers ever lived. 

Or so Jaskier had proclaimed. 

Another howl. No wind this time though, Geralt was sure. With a swift twirl he started his way towards the battlements. On and on and up, straight into the icy winds that were biting their way around the ancient walls of the fortress. In the dark it was hard to make out anything other than the whipping trees and whirling snowflakes. But if his sharp eyes were not mistaken, there was something afoot near the fort entrance. 

He hadn’t raised the bridge. And apparently the narrow pathway to the main gate now made a stage for some unusual display. A hooded figure stood there cursing, hand knocking nervously against the heavy outer door. 

It was obvious that this wasn’t any of his Witcher brothers. They knew the secret ways to enter and wouldn’t have even bothered with entering this way in this kind of weather. 

No, this was someone else. Someone that smelled of fresh pine sap, blood and perhaps a wee bit of pee. This someone was afraid. Terribly afraid in fact. Another howl raved through the winds and the knocking became more furious. 

‘PLEASEE!’ It was a female voice that cried out over the wind. 

Geralt grumbled. Really now? A woman? Here? Eyeing the wildly moving trees he scouted for any trouble. But other than the wind and snow, there didn’t seem much amiss. 

‘Sir?! SIR?!’

Oh fuck, she saw me. 

Cursing himself inwardly, Geralt looked down the large wall that separated them. The woman was squinting into the flurry of snow, holding one hand up to keep her hood on her head. She wasn’t too old. But definitely not pretty enough to be a sorceress. She was not Yen. Nor any woman he knew. She was not in immediate danger, but then again..sending her back would be dangerous indeed. The people didn’t know this path. She, however, apparently did. 

Contemplating what to do, Geralt stood there looming over the battlements. The icy winds were starting to nip at his exposed skin and he could feel the ache returning to his leg. He had hoped for visitors, but not like this. Not… He scowled as the woman struggled to keep her cape close around her body. She looked terribly clumsy and she surely wouldn’t survive this night. 

Geralt sighed. 

--

[one day back in summer] 

‘You know, Geralt. There’s two good things in this world.’ Jaskier smacked loudly as he chewed on some freshly roasted sausage from the campfire. 

‘Hmm.’ 

‘First of all there’s of course the delicious enticement that is all that you can fit in your bed.’ 

‘Please don’t start about the unicorn.’ 

Jaskier laughed -- nearly launching a piece of sausage from his mouth. ‘Oh, do NOT give me ideas. Oh that’s quite splendid. How large was it anyway? Life-sized? Play-sized? FUN-sized?’

‘Jaskier!’ 

‘Hey! You started this. Anyway, where was I? DE-li-cious sausages by the way. That butcher’s girl knows how to handle her meat. And I’m not just talking about…’ He dangled another sausage between his juicy fingers, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Geralt didn’t so much as look, keeping his attention on the golden light that shone down from the sinking sun. The valley before them was luscious with buzzing summer life. Cicadas were singing, beasts were roaming. And then there was Jaskier, smacking loudly as he ate the freshly roasted sausages from the campfire.  

Jaskier continued, swallowing his bite. ‘Oh don’t mind the unicorn though. We all had our interesting experiences.’

Geralt finally looked back at Jaskier, whose lips curled in a smile. 

‘I don’t think I want to know.’ 

‘Perhaps another time, yes.’ Jaskier agreed, grinning. 

‘So the second good thing, what was that?’ 

‘Well family of course!’ 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the bard, who now dreamily stared down at the valley. 

‘Family.’ 

‘Mhm.’ Jaskier sighed with a smile. 

‘Things that fit in your bed, and family.’ 

‘Well if you play your cards right they both might end up in your bed. And I’m quite platonic in my speech here. But yes. Family.’ 

‘Hmm.’

‘Glad you asked Witcher! Now family is of course more than just the line of blood you’re born from. It’s more than the people you are taught to call your family. Ciri, is your daughter, no doubt. And Yen, witchy mistress of evil with those delectable butt cheeks. Probably family.’ 

Geralt huffed. 

‘Oh don’t complain. But now there’s more! There’s..’ 

Geralt sat up. His golden eyes had practically set alight in the glowing burst of sunrays. ‘You knocked someone up didn’t ya?’ 

Jaskier swallowed -- no sausage this time. For the few words that ever came from the Witchers mouth, he hadn’t quite expected the Witcher to have been so straightforward. Wordlessly he looked at Geralt. ‘Well..’ 

--

Struggling with the rusty old joints of the peeping hole, Geralt opened the tiny latch at eye height. The woman that had been there moments earlier had disappeared. Which was peculiar, because it had been quite clear that she had wanted to enter. 

It was only a second later that he heard a heart wrenching cry. The winds twirled and twisted the sound, suffocating it before any human ear could have probably heard. He didn’t take long to make one and one two. The winds by the treeline were moving the wrong direction. And tracks in the snow, though hard to see, were just fresh enough to follow despite the roaring storm. They led back to that exact treeline. 

Fuck. 

Feeling his medallion hum despite the way it was sent back and forth in the wild wind, confirmed his suspicion. Evil was here. And perhaps it had come knocking, too.

--

Go to Part 2 > 

--

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[mollymauk-teafleak]

A Gentleman’s Guide to Dancing (final chapter)

It’s finally done, my Taakitz Austen/Little Women/A Gentleman’s Guide AU is complete! I am so sorry it’s taken me actual months to get this finished but if you liked it and am willing to forgive my lack of organisation, it would be so good of you could reblog or leave a comment on Ao3!

------

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

Please consider leaving a comment! 

Trigger Warnings: Discussions of setting specific homophobia, internalised homophobia 

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Taako didn’t realise where he was going until he was halfway there.

While his eyes were streaming and his heart was pounding and his breathing was coming in raw, aching gasps that were no use, his feet walked him back to the last place he’d felt safe. To the only place they could think to go.

The mansion looked even more imposing in the night, cast in greys and only sparse lights in the window, a handful of eyes that regarded him pityingly. Coatless and shivering, Taako knew he’d look a fool if he knocked on the door now but even that was better than the alternative of going back. So he did.

The same butler answered, with his downturned mouth and suspicious eyes. Before Taako could even say anything, not that he’d be able to say anything that excused his tear streaked face and ridiculous dress, he scowled as professionally as a butler could and said, “I’m afraid it is far past the acceptable hours to come calling, sir. You have to leave.”

“I...I know that…” What time was it, even? When had he left? How long had it taken for everything to fall apart? “But I just...I need…”

His words trailed off, realising he was asking the impossible of himself, that he didn’t know what he needed. And then it found him.

“Taako?”

Kravitz appeared at the foot of the stairs, just behind the butler’s shoulder. He was wearing just his night things, a nightshirt under a loose banyan, looking so much softer even than on their afternoons together, soft haired and sleepy eyed. Clearly he’d been about to turn in, perhaps caught just on his way to collect a glass of water or a nightcap even.

Taako was starkly aware of how he must look. Wild eyed and shaking, without coat, shoes not even laced, hair untied and in complete disarray, looking like someone had picked up his whole world and shook it mercilessly. Blue lipped and broken hearted and now it was all he could do not to burst into tears on the porch.

The butler had to practically leap aside to get himself out of the way, Kravitz was so quick to rush to Taako. In an instant the robe was swept off his body and around the elf’s shoulders, soft and warm and smelling of oak and resin and richness, just like Kravitz himself.

He held his face gently in his hands, so Taako could feel the long healed over blisters from all those strings and all that magic and looked him in the eye, “Tell me.”

And the whole sorry story came pouring out, the letter and the week they had left, Lup’s tears and how he’d let her down, how he’d lost his Auntie’s house, how Lup would never get to marry her love now, how he had to marry in the next six days or have nowhere to go and it would be their childhood all over again, hungry and terrifying and no way out. He lost the ability to stand in the middle of it and Kravitz guided him to a covered bench on the veranda, still holding him, still looking at him, never turning away even as the worst of him came out.

“I just...I ruin everything,” Taako sobbed, trembling in the expanse of the robe, “I should have been finding a wife this whole time, I should have been getting a job, I should have been studying my magic, I should have not been such a selfish, stupid little shit and now Lup’s suffering too, she’ll feel like she has to marry someone she doesn’t love just to keep the house now, picking up the pieces I leave just like always when I’ve promised again and again it’s the last time...I don’t understand, I try, I promise I try but it just...it just goes wrong because it’s me…”

“Taako…” Kravitz’s eyes had grown soft and sad, understanding opening up a deep pool within them, “It goes wrong because life has been unfair to you, in so many ways. And I would do anything, believe me, absolutely anything to make that not be the case. But it isn’t your fault.”

Taako shook his head, like Kravitz was speaking another language that he didn’t understand, “But it is my fault, it has to be. If I was better...if I’d behaved like I was supposed to...if I didn’t...if I wasn’t the way I am, if I just loved the right way…”

He nearly bit through his tongue trying to shut himself up, wincing as even that couldn’t bring the words back. He’d already said far too much, too much to even say in front of your friend, things that were never supposed to be said out loud. Kravitz would have every right to turn cold and disgusted now, if he was any kind of true gentleman, the way gentlemen were supposed to be. He could ask him to leave, cut him out of his life. Hell, he could do a lot more than that and many people of his station would sniff and nod in stiff approval.

But he didn’t. And Taako realised then that he’d known he wouldn’t. He’d known for a while but had only summoned the accidental bravery to say it out loud in his despair. Less a leap of faith, more an accidental stumbling off the edge of a cliff while blinded by tears.

But the fear was still there, of course it was. Falling was still falling.

But Kravitz still held his shoulders, anchoring him to the ground. He hadn’t looked away from his face, not once, still seeing him for everything he was.

“Taako...when you love the right way, I don’t think it has anything to do with who it is or what we’re told. I think it matters that you make each other smile, that you feel safe with them and that you don’t have to hide with them because you know...you know they’ll love you all the same. It matters that life feels better when they’re around. That you both get a say and you know they’ll listen and that you feel yourself light up when you see them. That makes it right. That makes it love.”

Taako swallowed unable to speak, his heart hammering.

“I just don’t see how this could be wrong?” Kravitz whispered softly, like he was just as unsure, “Do you?”

Taako didn’t have time to think about his answer because then their lips were together. Who leaned in, who closed the gap, it was impossible to tell and impossible to care once it was done. Kravitz’s hand left his shoulder to cradle his face, Taako’s fingers bunched tight in the silk and he inclined his head to feel every slight movement of Kravitz’s lips against his own. It was like the bitter air couldn’t touch them, like the darkness pulled away from them to give them only the most beautifully silvered moonlight. Everything became so perfect, so right, as long as they kissed. Everything was okay and Taako could believe everything Kravitz had said.

As long as they kissed.

It was the sound of a window closing sharply up above them that did it. That hard, wooden thunk and the delicate rattle of glass drove them apart so sharply and suddenly, the full length of the seat opening up between them in an instant. But not so far that they couldn’t see the fear and tension mirrored on each other’s faces, the same instant reaction of please gods, let them not have seen.

And there was the reality to flood in and remind them they were not in a story. They were two lonely, sad young men outside on a winter night, wasting what little time was left wanting things they couldn’t have.

Taako exhaled, his breath ragged and pained, “I’m sorry…”

And for the second time in so small a span, Taako ran. If the wind had just been a little bit louder, a little harsher in his ears, he wouldn’t have heard Kravitz’s groan of his name in such a broken hearted voice.

Lup always gave her brother time before she went to talk to him. It was something she’d learned the hard way, after a lot of trial and error and arguments and spells thrown at each other’s heads. Though she did sometimes miss those days when their troubles were so simple.

So she let him have until dawn, though every minute tore at her, before she rose from her bed and tiptoed down to the kitchen, where she knew he would be, curled up in the corner since she’d heard him slam the front door shut. His ears were folded down over his face and his skinny shoulders were hunched protectively around him, like he was trying to fold himself up small enough that he’d escape the world’s notice.

He was writing words in the air with simple, wispy purple magic, a list of names in his recognisable handwriting but without a movement of his hands. They were the names of families that shared the valleys with them, the names attached to the manor houses on the hills and in the rich fields. Every family with an unmarried daughter. Most of the names had a thick line crossing them out.

Lup came and sat beside her brother, pressing up against him so their bodies fit together side by side in that way they did, “Hello there. Back in from the cold?”

Taako nodded, eyes not rising as another name crossed itself off the list.

“Were you with Kravitz?” she murmured gently, delicately.

