#the wind generator looks interesting. but not enough of a draw for me to divert my bounties to fontaine to rush to get it

[rubys-domain]

is it just me or... are the reputation rewards for fontaine underwhelming as hell?

#⇢₊˚⊹ 🩷∥ruby∥yo，ide yo !! #like i guess the crystalfy trap might be useful...? #i don't usually have below 300 crystalflies in my inventory so i don't need it #i just don't condense my resin that much cuz i'm either doing bosses or leylines most of the time #people who are constantly out of crystalflies might find some use out of it tho #but it might end up like the sumeru ingredient speeder-upper thing and be completely impractical to use over just catching them manually #unless you're too lazy to collect them. which is fair enough #i doubt it's actually gonna be that convenient unless it works like the parametric transformer tho #the wind generator looks interesting. but not enough of a draw for me to divert my bounties to fontaine to rush to get it #i hope it essentially works like a mid-air dash forward. or like a wind ring. that might give me incentive to use it over the feather fan #even the wind glider is kinda... #this is just my personal opinion and mine alone，but the asymmetrical color scheme is not doing it for me #my main hope was to get a different blue glider that isn't the wings of companionship so qiu doesn't have to keep wearing the latter #but i don't like how it looks on him at all. the light blue side just clashes too much #and the only characters i have that kinda look good with it are barbara and layla #except for the fact that the wings of companionship match layla's aesthetic and color scheme perfectly #and the dragonspine wings just match barbara way better #it'll basically only look good on focalors #and even then it doesn't look like it'll match her perfectly since the asymmetry on her outfit doesn't look as pronounced #but i guess theme-wise it fits her perfectly so that's probably enough #i'm gonna put it on chongyun for a while whenever i get it just for the hell of it #but yeah. i'm not a big fan of this glider #i'll be not-so-patiently waiting for natlan's glider instead #i hope to god it's true fiery bright red and there's no asymmetrical or stripey bullshit a la kfc glider #i will forever hope for a pink event glider tho #(event glider cuz i doubt they could possibly justify being able to get a pink glider in-story) #(although if they do i hope they do as soon as possible) #(yk what. i wish the reward for maxing out the sacred sakura was a pink windglider and not the teapot realm) #(and they just made the teapot realm purchaseable after the archon quest like the sumeru one) #(cuz that's the literal only place that would've made sense to have it permanently in-game)

[mlm-writer]

Hero of the Swamp (Shrek x Jaskier)

Edit by me 

Pairing: Shrek x Netflix!Jaskier (Julian Alfred Pankratz/Dandelion) Rating: Explicit Words: 2893 POV: Third Summary: After being left on the mountain, Jaskier finds himself lost in the swamp and in need of warmth and comfort. Note: Y’all can thank @spielzeugkaiser​ and their amazing art for this. Sorry for the sloppy edit, but I really was not going to put even more time into this sinful work.  Tags: I’ve been a bad boy daddy forgive me father fore I have sinned, pre-movies Shrek, post-mountain Jaskier, angst, fluff, Shrek’s huge dong, size kink, cum shower, monster cock, blowjobs, rimming, cum eating and Shrek has emotions ok 

The growls of monsters lurking in the forest rolled over the muddy forest grounds and reached Jaskier’s icy ears. He shivered in both terror and response to the temperature. He told himself he could get off that mountain on his own, but who was he kidding? His frigid ears caught something in the dark. The bard bolted off the path, then later found himself in the middle of nowhere, chilled to the bone, disoriented, and, to be honest, frightened. 

He was looking for a path, but even that seemed to not be present anywhere in the vicinity. Jaskier rubbed his trembling hands together and walked on. Jaskier thought he should at last find some shelter from the wind. Just as he was about to settle for a random tree, he noticed light in the distance, warm like fire, inviting him and promising warmth and shelter. 

The fatigued bard all but ran towards it, the signs around the perimeter unnoticed in the dark. His boots sunk into the mud of the swamp, but he had his eyes set on the house-like structure in the middle of the swamp. He could not believe anyone wanted to live in this stinky place, but right now this someone was about to be his saviour. Once at what he assumed to be the door, he knocked on it. When there was no answer he knocked again. There were some angry, heavy footsteps, before the door opened. 