“I…” he looked up, cheeks darkening and not from the cold that still clung to him like a scent, “How…”

“This isn’t quite your style,” she twitched the fringe on the robe still draped around him, “But it’s definitely his.”

“Can you take it back tomorrow for me?” Taako asked though he was clinging to it with a vice like grip, voice small and miserable.

“I think you need to talk to him yourself, Koko.”

His face twisted, hands moving to tangle in his braid which was half unravelled by now, “I can’t, I...I messed everything up last night…”

“All the more reason to talk to him,” Lup put her hands over his to still them, “I’m sure he wants to talk to you just as much.”

“Uh uh. He won’t, it...it was...it was that kind of ruining everything.”

“Ah…” Lup sighed softly and began to undo his braid so she could make it nice again, just how he liked, “That bad, hm?”

“Yes,” Taako mumbled, cheeks burning, “We kissed. I ran away.”

Lup couldn’t pretend she was surprised but she hurt for him all the same, letting him lean against her as saying it out loud brought the weight pressing down even more.

“Why did you run, Taako?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory or harsh or exasperated, just trying to understand, nudging them both towards knowing him a little better.

After a moment, Taako’s breath shuddered in his chest and he sighed, “Because it was nice…”

“Really?” Lup feigned surprise, “I must have been doing it wrong all this time…”

“No, I mean...I mean it was really nice. It was everything I’d ever want it to be and that means...that means I feel things about him that I’m not going to get over,” Taako groaned, the letters wavering for a moment like he was losing his grip on the magic, “It can’t just be some harmless crush, it’s going to ruin everything because I can’t be with him.”

“And...why is that?”

Taako looked up at his sister like she’d lost her mind, “What?”

“Why can’t you be with him? Not legally, I understand that we live in a world run by idiots, believe me. But if he likes you and you like him, then none of that has to matter? Their game is rigged so we don’t play it.”

“But we have to play it,” Taako’s face was tight with exasperation, “Because if we don’t, we lose the house! We lose everything that was Auntie’s, the only family member who actually gave a shit about us! If we don’t then I’ve let you down, I’ve let her down and I’ve ruined everything…”

“Taako,” Lup sighs, stopping with her fingers tangled in his tawny hair, her eyes, a sharper, lighter blue than his fixed on his face, “Home is wherever I’m with you. Home is knowing you’re safe and happy and get to be yourself, just like you’ve let me be. This place, it’s just bricks and dust and things. You and me, we’ve never needed things. I don’t care if it’s this house, a tiny room, hell, I don’t care if it’s two different places. Home is us. And I don’t know about you but I’m not going anywhere.”

Taako was quiet for a long time, his eyes swimming and shoulders trembling, before whispering, “Even...even if you go get married to Barry and...and have a different family?”

Lup sighed fondly and tugged his ear gently before finishing his braid and tying it off, perfect as ever, “Any family I have is going to include you, Taako. I promise.”

“Oh,” was all Taako could think to say, tears streaming down his face. But Lup knew what he meant.

“So go find this poor fool who's fallen in love with you, okay?” she kissed his cheek and jumped lightly to her feet, pulling him up after her, “Before he comes to his senses.”

Taako nodded, though his smile was still uncertain, “What if he already has? I did...I did turn up at his door late at night, cry on him, kiss him and run away…”

Lup shook her head confidently, giving him the infectious smile they shared.

“Koko, I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. There’s no coming back from this.”

Taako tried to make himself look slightly more presentable than the last time he knocked on this door. In his haste, he wasn’t sure he’d managed.

He was just thinking what he could possibly say to get the butler to let him through, about to settle on just firing off a bolt of magic and running right past, when something incredibly strange happened. One moment he was on the porch, tense and waiting.

And the next he stood in the middle of the Countess’ parlour.

Taako was too shaken to yelp the swear word that wanted to leap from his mouth, thank goodness, because the Countess herself was there, sitting in a position eagerly identical to when he’d last left her in this room. Except now there was a black china tea set laid out in front of her, apparently untouched.

“I apologise, Master Tacco, for the theatrics. I do not normally like to cast spells on people without their consent but I’m afraid our time is short. Do you need to vomit? I would prefer you did not do it on the carpet if that’s the case.”

“No, my lady…” Taako said faintly, though he did feel damn dizzy.

“Good. Most do after being transported magically. I applaud your fortitude.”

Taako could have told her about how he and Lup had been casting that exact spell on each other as a prank since they were children, though neither of them could have managed to do it so cleanly and without even needing to see their target, but all he could care about right then was that Kravitz was nowhere to be found in the parlour.

“Where…”

“By now my ward will be at the train station,” the Countess’s voice was as steady and smooth and featureless as ever, just like her painted expression, “Hence the need to be swift.”

“The train?” Taako’s voice came out strangled and pained, “He’s leaving?”

“Indeed. To where, he did not share with me. All he said was that he needed to leave immediately and would simply take the first train departing the station. He was packed and gone before breakfast.”

Taako moaned, hands coming up to grip at his hair in distress, “Oh gods, it’s all my fault, I’m so sorry…”

“Strange,” the Countess intoned, “His words exactly.”

Of course. Of course he would blame himself when secretly it was your fault, your doing…

Stop it. Taako shook himself, cutting off that voice, focused enough on the words that rose to counter it that it was almost easy. It was no one’s fault, no one but the world that had made them this way, that had taught them to fear and hate their own hearts. And if they were going to win against it, they would both need to be a little braver and start being a little kinder to themselves.

“I’m going to go after him,” his eyes snapped up to meet the masks’ and there was a slight twinkle behind them, like that was the answer she wanted to hear, “Can you get me there? Uh, please? My lady?”

“Certainly,” she didn’t even move her hand, let alone murmur an incantation, “Taako?”

“My lady?” Taako felt a familiar, lightheaded feeling and a tingling in his extremities. The parlour seemed to shift and loosen, like it was all printed on vellum.

“Bring my boy home.”

When the rushing, sucking sound faded, Taako wasn’t standing with his feet in the toilet or on the roof like he would when Lup cast the spell on him. He was standing just outside the small train station that carried folk to bigger and more exciting places than their valley, with it’s plain brick building and one platform.

And a train, huge and black and belching steam like an iron dragon, waiting to lurch into motion and take it’s passengers away. And one of those passengers was Kravitz, if the black carriage waiting outside the ticket office was any indication.

Taako’s chest clenched as a whistle sounded, piercing and shattering the quiet country morning that hadn’t quite woken up yet. It was unfamiliar to him, running towards something rather than away from it. But with only seconds before the love of his life was dragged away from him, he was willing to give it a go.

Kravitz leaned back against the punctured leather of the carriage seat and tried to steady his breathing. He’d already drawn some strange, alarmed looks from the other passengers in the upper class carriage as he’d walked by and sat down heavily, handkerchief never far from his eyes.

But it was so hard to keep the tears back. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he was sat on a train much like this one, only slowing to a stop rather than shuddering up to speed, seeing these hills and fields for the first time. He could remember his own excitement, his own eagerness to settle and help his mistress build something and find a home, a place he could press into his mental map and know would always be safe and there for him to come back to. A place where he could rest. A place where he could make something as beautiful as all the cities he’d visited and lands he’d walked, in its own quiet way.

He’d been so sure he would make his mistress proud.

It hurt to remember it now, nursing the heart he’d broken in his fumbling, hopeless trying. Maybe it had just been too soon. Maybe he just wasn’t ready to settle down and shape himself into a lord he could be proud of.

Or maybe they’d all been right and Countess Raven really had been wrong to wager everything she’d built on a penniless nobody from the gutter.

That brought a fresh wave of tears to his eyes. That, the thick glass, the gushing smoke and the slow, lumbering movement that was only just becoming real movement made it hard to know if what he saw was real. He didn’t believe it for a moment, thinking it was just what his tired eyes and aching heart wanted to see. Because why else would Taako be standing on the platform, emerging from the smoke like some gothic hero?

But then he saw the wetness clinging to his elf’s long eyelashes that were the same honey colour as his hair, catching the early morning light, he watched as his mouth moved to make the shape of his name, showing the gap in his front teeth he knew Taako hated but he could love endlessly. Even in his dreams, Kravitz would never get such perfect details quite right.

The train was moving now, their two worlds sliding across each other and ready to break. Kravitz saw the heartbreak on Taako’s face, the same as he saw on that ghostly, not quite there reflection of himself in the window, doubled over on the outside world. And to have it happen twice in not even one day would be too much.

Kravitz had never really understood where his magic came from, it had just been something he’d always known, like how he knew to breathe and eat and sleep. It had saved him numerous times, not least the day the Countess had seen it in him and decided to help him grow it into something he could wield. It just came when he needed it, the well of red that would open up in his chest and make things happen that used to scare and thrill him in equal measures.

And Kravitz could tell himself now that he was a scholar, he’d studied and practised and travelled and he understood his magic now. He could tell himself that but he wouldn’t ever lose that childlike, delighted thrill when his magic would rush through him at just the right time, warm and welcome as an old friend.

One moment he was on the train car, the next he was standing on the platform, feeling the warmth of his magic dissipating, replaced by the more complicated but so much more intense warmth he felt at standing practically toe to toe with Taako. The elf gave a sob of relief, clasping his hands over his mouth, though his bewildered grin still shone through.

“Hello…” Kravitz breathed, giggling a little, hands clasping nervously.

“Hello,” Taako’s laugh was bubbly and breathless, “Um...what do we do now?”

Kravitz was laughing then too, at the absurdity of it all, “I think we should...talk, probably. About...us and how we feel and how we’re going to...do this. We should do that. But right now, all I want to do is kiss you and...and tell you I love you. Madly. Unwisely. And completely.”

Taako nodded, eyes radiant with his delighted tears, his ears flapping, “I love you too, Kravitz. I love you so godsdamned much. And I’m not afraid.”

Kravitz felt like those words alone could be the end of him, if the world they opened up for him wasn’t so worth staying around to see. He looked around them, at the empty platform, the smoke curling around them still as if it was giving them the space and time they needed. And if his magic were pulling it closer, thickening it, then that was just another thing to thank it for.

Last time it had been impossible to say who moved in, this time it was undeniable it was both of them. The kiss was both of their doing, something they both sank into blissfully for the brief time they were allowed. But there would be more, a hundred more, in the places they’d made where they could be themselves.

And where they could be together.

There were tales told of the woman in the mask, the Countess Raven who dwelt in the black manor house on top of the hill. Whispers and gossips and rumours were traded throughout the valley, of her dark magics and her wealth and the flocks of black birds that flitted around her towers of a night.

In the two months since she’d acquired her newest student, there had been rumours about him too. About his scandalous past as a no good rake, the havoc he’d caused, how he’d never find a wife. And perhaps there were some words spoken about how close he was to the Countess’ ward, how they would never be far from each other at balls, how they went through the town together, laughing and smiling, how both remained unmarried.

But in the end, it was more fun to gossip about how the Countess bathed in blood.

“We have a train to catch, my darling,” Kravitz reminded him before he walked through the door but it was just him being his adorably worrywort self. They had plenty of time.

Plenty of time to see the house before it all changed.

Things were stored under dust sheets, the more expensive, old style furniture that honestly, neither of them had ever liked, had been packed and sold and new pieces had been brought in that better suited the cosy, warm family home Taako could see this would become. Lup and Barry would reshape it to suit them, suit the future they’d make together. It would always be the bones of the house that Taako and Lup had grown up in but it’s purpose and face would change.

And that was okay.

“It should all be done by the time we’re back from our trip,” Kravitz smiled, following just behind him, close but letting him have his space to take it all in, “A few pieces still to arrive, some wallpapering to do upstairs…”

“One hell of a wedding present,” Taako smiled, warmed by the memory of Lup’s face and the hug she’d clasped him in when they’d presented the keys just after the ceremony. All bought and paid for by the Countess, signed for by her ward. Theirs, to live in for the rest of their happily married days, whatever weather came their way.

And there will always be room for me.

But there would also be cities and mountains and festivals and museums, galleries and forests and beaches. There would be a hundred places to discover and a thousand things to learn.

And countless meals, with the man he loved sitting across the table from him.

There was a world out there for Taako, with as much room for him as this home that he knew.

And he couldn’t wait to see it all.

[ransomedbard]

Course Correction

As the decade draws to an end, Trowa joins Quatre and Wufei on a working vacation, but they still manage to find time for a New Year’s toast.

For @gwcocktailfriday ‘s New Year’s theme

—————

Trowa floated weightless inside the cramped airlock, relishing a moment of downtime.

It was now past 11pm on New Year’s Eve. His friends had been on the outside of the ship for hours, working their photographic magic in the waning moments of the decade while he steered the ship in an endless loop with minor variations to set up their shots. Half an hour ago when they’d called him over the com to let him know they were finally finished, he had welcomed the news with a private sigh of relief. But then they’d followed that announcement with an invitation to join them outside to “ring in the New Year”. So he picked up his tired bones, set the autopilot and suited up as instructed, and was now waiting for them to finish setting up whatever surprise they had in store before he exited the hatch. If it was to happen before midnight, they had better hurry - there were only nine minutes left.

He passed the time musing over what the surprise would be - a picture for him to post on his own social media was his guess. A kind and appropriate gesture, given the nature of their trip, but perhaps wasted on him, because he only had an account in the first place to keep up with what they and his other friends were doing. In turn, those friends made up his scarce two dozen followers - although if he posted their photograph that might change; Quatre and Wufei had tens of thousands of followers each.

Neither of them had set out to become a minor celebrity; it had simply built up slowly over time. Wufei, who traveled often for work had made his start after he posted images of a lunar eclipse that he happened upon by accident. Taken on a shuttle leaving the Earth for L3, the planet hung vast and bright in the foreground, casting a dark, crisp shadow over the moon. The stark beauty of it had fired Wufei’s imagination and he began to seek out more. He chose unique and little known conjunctions and phenomena, performed his own calculations as to when they would occur and the best approach to take, and then scheduled his flights on everything from luxury cruises to commuter red-eyes in order to capture them.

If Wufei’s specialty was capturing nature‘s rarest moments, Quatre’s by contrast was all about making you believe in the reality of things that had never existed. He delighted in trompe l'oeil, forced perspective, and strange camera lenses; he was a wizard at capturing reflections, utilizing atmospheric distortions, and other tricks to fool the eye. But his real genius was in the intricate miniatures and props that he made himself and integrated into his scenes - always as practical effects, as both he and Wufei prided themselves on not altering or compositing an image after the fact.

They had each fallen into spending more and more time on their respective branches of photography, and amassed a respectable following, at which point they had started good-naturedly ragging on each other. This had naturally escalated into the issuing of a challenge that had attracted a lot of attention and reblogs. After several of these occurred without a clear victor, they had announced their “End of the Decade” collaboration. He suspected this had all been planned in advance, but it was a stroke of genius, uniting their fans and heightening their fame.

Trowa was deeply amused by it all - until he got caught up in it. At the beginning of December, Wufei and Quatre had asked him if he’d be willing to help them out, as their plans had grown to be too much for the two of them to accomplish alone. Realizing he had unspent vacation days that would otherwise go to waste, he took the last week of the year off. They’d picked him up in the early hours of Christmas morning, and since then he’d been piloting the ship while they worked together to pull off some of their most ambitious shots.

He hadn’t been prepared for how physically taxing it would be. They were exacting in their requirements and he’d had to raise the sensitivity of the controls to the utmost and work with hair-trigger precision to get the exact rotation or angle they wanted. The itinerary Wufei had worked out had foregone a regular sleep schedule in the interest of catching as many interesting photo opportunities as possible, and the many hours Trowa had spent bent over the controls had added sore shoulders and a painful neck to the list of sacrifices he’d made for their art.

But you’ve enjoyed it nonetheless, chimed in the part of his mind that remained a sort of neutral observer, and Trowa nodded in agreement. The last few days had been hard, certainly, but the freedom from his daily responsibilities, the energy of his friends, and even the hard-won accomplishment of lining up the perfect shot for them made up for it. Yes, this trip had been better than he hoped, and a bit of an eye-opener; it had something he’d been missing.

What exactly that something was, he didn’t know yet, but in his unhurried way he was confident that he would figure it out, and then make any necessary changes. His philosophy of life owed much to his piloting roots; making course corrections was simply second nature.

He glanced at the clock built into the airlock wall and tapped to activate his com mic. “Five minutes left.”

Wufei made a reply that might have been “ugh,” but followed it with “come along up starboard, and — Quatre, could you move that out of the shot?”

Trowa had already cycled the air out of the lock, so within a minute he was out on the exterior of the ship, his tether clipped to their walk line. It was a small runner, but it still had a few outside cargo attachment points for bringing along any bulky items that were safe in the vacuum and radiation of space. Trowa knew his friends had made good use of these points for mounting tripods, but he stopped short when he spotted what they’d done for his surprise.

Smack dab in the middle of the starboard side was a tall, round bar table of sleek dark wood and three matching high backed chairs. The table was set with a softly glowing lamp with a dark shade, a few square napkins, and even what looked like a small puddle of spilled drink.

Trowa laughed delightedly, then settled himself into the chair in the middle and tucked his safety line behind him, out of sight. “Very nice. Don’t tell me you’ve filled my sip-line with alcohol?”

Wufei chuckled. “That would be going a little too far.”

Quatre took the seat at Trowa’s left, his hands full of three champagne flutes, each seemingly full of the light golden liquid. A gentle cascade of rising bubbles was frozen in each glass.

“Full of dyed resin,” he said, giving the one in his right hand a little shake and offering it to him. “And an upward pointing LED in the base; otherwise they looked too dark.” Trowa took the glass and settled it between his gloved fingers in a natural pose.

Wufei finished fussing with the camera mounted on a tripod a meter away, then came and sat down with a little tap of his hand on the table like a runner touching home. “Done! And with ninety seconds to spare!”

Quatre passed Wufei his glass and they all took a long moment to look behind them at the background for their picture. The Earth was high and relatively small, occupying much the same position the moon might in the Earth’s night sky. Compared to their usual shots it was pure simplicity, but even a novice like Trowa could see in his mind’s eye how well it would come together.

Only a minute remained before midnight. They turned back to the camera, relaxed and all smiles, just three friends enjoying a night out. Quatre cracked a joke, and Wufei carried a few bars of Auld Lang Syne.

Trowa was content to sit quietly and soak it all in. He felt closer to that missing something already.

The camera flashed a red light rapidly in warning as the flash prepared to fire. Trowa lifted his glass slightly and tilted it towards the center of the table, and his friends followed suit, the rims touching in a silent clink.

“A toast,” he said, “to the New Year - and all the possibilities it holds.”

[mahoikutranslationproject]

MGRP: Black Chapter 1 Thoughts and Reactions

So I’m actually in a unique position because as a translator I can’t exactly “react” after I read it, and I’ve read MGRP way before I started translating it, but, then I had a thought.

What if I type out my reactions, put it in notepad or some other text document, preserve it, and then after I translate it, post them all up? That way, it’ll technically still be my reactions and thoughts at the time, and I can kinda sorta join in the fandom discussion.

With Black coming out I thought Black was the perfect arc to start it, so I’ve been typing up my reactions starting with Chapter 1. I actually wanted to do it for Queens too, I just only had the idea after I was halfway through Queens. In any case, here we go:

NOTE: By this point I only have knowledge of Chapter 1 as I read it.

The Entire Regulations and Rules section before the Prologue

This part reminds me of something like DanganRonpa or something similar where the rules are quite normal and nice until you get to stuff like “DON’T TALK ABOUT ANYTHING TO SOCIAL MEDIA >:C”. Which I guess makes sense for Magical Girls, but there’s a vague air of... sinisterness? I wonder if Pythie was behind this school.

Also I like the school anthem. I wish there was an accompanying background music, but I’ll try and sing it in my head.

Gradually, her ego took form, and the girl began to regain her sense of self. She stretched her body, and hit a flat hard object. It was cold, and her butt also felt the same. Perhaps she was sitting on the floor. Without rushing, but without being slow about it either, she opened her eyes, as if realizing this is not how things should be. 

A woman was smiling straight ahead. Who was she? She was bending down and looking at her, tilting her neck. Beside her, there was a human-sized object that was tied up in chains and stuck with a tag.

The girl blinked, held her breath, and gulped.

Actions that she should’ve done without thought now felt agonizing, as if this wasn’t her own body. Why? She wondered, and as if answering, her mind replied If you have questions, just ask. She opened her mouth and said “Uh.” After confirming what her voice sounded like, she looked towards the woman, and asked her question.

Okay, so is Kana asking herself a question in her mind? Curious how her power works here. Also, what was that about a human-sized object tied in chains and stuck with a tag? That’s... bizarre. Kana where are you? Also she’s clearly been out for some time, probably. Like she’s probably not used to having this body. My other guess is that she’s not used to the sensation of being a Magical Girl.

“This isn’t my body anymore, is it?”

Wrong. This was definitely a girl’s body.

“You haven’t used it for a while, have you?”

Supports my theory above.

She was inside a small room, with concrete walls and floors unadorned with any decorations. It was about twice her height. Meanwhile, its width and depth were about six times her height. When she looked behind her, she could see a cylindrical vertical container. Did she just come out of it? The floor, walls, and the colors of the container were all pale white. Its material was soft, like resin or something. The only exit was the one metallic door frame. The woman in front of her was standing as if she was guarding said door. While her smile seemed like an average smile, but there was something off about it. As soon as she took her eyes away from her, though, she couldn’t exactly place why it felt so off. She wore a skirt, with high heeled shoes, and glasses. The impression she got from her outfit was that she was formal, yet her smile was mischievous.

What the hecky was she in cryostasis!? Also this sounds like Pythie/Yoshioka

“......Where are we?”

The woman didn’t answer. But the answer popped into the girl’s head regardless. This was a prison. The woman bowed and spoke,

Okay so this is Magical Girl prison.

“I am Yoshioka. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Yoshioka.”

I knew it.

“But now the tides have changed.”

“The Land of Magic doesn’t change so easily.��

She knows about the Land of Magic. Kana you are interesting. 

“You are a Magical Girl named Kana. Do you remember?”

“Kana.”

She shook her head rapidly, and grabbed any unkempt hair. Now that she mentioned it, that did seem right. Within her vague memory, she recalled a Kana hidden somewhere there.

“Right. Kana. My name is Kana.”

“Now, as for what you did before-”

Before she could even utter another word, a name popped into Kana’s head.

“Caspar…”

At this point I’m thinking she’s probably related to Ratsumu? Is she potentially the actual Third Sage? She doesn’t seem Sagey but she’s got like... a potential for it. Especially cause she said she recalled “a Kana hidden somewhere”. What if she’s only a fragment of the Sage? Like how Ratsumu’s name is inhumanly long.

“Perhaps you may have noticed, but that is your Magical Skill. When you ask a question to someone, you will immediately know their answer. A wonderful, powerful ability, though one that shouldn’t be abused.”

“And why shouldn’t I abuse it?”

Immediately, the answer popped into her head. Because answers are subjective. If the respondent would answer a lie that they believe to be true, the answer will be distorted as well. There are also things that are better left unknown. Also, it was much better to use your own head to figure things out rather than relying on your powers. Perhaps because it might be a breach of privacy to Yoshioka. Kana certainly didn’t want her own privacy being breached. A variety of answers popped into her head. All of them Yoshioka’s, perhaps gained through her powers.

What happens if Kana asks someone a question in a livestream... Also this power is less powerful than I expected, which means it may not be Sage-level, but it doesn’t rule out the fact that she could be a Sage.

She followed Yoshioka into a hallway filled with a series of rugged iron bars, which led to large pillars further ahead, and these iron bars and large pillars continued to surround her path forward. There were doors lined equally on the sides, with prisoners just like Kana imprisoned inside, pacing around as they stared at the iron bars. This scenery repeated across the floors until they reached the sixth floor. This was a pretty big facility. If there was one prisoner per door, she’d guessed this jail housed about 100 or 200 prisoners. There were tags within tags, used to mark these prisoners down. Naturally, security was supposed to be strict, but other than Yoshioka and the Magical Girl packed inside that object, nobody was here visiting anyone else. 

Wow. This is a huge prison. Were they all stripped of clothing and equipment too, or was it just Kana? Also, a thought that occurred to me later on past my initial reactions during my readthrough, “why wasn’t Kana tagged?”

“That’s yours. Please feel free.”

“Clothes and underwear.”

She turned them around, and the bright light inside the room bounced from her silver hair to make a shining circle. There was also a matching skirt.

“This doesn’t look like a costume.”

“It’s a uniform.”

It looked like a sailor suit with a crimson color scheme. It had a design that had low degrees of exposure. This would be too plain for a Magical Girl costume. Kana didn’t feel like this matched her. She wasn’t flashy, sure, but this was even worse. It also felt Eastern somewhat.

“This doesn’t look like something you wear for a Magical Girl job.”

“Oh, my apologies. These clothes are enchanted by magic, so it won’t ever break. Not to worry. And, it fits where you’re supposed to go.”

That explains why Kana’s clothes are so plain. This wasn’t her actual costume at all.

☆ Mariko Fukuroi

Black is officially the best arc. Case closed.

All of a sudden, Mariko became known as the head of information. She was then entrusted with more things than would befit a temporary assistant. With there being two Magical Girls in this school, school life was generally very chaotic.

How did she get so many jobs. I mean, I’m proud of you Marika but how. Weren’t you just a sub?

Originally, Mariko had only been sent as a substitute teacher because one of the homeroom teachers was on maternity leave

Yes, you WERE!

Despite that, Yamada kept exercising on his own. His spirit was nearly unbreakable, even to the eyes of a Magical Girl. But who knows how far that’ll take him. Carefully, but also quickly, Mariko sought out a way to solve the problem, by listening, being attentive, and alert.

I hope you become a Magical Girl some day Yamada.

Turning around, she saw two girls. She knew their faces, but they weren’t from her class. In fact, they weren’t even the same grade. Standing in front of her was Yoshiko Yoshinoura, with an expression that showed how determined she was. Behind her, Sari Kasuga seemed worried. Both, however, seemed to be anxious. Both were friends of Koyuki Himekawa.

Props to Yoshiko for also surviving all the way to Black. She, Snow, and Ripple are the only long-running survivors at this point. If Snow and Ripple bite the dust, this ironically makes her the one who outlived literally every other cast member. Poor Sumire never shows up again though.

“Hey teach, you’re kinda looking a bit weird. Gritting your teeth like that.”

“Mmph?”

It seems her face had contorted from her clenched jaw. Yoshiko’s suspicions only grew further. Mariko managed to cover by coughing twice. Mariko went back to a cool nonplussed “What? You didn’t see anything” kind of face.

“I uh, have canker sores.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. I swear, I do.”

Mariko Fukuroi—the Magical Girl Marika Fukuroi—always hung out with Snow White whenever they were both Magical Girls. She’d help her with anything she had on her plate. Whenever she did so, Marika was almost always filled with joy. Such was the freedom of the Magical Girl known as Marika Fukuroi. However, she still had trouble remembering all her students’ faces. They flickered back and forth in her mind. Her inner storm didn’t really make for a nice warm personality. 

Answer. Your. Phone. Snow.

Also, it’s cute how Marika cares so much about Snow White this way. I always knew she did, but now it’s even better. Marika’s a huge brutish brawler, but she also just has trouble socializing, and letting out her actual feelings. This is great.

After opening the door to the science lab, she closed it and held it down with her body, the girls still outside. Then, she bit back a loud scream and pulled her hair.

I really wish this was animated, or drawn, or just... something. I really really really want to see this.

Snow White’s new Magical Phone—that she hasn’t used yet—began to vibrate inside her costume. Whatever the reason, it’d be interrupting what she was doing now. So she held her hand to her costume and turned off her phone.

ANSWER. YOUR. PHONE. SNOW.

She had faintly heard the voice of someone’s mind from beyond the trees, meaning she had to close the distance. She made a circle with her thumb and index finger, and the Magical Girl running up behind her, Uluru, saw her signal.

I am so glad they’re partners now. Snow White and Uluru, Batman and Robin, it fits so well.

“There she is! That’s the girl you beat up in the cave…” Uluru said, pointing to a blue Magical Girl standing in front of the trees. Princess Deluge.

Whoa, they found Deluge already? Wait, are they going to fight again? OH MY GOD ARE THEY!? ARE WE GONNA SEE ANOTHER FIGHT? IN THE PROLOGUE?

Back when Puk Puck had raided the caverns, Uluru had told Snow White that she fought with Deluge, and then promptly thought that it might be a bad idea to mention that. The Uluru she knew before would always say what’s on her mind without fault. Now, Uluru had grown. She cared for others, and chose her words carefully.

I like how we’re checking in with everyone, and I like that Uluru is growing as a person and a partner. This fills me with joy. Snow and Uluru are one of my favorite Snow pairs next to Marika, cause both of them can basically kick ass Batman Robin style (well with Marika it’d be Batman and... uh... insane battle hungry Robin? a nicer Jason Todd Robin?)

Standing around Deluge were Armor Arlie, Blade Brenda, and Cannon Catherine, all facing Snow White. These three black-suited Magical Girls had also been manipulated by Puk Puck and fought alongside her. However, Arlie, who had never taken off her visor, even while in briefings, breaks, or fighting with Puk Puck, had now lifted her visor. She looked just like Brenda and Catherine, yet she was also completely different from before.

Snow White smiled back in reply to the black-suited Magical Girls who were happily waving about their weapons, before relaxing her expression and facing Deluge.

D’awwwww she LIKES them!!!!!!!!!

Alright, Chapter 1 proper. I can’t believe it ends THERE! So wait, Armor Arlie’s still Arlie, and there’s no Dory, which means... Where is she? Is she part of Deluge’s group? Wait, where’s Shadow Gale? Did they just... leave her at home? Without a babysitter? Does she have food? Will she be okay?

☆ Tetty Goodgripp

The nearest station from her house was around three minutes; from there, she’d catch two trains, then she’d exit the largest station from the west side, and walk one minute until she arrived at her destination. The building had no elevator and was all broken down and rusty, but she still had to travel up to the seventh floor. Finally, she would reach the Gate to her school. This was her normal route to school.

So the school uses a Gate in the 7th floor? That’s pretty rad.

From there, she entered the building from the roof. She had considered the fact that the rooftop door not being locked was a sign of courtesy for other Magical Girls.

Isn’t she breaking the rules here, Class Rep?

 As she ran across the hallways, she saw a sign on the wall that read “No running in the halls.” It’s fine. It was a short walk to class anyway.

That’s two rules broken.

They all belonged to one of the three groups. Group three to be precise. Hearing Fujino’s footsteps, they turned around, in time for Fujino to say a warm “Good morning!” towards them.

I’ll not paste every single one of their descriptions but while I can see Lightning being hime-girl, Diko being mohawk girl threw me off so much.

“Ello.”

“Ewo.”

God, these two are gonna get me so much.

These three groups refuse to interact with each other at all. At best, they’d greet each other, but the only one who would respond with a smile among anyone was Sally Raven. The rest are generally salty to any outsiders. Except for one girl in group two, who wasn’t just elementary school friends with Fujino—she also became a Magical Girl in the same exam.

Fuko Sayama—Magical Girl name Mepis Pheles. She had been estranged from Fujino when she transferred out, but miraculously, they made a reunion here. At first, they got along well, but then they started to talk less and less because she kept getting mad whenever they played cards.

Mepis is one person I didn’t expect to be the angry type, but now I’m even more interested in her.

At this point we’ve gotten an illustration, and I notice compared with the human illustrations in twitter that they’re arranged in exactly the same way as their groups! Which means the ones that don’t have human illustrations WASN’T Arlie and Dory, but Calcolo (cause she’s a teacher) and Kana. This was further confirmed when the two twins actually ARE Arlie and Dory.

“Well duh, they’d be a Magical Girl! This is a Magical Girl CLASS! I’m talkin’ about somethin’ ELSE! They’re a bit more mhm mhm, y’know?”

With her fingers on her sun-tanned cheeks, Wrappy Tip shook her chestnut hair out and about. She normally speaks loud, and now she spoke even louder somehow.

WRAPPY!!! WHY DO YOU SCREAM SO MUCH! I’m joking I love you for that Wrappy. Your Magical Girl form looks like Tepsekemei but you’re actually HIGHLY ENERGETIC!

“I’m glad OUR group has five! If we had four, then WE’D get the inmate! God, can you imagine the TENSION!?”

“You don’t have to be so mean.”

“I’m not MEAN! I’m SCARED!”

Wrappy’s words seemed nervous, but her expression and tone were completely at odds with it, being so cheerful.

I have a feeling Wrappy is going to be like this for the entirety of Black. She’s just gonna be in danger and be like “OH MY GOD WE’RE IN DANGER!” with googly eyes and a gasping look on her face.

“So hang on, you’re telling me she’s been released, right?”

“Well, she wouldn’t have broken out, would she?”

“Prison Break.”

“Season 2.”

The fact that Arlie and Dory knows Prison Break and Season 2 of Prison Break leads me to believe they watched it with Deluge or something and Shadow Gale during their stint at that hideout. Which is both cute and amazing.

Her height was 170cm, and her face seemed so mature. She had trimmed natural blonde hair that reached her shoulders. She had fair skin, blue eyes, and a European Magical Girl name. But unlike Arlie and Dory, her Japanese was very fluent. Thunder General Adelheid made a warm smile and waved her right hand.

THUNDER GENERAL ADELHEID!!!! Now this is one Magical Girl I’m going to keep an eye out throughout Black.

“Hmm, it seems you’ve heard the rumors.”

“About the PRISONER!? YEAH YEAH, WE DID!” replied Wrappy Tip while violently headbanging.

My opinion of Wrappy shot up due to her violent headbanging.

“For now, I shall treat her as if she were kin. However, I do feel like she may quarrel with Mepis.”

Little did I know, this was the understatement of the year.

She hadn’t changed one bit. Her appearance had changed, now wearing glasses and braids, but her personality hadn’t. Despite being seemingly literary and well-read, this girl was surprisingly quick to anger, and felt more like a gangster. When she was in elementary school, it didn’t matter if it were boys or even seniors, she picked a fight with everyone—mostly people she found annoying. The Daifugo card game during her lunch break was cancelled early because she had a tantrum for losing, and the teachers couldn’t handle her, so they just banned her from bringing cards at all.

Okay Mepis is going to be a fun ride when she finally does get a POV and dialogue. That being said, the glasses girl was one of my secondary and tertiary guesses for Mepis solely because a winky face human is a little too obvious. It’s hilarious how so out of personality her human self looks from her Magical Girl self though.

Tetty Goodgripp had been chosen to become their Class Rep. Still, group two’s problems should be solved by group two. Thinking about it though, it seemed their leader was Mepis Pheles, and considering how their leader was the one itching for a fight, there was no way they could solve any problems whatsoever on their own.

The consistent opinion among these girls seems to be “Mepis is not going to be a good time”

When she looked at Miss Lille, she saw that she seemed almost pale, as if saying “I’m sorry for what you’re about to endure”. Wrappy meanwhile was just waving both her hands in the air as if saying “HI GUYS! WE’RE TALKING ABOUT YOU!”

Wrappy shoots up yet again in the best Black characters rank, though so far everyone’s off to a great start personality-wise.

Dory meanwhile was grabbing her spear and was bonking Arlie in the head repeatedly. Arlie looked sad, but Dory kept bonking.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA WHAT!? WHY?

These two looked like they came in a set, yet most of the time, they kept on fighting each other. It’s hard to tell if they were actually close with each other or not.

So do they actually just hate each other? That’s hilarious.

☆ Halna Medhi Melen

a mage? Oh boy. And a new one too. Side note, I really love how we can just determine mages from their ridiculous names. Mana, why isn’t your name so ridiculous?

Calcolo may be a talented Mage herself, but she was far from mature, so she’d make a horrible teacher.

GASP!!!! CALCOLO’S A MAGE MAGICAL GIRL!!!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!! We’ve heard this being possible in Breakdown and F2P but this is our first main series character to BE one.

Halna glanced at her own pointed ears

First off. Elf. Secondly, how the hell do you glance at your own ears???

The cause of the Calcolo’s nervousness was 20% Magical Girl and 80% Calcolo’s timid personality.

Oh Calcolo’s gonna be a favorite. She’s like 7753′s personality mixed with Kuru-Kuru Hime’s job.

“My name is Halna Medhi Melen. I am the supervisor of this school. This is Calcolo Callumph. She’s your homeroom teacher. Her Magical Girl name is Calcolo.”

Callumph is such a nice last name, but why is your Magical Girl name literally your actual name, Calcolo? Didn’t you learn from Nokko-Chan and Akane?

Also the entire section of this part was just Halna raging at Kana as Kana innocently answers questions was the best. Calcolo’s boss is much angrier than 7753′s was for sure, and that makes for a brand new flavor of “depressed office worker Magical Girl”, of which there are so many in MGRP.

Since being assigned to Class 2-F, there has been no day where Calcolo didn’t feel pain and agony. What kind of a teacher has no mood for classes, or any abilities, or just seems to complain whenever there’s an event? Why did she have to make up a rule to ban cards during lunch? Why can’t the kids just get along?

I knew I’d love her. She literally has 7753′s personality about her job.

She remembered her first day as a teacher, when she was determined to be the best teacher she could be. She opened the door and saw a girl with a mohawk and tattoos on half her face like she was from the feudal age. That’s when she thought “Yeah. No. I don’t think this’ll work out.”

Hey, I’m sure Diko didn’t mean anything bad by it. That being said this made me laugh so much and got Calcolo even higher on my best characters list.

Her bloodline can be traced back to one of the Three Sages, Shayn Osk Val Mer, and not only that, her proficiencies are on the level of specialists. She has eyes that could peer through the essence of others, and has a fierceness that enables her to make decisions without hesitation. She had pointed ears and heterochromatic eyes, which seemed an anomaly even for Mages

So, does this mean Osk had children? Also, is this where elves came from? Her heterochromatic eyes are also shared by Puk.

There’s like an entire section dedicated to how the school is just a proxy war between the factions and I love how they’re still scrambling at each other despite not physically having the capabilities to.

For now, they focused on finding any Mage who can transform into a Magical Girl. Thus, the spotlight shone on Calcolo, the girl who studied day and night to become an authority on criminology. Oh, and she can transform into a Magical Girl too.

I like how her degree was used first. This makes Calcolo sound like Buzz Lightyear during his Mrs. Nesbitt phase in Toy Story 1.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“No? What’d I forget?”

Her expression, or lack of, felt like she’s not really judging her or being mad, but Calcolo felt like she was going to dive into a pit of something much much worse.

“Well, classes are divided into two sections. General Education, and Magical Girl Education. Gen Ed classes will be taken in your human forms, and Magical Girl Classes in your Magical Girl form.”

“Okay,” Kana said, pulling her chair out and standing up.

Oooh boy, I’m gonna love Kana’s interaction with everybody if she keeps this up. She’s not exactly clueless, but everyone else thinks she’s an idiot. Which I can’t blame. She looks kinda dumb.

Basically, if Calcolo reported any problems with Kana, worst comes to worst, Halna will pick a fight with Caspar.

I enjoy the fact that Calcolo basically said “If I report Kana, I may indirectly cause a war with Caspar. Nope.”

“Your clothes-”

“It’s the school uniform.”

“No, I know. I just meant, parts of them are torn.”

“It’s to make it easier for me to move in.”

I didn’t notice this at the time, but my editor pointed out that she basically ripped the “unrippable” clothes. Kana what are you?

Well, those are my initial thoughts on it. When I first read chapter one, I was super intrigued at how the school worked, and what Halna and Calcolo’s plans are for it. It seems I was mistaken that the school was a Pythie-run thing, but I do think Pythie is using Kana in some way. I also think Kana’s potentially related to the third Sage, Caspar herself. Time will tell how this plays out.

[mjallanwrites]

Love Me

LOVE ME ( IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANNA DO ) — in which ( Y/N ) and peter have been best friends since middle school despite the fact that she’s constantly been pegged as shy and withdrawn. ever since they entered high school ( Y/N ) has had a small crush on peter, but remains convinced that he’s never seemed to notice because she’s always been lost behind her giant frames

WARNINGS — none !!

WORD COUNT — 1.5k

REQUEST — can you do a drabble where the reader is the nervous one and has a huge crush on peter and he sees her one day without her glasses and realizes his feelings

AUTHOR’S NOTE — so i don’t wanna get ahead of myself or anything, but honestly y’all i’m super proud of myself for getting this one out in a timely manor. anyways, i hope this drabble lives up to your vision and thank you so much for requesting it ! also if anyone needs me to tag anything, let me know and i’ll be happy to add it to the warnings. !!

“PETER DID YOU hear what I just said?” The question is sullied by a sardonic kind of bitterness, and had it come from the mouth of anyone else—it would have read more like an affirmation of sorts. Of course Peter hadn't been paying attention, the capricious nature of his gaze ( which for the record, always seemed to return to the foggy window pane in five minute intervals )  had corroborated that very fact. But ( Y/N ) seems to posses an infinite amount of patience, and because she’s his best friend she’s polite enough to overlook his incessant flaw.

Sheepishness replaces the usual softness of Peter’s features, his smile wavering in the slightest fashion. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been a bit—”

“Distracted? Yeah I can tell.” ( Y/N ) adjusts the thick frame of black spectacles until they rest atop the bridge of her nose. Peter can’t help but to notice that she’s always careful not to smudge the lenses. She’s meticulous like that—straining over the minor details which would elicit indifference from most.

Spoiler alert: she isn’t most people.

“Hey! You have my full attention now, I promise.” And for five minutes he means it, listening intently to the girl who’d always prioritized physics over physical education and read Fitzgerald for fun. Only verb conjugations and the laws of grammar don’t intrigue him nearly as much as intercepting bank robberies or engaging in battle with the Avengers themselves. It was as if becoming Spider-man had cast a dullness over the intricacies of ordinary life—kaleidoscope colours gingerly draining from blank sky and left to saturate the worn out soles of his sneakers. The only time he’d ever felt some semblance of engagement was when school clothes had been swapped for red and blue spandex.

What could he say—being a masked hero could do to that to a person.

“It’s fine Peter, we can just do this another time. I have to go home soon anyways.” Peter can sense the  tinge of disappointment in her tone, it’s tethered to the faint lilt of her words—entwined like vine to stone. And he hates that he always seems to let her down, especially in times where she needs him most.

The pair had been inseparable since middle school, venturing through central park hand in hand and padding along beneath sweltering sun until the heat seemed to consume them entirely. They would feed throngs of ducks who never failed to linger by the shallow ponds, content with both the day and each other. She’d been his rock for what felt like an entirety, a paperweight which kept him fastened to the ground when his personal trials and tribulations threatened to blow him away. But above all she was tempered despite all irrationalities and empirical injustices. Perhaps it stemmed for an inherent timidness which she seemed to carry upon her shoulders like a perennial burden, or maybe she had just been that good at reservation—he could never quite put his finger on it.

Peter’s posture is stiff, as if one wrong move and her apathetic disposition may just contort into exasperation. “I swear I’ll make it up to you! Tomorrow—at that ice cream parlour you like.” He watches as ( Y/N )’s gaze seems to falter, and being the observant person that he was—he can’t help but to notice that she never seems to meet his eyes. “I’ll meet you there after school, my treat.”

( Y/N ) fiddles with the remaining notebooks which rest idly on the table. “Yeah that’s fine I guess, I-I mean you really don’t have to. But if you really wanna go then that’s cool.” She smiles that flimsy grin of hers that she’s worn since she was twelve years old, only now it’s less toothy. ( Y/N ) stopped baring ivories when she was fourteen, despite the fact the braces her parents invested thousands on ended up doing her a world of good.

“Great I’ll see you then.” Peter slips his phone into his pocket before giving her hand a light squeeze.

“Looking forward to it.” 

And as always, she really means it.

Peter Parker considers himself to be good with faces.

He can recall the identities of mask clad vigilantes who’d only exposed that particular chink in their armour for a brief moment, and the distinct profile of every librarian who’s ever shushed both him and an overzealous Ned Leeds. Such a tendency wouldn't come as a shock to those who actually knew the boy. He exuded a natural brilliance which seemed to recede that of his peers, and should he have made his intelligence the focal point of his persona—perhaps those who hadn’t known him would have dubbed him a genius. Genius’ had a tendency to notice things; they were constantly alert as if a peculiar kind of hyperactivity replaced the vitality which coursed through overt veins.

Peter was no different than the very people who never seemed to overlook even the littlest of things.

So you can only imagine his shock when a perky—and barely recognizable— ( Y/N Y/L/N ) arrives at Eddie’s Sweet Shop, clad in a floral patterned dress comprised of thin material and long sleeves. Honey lacquered nails clutch at the baby pearls which adorn her wrists—a family heirloom that she’d always donned in memory of her grandmother. On any other day, the beat up converse she’d purposely slipped on her feet that afternoon ( her solid attempt at contrasting her dress ) would look wrong—something so obviously out of place. Today they resinate with Peter like the ballet flats she’s grown so used to wearing for the sake of appearances. And it’s not that his inherent shock stems from a sudden recognition of her beauty—because she’s always been beautiful and she always would be. No, the jarring nature of his response stems from the unfamiliarity of character. The way she seems to have blossomed before a crowd of oblivious strangers, confidence etched into the crescent shape her mouth effortlessly conforms to. Light shades of pink stain the surface of her cheeks, and he knows it’s because she’s stood in the sun for far too long. More than that, the chunky frames of her glasses are missing in action, and for the first time ever—she’s visibly unfazed.

Yeah, his best friend has always been beautiful—but he’s never really seen her like this before.

“Hey ( Y/N )! You look, uh—wow, I mean, you look good.” His stuttering seems to intrigue a smiling ( Y/N ), which turns his own cheeks a deep red.

The giggle which escapes ( Y/N )’s lips is airy and delicate, and should it have been something of physical tangibility, it would have broke underneath the burden of her weighty expectations. “Thanks Peter. You don’t think it’s too much?” There’s a sudden crook in her right eyebrow as she gestures to her lanky form.

Peter holds back a nervous gulp. “N-No, definitely not.”

“Well that’s a relief.” She slides onto the stool next to him, and for a moment his throat seems constrict upon catching the light floral scent of her perfume. Was it possible for someone to smell pretty? Peter wants to ask her, but settles for requesting a menu instead.

“So I was thinking we could share a banana split—y’know, like when we were kids.” He begins to fiddle with the menu’s laminated edge, and ( Y/N ) watches him like it’s the most endearing thing she’s ever seen.

“That sounds great, but aren’t we technically still kids?” There’s a teasing glint in her eye, a stark disparity to a cautiousness which laces her words. And to anyone looking from the outside in—she was right. Peter and ( Y/N ) were nothing more than two kids who’d always harboured feelings for one another, though neither of them had ever been brave enough to act on such a sentiment. Instead, they continued forward with one another—ceaselessly pursuing the future with no intention to ever part, even if it meant an eternity of friendship and friendship alone.

The nights in which ( Y/N ) buried her head in the crook of Peter’s neck on her fire escape, tracing constellations with yearning fingers and telling tales of both science and fiction had been enough to cement an emotional attachment she could never quite shake. She’d loved him in a childish kind of way.

A stolen kisses on the cheek by the duck pond kind of way.

And Peter had loved her too, he always had. He loved the way she’d never been seen without a novel of some sort tucked at her side—pages tattered and cover torn because she always read her books more than once. The way she never grew weary of him, even when he lost focus during their study sessions in the library. And how he could know everything there was to know about her—only to reevaluate it all by the next morning. Because she’d never just been one thing, even when she was shy and vulnerable there’d still been a confidence to her; a security which transcended all hesitation.  

Aren’t we technically still kids?

“Yeah—I guess we are.”

Two kids who were just friends—but loved each other nonetheless.

[jpowssbcu2]

Further digging deeper

Further digging deeper:

 Task 1: Select Select an artwork/installation/film/sculpture/book/article/soundtrack/object/thing

I decided to do a further digging deeper to discover new materials that I could possibly use to make my plaster heads more interesting.

Task 2: Respond Write a 200-word response to the work. This does not have to be written in an academic style. Make it personal; think about how the work made you feel or what it reminded you of instead of what it looks like.

I really like the plaster head sculptures; the process was timely but easy to do. However, they’re just hollow plaster heads ready to be sealed and possibly planted. I wish to make these heads more interesting whether I dig deeper into the materials that I could use and the purpose that these materials could have and the impact they share. The heads remind me of the busts that you’d see in an old fashion home – apart of the décor, possible mounted onto a wall or displayed on a fireplace. It would be interesting whether I can see inside the plant heads? Maybe a transparent material? Or to use a transparent material that could be mixed with items or plaster – or possibly layered with plaster?

Task 3: Research Research is more than finding out about the artist that made the work or how it was made. We want you to use these artworks as starting off points. We want you to dig deeper. Be curious!  3:1 Start by identifying key themes of the artworks. Make a list.

Plaster sculpture, Head, Plaster, Person’s head, bust, Material, Texture, Colour, Shape 3:2 Try some word association from the keywords.

Material – Plaster, Plastic, Acrylic, Polymer, Concrete, Resin, 3D Print, Vinyl, Fibre Glass, Silicone, Rubber, Latex, 3:3 You can now use these keywords to search in the library as well as various online sites.   You can start by using websites such as… • bbc.co.uk • theguardian.com   • moussemagazine.it • frieze.com   • tate.org.uk   • e-flux.com   • itsnicethat.com   What other sites can you dig in? Find your own resources relevant to your practice

I made my first search on tate.org.uk and found an artist, John Davies who used Polyester Resin with fiberglass to create a head sculpture. The sculpture is based on a life cast made of William Jeffrey’s head in 1972. A series of heads resulted from this cast, of which five were completed, all entitled ‘William Jeffrey with Device’. T01578 was the third in the series and had perhaps the most complex of the devices used. The ‘devices’ on the other four are: one, chicken wire, stretched over a wire frame, over a horn shape which covered the nose, forehead, and mouth but which left the eyes visible; two, a horn-like form from between the eyes covering the nose and part of the mouth, with feathers around the outer rim of the form; three, two pieces of dowelling, one resting horizontally on the bridge of the nose, the other parallel to this on the tip of the nose; both were fixed by wire around the ears, and the eyes look out in the space between the dowelling; four, a hat made of felt and coated with oil paint, a painted leaf-like structure over the nose with pieces cut out so that the eyes are visible. The artwork relates to mine so far as I started off with creating a series of heads to which I can experiment with. It will be interesting how I can use resin to create some works that could create an illusion of something or to layer up to create a mixed media head sculpture – possibly mixing found items into the resin.

I then started to search more into resin, but I couldn’t find many works that were relevant to mine so I just type ‘resin head casts’ into google. I found an artist called Richard Dupont who created a series of head casts that were filled with salvaged items and cast with resin. http://www.richarddupont.com/sculptures/resin-heads/featured-works#6

This gave me an idea that I can use found objects that are relevant to my idea suffocation and possibly put them into the resin as I pour it into my mould.

 I then searched ‘Concrete’ into Tate.org.uk and found work by Henry Moore. https://www.tate.org.uk/art/research-publications/henry-moore/judith-collins-henry-moore-and-concrete-cast-carved-coloured-and-reinforced-r1172059 Henry Moore made in total twenty-one sculptures in concrete, all between the years 1926 and 1934. This was a period of experimentation and rapid development in his career in which he explored this new medium alongside stone and wood. As he later commented, he was then very interested in all types of sculptural media and took up concrete in part because it was becoming a more commonly used building material and he was hopeful of being commissioned to produce concrete sculptures to go with these new buildings. Perhaps equally important was its cheapness (he had little money then) and the different ways in which it could be worked: concrete could be cast in a mould, shaped and added to while soft, or carved when hard. It could also be colored by pigments and incorporate other objects. Carving was his preferred mode of making sculptures during the 1920s and 1930s: famously espousing the doctrine of truth to materials, he publicly championed the view that a sculptor should carve word or stone directly in order to be able to respond to its properties rather than attempt to disguise them. But the story of Moore’s engagement with concrete shows him also alive to the possibilities of a material that could be modeled, carved and cast, and creates a more nuanced understanding of his approach to material and technique in the interwar years.

3:4 Can you expand your research to find links that address… • What you think the artist would have researched when making their artwork?

Artists would have researched how the materials would work; how the materials respond when being mixed with other materials and the durability and whether the materials are versatile. Artists would have researched how other artists may have used these materials or artists who have created something similar.

• How the artwork relates to current news events? Artist Henry Moore relates to an artist Stefano Boeri ‘Forest cities’. Henry created concrete sculptures as a commission to go with some buildings. However, Stefano used concrete buildings to house people and a forest of plants to create a self-sustainable town. https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/gardening-blog/2013/feb/27/bosco-verticale-vertical-gardening

Richard Dupont created a collection of resin heads. One of his resin head creations ‘Pink Head, 2011 made with solid cast UV stable polyurethane resin with studio and personal detritus, found and salvage, recycled objects, and waste’ reminded me of a news article I found on The Guardian. It talks about how if we reuse/recycle materials, we could possibly create 200,000 jobs. To see Richard is using found, recycled and other types of materials in his resin heads is a way of using less resin (saving him a lot of money) and a way to create colourful art with a strong meaning.

https://www.theguardian.com/business/2015/jan/20/reusing-recycling-waste-materials-creates-jobs

• How the artwork relates to history? “Mould making is a 6000-year old skill. That means that our prehistoric ancestors were working in the same technique that we can pass on to our children and grandchildren.” “Archaeologists have also unearthed stone moulds used for making axes from about 3000 BC. They were probably made from an identical two-piece mould tied together with a rope, with a hole on top through which the liquid metal would have been poured. Many early weapons were fabricated through casting, making this technique key to the success of the hunting and gathering lifestyle of early humans. This shows the effect that fabrication techniques have on all aspects of life.” https://smartartbox.com/blogs/smart-art-blog/history-of-mold-making-and-casting

• Can you find any online articles that relate to each of your selected keywords?

Making concrete green: Reinventing the worlds most used synthetic material.

https://www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/2016/mar/04/making-concrete-green-reinventing-the-worlds-most-used-synthetic-material

Golden resin highlights cracks in the floor of TANK's Xchange Apartment: Inspired by the Japanese Kintsugi method.

https://www.dezeen.com/2016/07/22/gold-resin-floor-cracks-tank-xchange-apartment-kyoto-japan/

• Can you find any books in the library that relate to your keywords? “This is an informative, inspirational, and highly illustrated introduction to the design potential of concrete and its vital role in contemporary architecture. It mixes key issues such as design, aesthetics, and sustainability, with useful technical content such as how to set out the design of a concrete structure, guides to the basic principles (column sizes, slab thicknesses, and types) and how to achieve many different concrete finishes. Accessibly written: this book will appeal to both students and junior practicing architects, and function as a handy guide for more senior architects too.”

https://www.waterstones.com/book/concrete/michael-stacey/9781859463345

Rachel Whiteread is one of Britain's most exciting contemporary artists. Her work is characterised by its use of industrial materials such as plaster, concrete, resin, rubber, and metal. With these she casts the surfaces and volume in and around everyday objects and architectural space, creating evocative sculptures that range from the intimate to the monumental.

https://www.whsmith.co.uk/products/rachel-whiteread/9781849764643

 3:5 Identify the connections between the expanded research and the original artwork.  Can you summarise and reflect upon the expanded research and how it relates to your initial artwork? Think about the connections between the various links - can this provide an alternative way of thinking about your project/concept/idea… How do you relate this to the work that you are making? How can this expanded research develop your own practice?

After doing my research, I’m particularly interested in resin. Resin seems to be the most exciting material to work with and will allow me to do many things with it. However, it’s very expensive and has many health and safety guidelines. Richard Dupont resin head collection has given me an idea for my project to help develop my head casts. The concrete works haven’t really interested me to the level that I would like to use concrete in my own practices, but maybe in the future, I could use concrete to create some interesting creations. I also feel that using concrete will have many implements for my work and cause problems.

[pelle-lavellan-a]

I Want To Sleep: Dorian x Pelle Lavellan Fanfiction

Could the crackling fire be any more haunting? At what point did the sound of snapping twigs under the scorching flame begin to muddle with the sound of breaking bones? Should that tell the Inquisitor something about himself? At what point did death become something he thought about so naturally? Jokes aside, it disgusted Pelle just how normal it had become for him to take the life of another. As a healer it racked his soul with guilt to even think about.

Pelledir spent several nights drowning in these thoughts. It was as if his brain lived to tear him down when the moment of silence finally arrived. It kept him from sleeping, kept him from eating, it kept him from functioning the way any living creature should.

“For the Inquisition..” He murmured before giving a scoff that slowly became a choked laughter. “Sod it.” He hissed burying his face into his anchored hand.

What Pelledir would have given to erase the image of Varric’s grief from his mind. What he would give to forget the story Varric told about Hawke inviting his pursuers to a game of Wicked Grace, to unsee Varric writing the news to Hawke’s lover Fenris. He would give anything….literally anything to have returned to Skyhold with better news than he’d brought.

Why must everything end in death? Could nothing be solved without tragedy? If only the Inquisitor were still naieve enough to believe such a thing. He used to be, it felt like his innocent ideals were years behind him. In reality it had been but mere months. It was no wonder his Keeper did not wish for him to leave the Clan nor lead them. Amazing how quickly reality had ever so delicately destroyed him.

“Thinking of taking a dip into the flames are we? I wouldn’t advise it. It’s terrible for the skin I hear.”

A familiar voice. A voice that could brighten any of the doom and gloom Pelledir was forced to behold on a daily basis. Today however, he didn’t want to be blessed with it. He didn’t deserve it. Still the pleasure that came with hearing the voice of his lover had put a weak smile on his face. He did not turn to face them for fear of exposing his grief bound expression. If he could keep from being comforted he would, he wasn’t the one who needed it after all. Not the way he saw it at least.

“Something told me you’d be up here groveling to yourself for forgiveness. Allow me to save you a bit of time. You won’t find it. Not here at least.”

Pelledir let out a deep sigh. “Why are you here Dorian?” He inquired still obstinately refusing direct eye contact with the Tevinter mage. He offered no more than a passive glance. It was perhaps the swiftest look he’d ever taken of Dorian. He often took in long swooning gazes of the mage paying attention to every detail, every buckle on that outfit of his. Even with the short glance he’d spared he could not resist noticing the pair of captivating eyes that watched over him with such a disquiet silence. From the corner of his amber eyes Pelledir saw Dorian lean against the frame of the wooden banister.

“Do I need a reason?” He replied only tossing the question right back.

Of course. Dorian could never answer a question without spitting one right back. How could the Inquisitor expect any less? Ever since they’d met Dorian was always making Pelledir think. He would question the words Pelledir uttered and even inform him that what he spoke was utter nonsense. It was a part of who they were as a pair. Dorian could not answer a question without asking another, meanwhile Pelle could never be clear nor concise with his words. As far as Dorian was concerned the Inquisitor rarely mean what he said entirely. There was always at least one small detail left out, sometimes that detail was pleasurable and other times not.

“I suppose not.” Pelledir replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time you appeared in here without warning.”

“Nor will it be the last.” Dorian remarked standing up up straight and inviting himself inside.

Dorian had not even taken a seat beside him just yet and already Pelledir could feel a warm sensation start to resonate from his pale body. Seeing the mage’s shadow casting over him seemed enough to bring him a somewhat comforting sensation. Even now the Inquisitor did not look back. Though he could feel that Dorian’s presence would soon become closer upon him he still could not bring himself to show Dorian just how distraught he felt. It was nothing to do with secretiveness or trust. He simply refused to make a burden of himself when he had made the choice all on his own.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Said Dorian folding his arms over his chest and shifting his weight to his left side.

“Do you?” Pelle asked bitterly.

Dorian frowned at the harshly uttered words. “Knowing you, you’re probably wallowing in your own despondency. Blaming yourself for some unfortunate turn of events because you cannot find another scapegoat to take it for you.”

‘Perhaps I was not looking for one Dorian.” “Nonsense. You are always looking.” Dorian immediately retaliated.  

“Perhaps I should stop…” Said Pelledir tugging his thin legs closer to his chest until the elf was practically wrapped in a ball.

To this Dorian only sighed. He would love for Pelledir to stop being so hard on himself. While he would not admit he often dreamed of what the Inquisitor might be if he did not loathe himself so much. However, perhaps it was good for him to be so self aware. It was in a way comforting to see that Pelledir was not a mindless tyrant.

“...Amatus.” Dorian spoke softly lowering himself to the floor to sit beside Pelledir.

“Don’t.” Was all Pelle had to say in response. He shot Dorian an icy glare, the first he’d taken a real look at the mage since he’d visited the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Dorian did not retaliate the stern demand of his lover. He could understand why Pelledir would feel the need to act defensively but Dorian had had no intention of laying a hand on him. He knew his Amatus quite well. Better than the elf thought surely. Dorian knew better than to touch Pelledir when the elf was spiraling down into a cesspool of his own despair. He was the type to punish himself harshly when he believed he deserved some kind of retribution for his deeds. Quite the contrast to Dorian who would simply drink himself into a stupor.

“Listen.” Dorian said softly. “That man, Hawke.”

“Dorian.” Pelledir quickly tried to cut him off but he could not stop Dorian from finishing his thought.

“He chose to stay behind. He was prepared to sacrifice himself or he would not have offered.”

“So did Stroud.” Pelledir argued. “And yet I let him live.”

“You were faced with a decision and you made one. Regardless of who stayed behind you must remember that you did not ask for them to. I was there, not once do I recall you offering up their lives as a sacrifice to that disgusting beast.”

“This isn’t just about Hawke Dorian!” Pelledir snapped back angrily. “You said it yourself, for someone who kills so many people it seems odd that I show any remorse for one life. One petty life. But I do alright. You think I like killing people?”

Dorian fell silent. So this was a long term wound. The Fade had only sprinkled that small pinch of salt needed to cause the catalyst within Pelledir to burst.

“Did you see the look on Varric’s face when we returned without Hawke?” Pelledir asked him lowering his voice.

Dorian gazed at Pelle a long while before responding. Now that he was this close to the elf, his broken expression was much more real than it had been from the bannister. He half expected Pelledir to burst into tears right there. He was forcing them back that was blatantly obvious to Dorian. His question was for what reason had Pelledir denied himself to the right to mourn properly. He had not expected anyone to see him, he had not planned to receive guests to his quarters. So why was he punishing himself to the extent of forbidding himself to express his own emotions fully?

“I can’t say I have.” Dorian replied.

Pelledir gave a broken smile before finally turning to Dorian. “I wish I didn’t.” He said unable to stop the tears from spilling down his face.

Dorian’s face was sullen as he watched the elf cry beside him. How long had this been troubling him? Dorian knew Pelledir did not enjoy killing, but often times he did it out of the necessity to defend himself or the innocent. How long had he been considering the friends and families or those he struck down?

“You mustn’t think too hard Amatus.” Said Dorian softly.

“If I don’t who will?” Pelledir answered him hanging his head low into his knees. “How would you have felt had I chosen to kill Alexius?”

Dorian chose his words carefully. He didn’t want the Inquisitor to think he was just trying to appease him. If he’d wanted that, he would have agreed with everything Pelledir said.

“I think you had the right.”

Pelledir raised his hanged head with a distasteful glare. “And who decides that right?” He hissed.

“Conscience Pelledir.” Said Dorian firmly.

“Is that it? Do you actually believe that’s enough?” The Inquisitor asked just as sharply as Dorian had replied.

“Do we have a choice? Frankly that’s all we’re given to work with. If every psychotic extremist was allowed to live the world would disappear under their feet. Surely you must understand that?”

Pelledir chose not to answer. He returned his attention back to the crackling flame. He hated to admit it but Dorian was right. They had little more than judgement to blame for this. The only difference between his judgement and that of those he killed was that his was being ordained by the entire world.

“Answer me this Pelledir.” Dorian began. He shifted his body slightly to the left to better face the Inquisitor. Brushing his rough fingers beneath the elf’s chin he lifted Pelledir’s gaze to meet his own. “Do you believe you can stop Corypheus without killing him? Because I don’t.

Pelledir’s amber eyes like resin fossils went wide. He knew what Dorian was trying to tell him. That did not mean he had to like it. Despite his woes he would be justified regardless of the choices he made. The Inquisition would see to that, they both knew it. Dwelling on the dark and bloody history being written was only good for breaking the spirit.

“You know they will bring Erimond to face your judgement.” Dorian remind him. “When that time comes do not think about the people in his life. He disappointed them long ago when he joined come cracked magister looking to destroy the world. Rather, think and remember why you are judging him, remember the Wardens he killed and all the people who loved them instead. Surely they are more worthy of your grief.

Pelledir’s frown broke into a weak smile. “When did you become so wise?” He attempted to tease though the humour was lost between the cracking in his voice.

“Wise?” Dorian laughed briefly. Pelledir’s voice may have sounded solemn but Dorian knew a tease, even a broken one. “That’s something I’ll have to add to my list of virtues.” He stated playfully lowering his fingers slowly the brush the spreads of valaslin on the Inquisitor’s pale neck.

“Do me a favor and tell me you are done punishing yourself.” Dorian said in a low voice.

“Perhaps I am.”

Dorian wasted no time once those words were spoken. Gently he tugged Pelledir closed and pressed his lips against the elf’s. Upon the first taste of the Tevinter’s lips, the Inquisitor could not deny that he was a little angry with Dorian for pushing a romantic advance on him while he was so despondent. But then he remembered how upset Dorian had been also been when they returned to Skyhold. He had listened to Dorian yell at him that he was worried that Pelledir hadn’t made it into the Fade, how he waited far too long for him to arrive. The two had argued briefly about Pelledir’s  recklessness. Or at least...that was how Dorian had seen it at the time. Now that the heat of the fight had simmered down between them Pelledir had realized that Dorian must have been dying to offer his affections. Perhaps he even felt bad for the way he’d snapped on Pelledir earlier. When the Inquisitor put it in that perspective he was more reluctant to feel cross about this kiss. He shut his eyes so he could focus more deeply on the kiss and leaned his head in closer to Dorian’s, an invitation to kiss him harder.

Dorian’s facial hair tickled against the Inquisitor’s skin as he wrapped his arms around Dorian’s neck. He couldn’t resist the soft hum that escaped his throat between kisses. While Pelledir had convinced himself tonight that he was undeserving of Dorian’s affection the Tevinter’s love to him was like lyrium was to a Templar. No matter how long he shied away he would always return. He would always want Dorian.

Pelledir felt a smile tug at his lips as he began to notice Dorian’s hands exploring his body from beneath the blanket he was wrapped in. The small touches of skin against his waist sent chilling sparks throughout his body as Dorian held onto Pelledir’s waist tenderly.

Slowly breaking the kiss between the two of Pelledir leaned his head against Dorian’s chest.He gave a deep sigh, he needed that more than he’d thought he did. Without another word the Inquisitor sat up and unwrapped the blanket from around himself and draped it over the Tevinter’s shoulder. He then crawled closer to Dorian and returned to his previous place leaning against Dorian’s chest and closed his eyes.

“What would I do without you Vhenan?” He said softly cuddling his blond head into Dorian.

Dorian smiled warmly at the elf buried in his chest. He asked himself the same quite often. While the two certainly had their quarrels they kept each other balanced. It was nice to have someone like that, not many people ever did. The Tevinter ran his fingers through Pelledir’s hair and gently massaged the elf’s scalp. It was clear to him the the Inquisitor was exhausted both physically and emotionally. Pelledir could use the rest and being honest, so could Dorian after what they’d just dealt with. Dorian waited until he was certain that Pelledir was asleep, he never stopped caressing the elf’s head lovingly. Once he felt the shallow resting breaths rising and falling from Pelledir’s chest he knew it was safe to get some sleep as well.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 3 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 2 here. Part 4 here.

Summary:  Your first Ceremony goes as planned. Or, it kind of does. Can one really plan for something like this?

Words: 3000

Warnings: Dubcon, Handmaid AU, the sads

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hi, y'all! I'm so sorry I'm slow at updating. There is life stuff going on and it's hard for me to get back into the swing of writing at the same time! But! I am working at it, I promise.

Here is the Ceremony! Probably not the type of sex we all wanted, but... hey... we need a foil for the future, right? OOP.

Anyway, I love y'all so much, thank you to those who are entertaining my strange desire to write this fucking AU! See you soon!

You descended the stairs, heart in your throat, toes at Emma’s heels. You knew what was to come next--you remembered this, if anything, after having practiced it for a period of time that you imagined to be months. You weren’t sure, though. It could have been days. Or years. It all had melted together, anyway.

She led you into a den; two ornate, mahogany chairs sat at the head of the room, adjacent to the worn limestone hearth. Glass lamps emitted golden light, gilding the walls and turning it to a palace before your eyes. It was warm--so warm, you almost mistakenly felt welcome, as if your comfort and happiness were a priority. But you knew better. So you followed your brain’s commands, floating as a wisp to the center of the den and descending to your knees. Your skirts piled around you like a red mushroom cap, your white-wimpled head the upended stem.

Kneeling there, you stared into the floor, torrents of blood tearing through your body, rushing loud in the shells of your ears. Around you, movement. One Martha--Emma, you guessed--fell to her knees beside you, and then another, the one whose name you did not know. Only feet in front of you, the blue hem of Johana’s skirt skimmed the perimeter of your sight as she took the second chair--the one next to what could only be described as the throne.

It was large, made for a frame twice the size of yours, upholstered in fresh, blood-red velvet. It was where the Commander would sit, you were sure, when he arrived. Face hot, you glanced to the entrance, but caught Johana’s gaze instead.

“Don’t look so anxious,” she hissed under her breath. “There’s nothing to be excited about.”

Before you could bow your head, the floorboards shuddered underneath you, heavy footsteps sending shockwaves through your veins. You swore they’d been petrified. Holding your breath, you watched, knowing Johana was watching you, studying your face, hunting for any moment of weakness. The steps stopped, and the door squeaked open, thick oak swinging to reveal your Commander.

Seeing him again stole the breath you’d been holding, and when he met your eyes, the air vaporized. Time moved like wind through tall grass, your attention chained to him as he entered. He stepped forward, a graceful predator, his dark hair framing his face, his gaze cementing you to the floor with every passing nanosecond he stared. You couldn’t wrench yourself away, even knowing Johana could see, even knowing she knew what was happening. He was seducing you, there, in front of her, in front of everyone, his eyes like amber pools of lust, hardening around you and casting you in resin desire.

You swallowed, lips parting--and he turned, breaking the spell, leaving you gasping and breathless as he took his seat beside his Wife. Cheeks burning, you dropped your head toward the floor, your heart pounding in your temple. Johana had seen it all. You were certain. You cursed your errant, disrespectful cunt.

“What was that?” It wasn’t to him--but it wasn’t necessarily to you, either. The question hung, a challenge to the sexual energy in the air. “I saw that. What was that?”

Flames fanned at your face, your lips tight over your teeth. In your lap, your hands trembled.

“I’m unsure to what you are referring,” Ren said coolly. “I have to begin the reading.”

Johana sucked in a sharp breath of air. “N-no. No, you don’t.” Her voice was tremulous. “You need to explain. Explain what that was.”

“Do I?” he asked. Your eyes remained locked on the floor, but you heard shuffling from his seat. “I wasn’t aware I owed you an explanation on anything.”

“Well, you do!” she snapped.

Beside you, the Marthas shifted, stuffing their gasps. You would have gasped, too--but your lungs were still empty, your body still frozen to the joints. Your Commander didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Johana seemed to regain her sanity, pausing for a moment. “I didn’t mean you, Sir. The, um. The Handmaid. Shared inappropriate eye contact with you. She needs to explain.”

Blood filled your cheeks. You were suddenly drenched in your own sweat, beads at your hairline slipping over your skin. Opening your dry mouth, you went to speak--but nothing left.

“Did she?” There hadn’t been so much as a flinch. “I hadn’t noticed.” Rustling of pages--the Bible--as he thumbed through the passages. “To begin today’s--”

“B-but, Sir,” Johana insisted. You almost marvelled at her bravery. “Laws state--”

“I’m well aware of the laws, Johana.” Her name was venom on his tongue. “Unless you believe I’ve forgotten the very regulations I’m bound to uphold.”

You watched her feet inch together from the edge of your sight. “No, Sir.”

“I wonder, now…” He stood, stammering your heart in your chest. “You wouldn’t be trying to disrupt the Ceremony, would you?”

“Oh, no--”

“Because if you were...” The Bible plopped with a solid thud onto the seat of his chair. Slow, methodical footsteps circled her. “I’d say that’s an error more egregious than incidental eye contact.” He stopped, and you peeked through your lashes. He was in front of her, looming, daring her to continue her challenge. “Wouldn’t you?”

Johana’s attention darted between her husband and you--catching her glance, you whipped your head toward the floor again. “Yes, Sir,” she murmured. She was admitting defeat. For now.

“Good,” he said. “I agree. But…” You heard him grab the Bible. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I don’t need to begin the reading. Perhaps I don’t need to do the reading at all.”

Ice filtered into your blood.

“What?” Johana’s question left her in a sputtered laugh.

Ren paused for a moment--you felt the cast of his eyes on your cowered frame. “Go upstairs. Prepare for the Ceremony. I’ll be in shortly.”

With that, he left, the dull click of his shoes disappearing down the hall. You were a mannequin, unwilling to volunteer the first movement, and so were the Marthas. Together, you imagined you looked like a display in one of the old malls, modeling a fashion collection meant only to speculate. Except that your life was no speculation. This was it.

After what seemed like eternal silent moments, Johana stood, clearing her throat. “You heard him, Emma. Rose.” The Marthas stirred. Rose--Rose was the other one. “Get to it. And you,” she spat, kicking her foot in your direction. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You scrambled to your feet, stumbling over the volume of your skirts and the knocking of your knees. Embers had replaced your skin, every scrape of fabric like sandpaper. It wasn’t as if you’d never had sex--but the thought of seeing him over you. His length sliding inside of your body. Would he be gentle? Would he be--big? Your face glowed with heat. Johana met your eyes and scowled, nodding toward the other end of the den before marching through it. Whimpering, you scampered behind her as she led you to the other end of the house--far past where you stayed.

“I know what I saw,” she murmured. “I’m not an idiot.”

Your chin quivered. “Um, I don’t think you are, ma’am--”

“Shut up.” Her small hands curled into fists. “I’m watching you, girl. Just know I can do with you what I’ve done with the others.”

“Um. O-okay.”

In silence, you ascended another staircase, this one coiling up toward the ceiling in a tight, iron spiral. Your head swam with fear, the world whirling around you like a top--and the stairs were only making it worse. What I’ve done with the others. That needed no defining. Stay away from the Commander. Neither did that. And somehow, you needed to abide by this advice while simultaneously preparing to receive his semen. An unbidden shiver raced through you.

Dammit.

Johana led you through the hall. Large, clear windows revealed the encroaching darkness, the dying sun emptying the vestiges of its light into the sky. A blackbird flitted across the pink-orange dusk, its silhouette like an imitation of freedom. A door marked the end of the hall, and Johana stopped, fishing a key out from her sleeve and popping it into the knob. You wondered, briefly, if there was a lock on your door. Wondered if it served to keep you in--or the Commander out.

The second you passed the threshold, she yanked it shut behind you. Wincing, you wrung your gloved hands together, appraising their bedroom. A bed sat at the opposite end of the room, facing the door. It was enormous--bigger than any you’d ever seen. Even a king-sized mattress wasn’t as impressive. Its sheets were dark and luxurious, the frame an ebony wood that supported a thin purple canopy. Black velvet curtains were drawn over the windows, the only light coming from a single lamp and the white taper candles that Johana was leaping to light.

The rest of the space echoed its centerpiece--a construction of dramatic darkness, a reproduction of a storybook bedroom. As warm yellow fire filled the air, Johana wagged the final match cold and left it on the nightstand before turning to you, her stone face half-cast in darkness. The air was dead.

“Are you going to get ready, or are you just going to stand there?”

Swallowing, you nodded, inching off to the side of the bed for privacy, turning your back toward Johana as  you gathered your skirts above your hips. The fabric was heavy and hot in your hands, hotter still as you worked the modest excuse for underwear down over your hips and feet. When you were finished, you pulled yourself up onto the bed, forcing yourself to ignore the soft give of the mattress or the smoothness of the sheets. You imagined your Commander sleeping there every night, his long, black hair tousled over his face.

Dammit.

Johana sighed, joining you, your body rigid while she guided her legs to either side of you and eased your head onto her stomach.

“Down further,” she said. “Toward the edge.”

You nodded, scooting to the edge, allowing her to adjust your position until your calves dangled over the end. She touched and dropped you with the same affection one might treat a pail of vomit. When she finished, you heard her lungs expand--as if she were about to say something--but before she could speak, the door opened, and she snatched up your hands in hers like she’d been holding them the entire time. The bones crackled.

“Good evening, Sir,” said Johana.

The Commander closed the door behind him, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt while his eyes traveled over the both of you. “Johana,” he replied. “You’re ready.”

“I am.”

“Not you,” he said--and met your gaze. You clenched. “Her.”

Johana’s hands gave yours a sharp squeeze.

“Oh.” Saliva clogged your throat. “Y-yes. Sir.”

He sauntered forward, thickening the air with every step. “Good.”

Dark eyes, honeyed in the candlelight, roamed over your lower body, forcing your cunt to clench against its will. His lip twitched, and he stepped closer, taking the hem of your skirts in his large hands. Johana’s grip tightened as he peeled them up over your hips, exposing you to his stare. He held them high, examining you. Gold fire flashed in his irises. One hand, hidden by the curtain of your skirt, skated over the sensitive mound of your pussy, touch like sparks to tinder--and he dropped the fabric. You bit your lip, stifling the whine that wanted to leave.

“Very good.” The depth of his voice made you question what exactly he was praising.

Part of you couldn’t believe how bold he was being--and the other part wished he would freaking stop, because he was going to get you either shipped off to the Colonies or strung out on a rope and you just kind of wanted to get this whole affair over with. You chewed your cheek, watching his hand fall between his legs, rubbing and palming the bulge behind the fabric.

Damn. It.

He stared at your naked pussy, continuing to tease himself, stroking his concealed cock back and forth, allowing it to grow larger in his trousers. Johana shifted underneath you, and you stole a glance--her blue eyes were glued to her husband, her lips separated by mere millimeters. She wanted him, too.

The jangle of a belt, a short zip--your attention was back on him, hypnotized as his pants and underwear fell to the middle of his thighs, his dick springing free. Now your lips parted, saliva spilling into your mouth as you gazed at his length. His cock was huge--bigger than you’d ever seen. And you were supposed to take that?

Ren’s head tilted while he inched forward, putting himself in position, the head of his cock only inches from your cunt. You were positive you’d forgotten to breathe, evidenced by the lack of circulation in your fingers. Or perhaps that was because of Johana, grinding your bones in her hands. He said nothing, the flicker of lust snuffed out, now, as he observed your pussy like a blueprint. Blinking, he gripped his dick, leaning over you and parting your folds with the tip. Your breath hitched--but if he had noticed, he didn’t care, taking his time to coat the head of his cock in your slick before furrowing his brow and pushing in.

You restrained any noise, as you’d been taught--pleasure was not part of this--but it was difficult when he stretched you, breaking you open with a long, deep thrust. Instinctively, you clenched around him--and, against all convention, he lost control of his detachment, a tiny groan escaping his throat.

Johana’s hands crushed yours, and you flinched, seething in silence. But you were unable to tear your eyes from him as he rolled his hips, pulling out and thrusting back in, this time ignoring the delighted flutter of your walls around his cock. You wanted to hate this--wanted to hatehim--but instead you found yourself memorizing him. The smoky musk of his body, the hint of skin between his jacket and trousers that he’d exposed, the girth of him prying you apart. And, strangely, your face fell at his studied, solemn expression, his focus trained on the feeling of your pussy swallowing his dick--rather than on you.

Another thrust, and another, and his head bowed, a few messy locks of hair drifting into his face when his pace quickened. Ren shifted, angling himself to fuck deeper into you, his jaw dropping as an undeniable tide of bliss washed over him. His breath, stifled by necessity, was coming in pants, his chest unable to suffocate the grunts of effort while he chased his climax. Johana’s breathing was in sync with his, her grip attempting to pinch you in two--and you were drowning, torn between wanting to disappear and wanting to release the moan trapped inside of your lungs.

Ren grunted again--louder, this time, his lids shut in concentration. His hips smacked yours, your body rocking into Johana’s, who was muttering unintelligibly. Repression smothered all three of you, unspoken and strangled desires greater than your roles, greater than the Ceremony, greater than God. You wanted to want the Commander, wanted him to want you, wanted Johana to fade into the wall, wanted this to be intimate--passionate. But it wasn’t, it could never be, because you were a hole to fuck, a vessel for his seed, an unfortunate drawback of your uterus.

Hips jerking, Ren sucked in air through his teeth, and you tensed, taking the brunt of his weight as he slammed into you, a choked moan catching in his throat. Three final pumps of his pelvis, and he came, groaning and shuddering above you, finally, finally completing his duty, finally filling you with his cum.

Johana’s hands trembled in yours, her grip gone loose, and Ren recovered, waiting for his breath to even before pulling out and tucking himself away in silence. You wanted to speak, wanted to say something--anything--but your brain was blank, still reeling in awe of him. The Commander’s eyes met yours a final time, something glittering behind them, and you swallowed your spit, your hands threatening to fall onto the bed. Before they did, he left, closing the door behind him.

“Get off,” Johana grumbled, shoving you as she squirmed away and off of the bed. “Do whatever you’re supposed to do and get out.”

You blinked, for some reason blushing. You needed at least ten minutes with some sort of elevation. “Um. Can I use a pillow--”

“You want to get your disgusting mess on my pillows?” She scoffed. “No. Figure it out. When I come back, you better be gone.” With that, she flounced into a side room--when the door opened, you caught tiled floors and soft lighting.

So you laid there, the Commander’s cum leaking onto your thighs, and pushed your hips into the air, a weak attempt to encourage fertilization. To be honest, you simply didn’t have it in you. Your first Ceremony--you weren’t sure what you’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. Not this nebula of ambiguity that ate away at your innards like a starving void. Not this vacancy of thought, of feeling. Not an undefinable ache that rippled through you, physically, mentally, leaving you wanting but omitting the want.

You weren’t sure if you were disgusted or aroused or disappointed or relieved. All you could focus on was the heartbeat in your fingertips, the throb of your cunt, the soft, feathery noise of your breath, grounding you, inexorably, to your reality.

[hamathiel-sunsheer]

100 Days of Development - Day 19

Pleasant as the lapse in work focus was, there remained a fair deal to manage yet. Aki would have to forgive Hamathiel for another arcanist void morning the day after their lazing session, his spot in the furs long cold and his tidying mark around the tent blatant from morning rituals to get ready. There would be a note for him though, clockwork letter set tidily next to more granola bars for the monk to nurse through the day between proper meals.

Aki,

I would not be surprised if that were the case. Your allergies have been causing you a fair amount of issue these past weeks. All the same, I am pleased to know that the statement caught you out. I must admit that for all my unease and unfamiliarity in doing so, teasing you is a rather enjoyable pass-time. On a related note, I look forward to spending more time with you as well where we can simply be ourselves. Those moments are rare as is to be expected in war time, but I do miss them. I will see what I can do to spare us further free time in the future here.

Perhaps we could have another picnic? 

You need not worry about shortness of what you set down here, Aki. You can put as much or as little as you like. It is not as though a great many of mine have not been short. This one will likely be short as well given today’s topic. And lying? It is true that you come clean, but you DO have the occasional penchant to lie even when you make up for it. Nevertheless, I will spare you further chiding in lieu of getting to the question at hand.

“Where did you learn most of your skills and other abilities?”

Outside of my magical studies in Dalaran, I’ve expounded on my repertoire a fair bit over the years. As I mentioned in my letter before last, my father taught me the craft of a bench jeweler: metal smithing, cutting, shaping, making mold casts, forging, and so on. Much to many’s misconception, a great deal more goes into the craft if you wish to be self sufficient. It is not so simple as cutting a gem and plopping it in its setting-- but I digress.

Beyond what he taught me, I learned more regarding various facets of the craft from other lapidarists, smiths, and so on. Elven gem cutters, dwarven gold and silversmiths, draenei crystal workers and engineers, even some drogbar since our coming to the Isles for instance. I do wire wrapping besides, and I have even been returning to some of my roots with resin work and begun taking some baby steps into the realm of learning to make my own glass.

The list here of all the little things I have picked up could go on for pages, so I suppose it is not actually that short, but for the sake of saving you a bit of head scratching I will gloss over the full listing of teachers and random technique exchanges over the years.

Moving on, my father also taught me how to cook. Little things at first, but it seems even from a young age I wanted to be taking part in the kitchen, so he let me. I carried my love of cooking with me to Dalaran, which as it turns out was for the better. My mother could not cook for herself to save her life, so to spare her from always eating elsewhere, I began cooking for her as well. Her perfectionist nature pushed me to seek out more involved recipes and better techniques, and from there my interests spread rapidly. I cannot begin to recall all the travelers I picked up recipes from, swaps I’ve been in, and the like. With all of my travels and the various landscapes they have taken me across in the wake of war, I’ve found a sizable myriad of recipes and techniques you could trace to just about anywhere on Azeroth at this point.

My baking, too. Despite what people believe on THAT front, it is VERY different from cooking, even if they do tend to go hand in hand oftentimes. To that passion of mine, I found myself joining baking club early along after getting to Dalaran. I actually helped run it for a solid few decades after the original head of it passed away. What became of it after I left, I could not say.

On the more practical side of things, my foray into darker magic is-- needless to say-- checkered and not a topic I want to dive into terribly far for both our sake. I will say only this: my original instructor who deigned to take me killed me once, and nearly did so on six other occasions. So, you will have to excuse me for not going into sordid detail regarding anything else on the matter.

Lastly, on top of doling out a rigorous physical training regiment, Moltenedge has seen to arranging me proper martial training with swords. Though the project has been on hold while he finds me someone suitable to get instruction from due to losing one of his arms on the Shore, it remains staunchly on the table.

Your partner,

Hama

-

Question Prompt List

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