Before him stood a massive humanoid, skin green like peas, frame built like Geralt who preferred cake over his nasty potions. “Eh, good evening, sir,” Jaskier tried. If it was living in a house, it must be intelligent to some extent… right? “Could you please spare some place for a weary traveller?” The green creature did not look nice, even without its facial expressions. Some tension left its body after the question. Jaskier recognised it as a hint of confusion. “I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by a fire.” 

“No, get out of my swamp,” the creature spoke. It sounded like it was from Skellige. It was about to retreat into its home, but Jaskier put his foot between the door.

“Please, I’ll die out here,” he spoke dramatically, hoping for pity so he’d have a roof over his head tonight. He was not sure if he should try his luck with this creature, but at least it could speak. Wraiths had said less words, before trying to slice him. 

“Not my problem. Get out of my swamp. The only way you get close to my fire is when I roast you over it.” “Oh please, you don’t mean that.”

Jaskier had barely finished speaking, when the green man grabbed him by his doublet and pulled him close. His breath stank of swamp water and fish. His mouth was wide and Jaskier was pretty sure he would fit inside there. The bard felt like he should be terrified, but underneath a thin layer of leather and cloth, there was warmth radiating off pear skin. He wanted to lean into it, thaw. What inhibited his survival skills further, where those eyes glaring into his. Under bushy eyebrows rested two brown pools of warm broth. He heard the green man roar into his face that he needed to leave, because he was an ogre and he was going to eat him, but it was hard to believe him. 

Within those eyes that were so close to his, the ogre told the story of a creature that wanted to be alone, because alone was safe, alone was comfortable, alone was all he was used to. Jaskier never knew that, but after today, he understood why one would think that. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

It stung, more than anything had caused him to ache in ages. Jaskier could feel the urge to never make friends again, never love again, never lust after one he could not have. However, he refused. It was pain that made life worth living. Without pain, bliss did not feel as good as it did. The rain made sunlight so much more appreciated. The cold made fire so much more precious. The monsters made the witcher so much more valuable.

The human knew this, but the ogre holding him up by his doublet did not. Jaskier had wished for pity, but he pitied the other now. He clumsily threw his arms around the ogre and hugged him tightly. The ogre stopped yelling at him. Jaskier could feel the muscles against his body tensing up. The hand holding him loosened and he threw his legs around the ogre too, holding on and hugging him tightly. “You don’t have to be alone. I don’t fear you,” Jaskier spoke gently. 

“I am an ogre.” “And if you were really malicious I would not still be breathing. Please, just for one night. There are all sorts of dangers out in these swamps, especially at night. I just want to stay alive.” 

Jaskier could hear the ogre letting out a long sigh. “Fine,” he spoke, “but you have to be gone tomorrow.” Jaskier let him go, but not after planting a delighted kiss on the rough skin of the ogre’s cheek. 

“Thank you so much,” the bard exclaimed. He slipped inside, before the ogre could change his mind. The inside of the hollowed out tree looked cozy. It stank like hell, but he was in the middle of the swamp; what did he expect? “Do you like music? I have little to give you, but I am a bard.” Jaskier held up his lute as he grabbed the chair that had no food in front of it. One look at the giant slug on a plate and he was pretty sure he did not want to have any food. Jaskier pulled the chair a little closer to the fire and sat down with his lute in his lap. It seemed rather strange that there were two hand-crafted chairs, while the ogre seemed to be so keen on being alone. “Oh and you can call me Jaskier, by the by. What may I call you, my hero from the swamp?”

The ogre looked at him a little annoyed as he closed the door and sat back down to finish his dinner. “Uh… Shrek. You can play, but don’t sing.” Jaskier let the name roll off his tongue, before playing a calming tune. He didn’t speak, just let his fingers do their thing as he processed all that happened during the day, well it was actually more just those few minutes that haunted his mind. Each one of Geralt’s words cutting into his soul. “Eh… Jaskier?” Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts when Shrek spoke his name. He shook his head, before looking at Shrek. “You don't seem to be… you… you seem sad, well, what I mean is… I never heard such a depressing tune.”

Jaskier faked a smile. “My apologies, good sir. I’ll play you a happier tune, if you wish.” He diverted his eyes to the fingerboard, blinking away the tears he suddenly noticed pooling in his eyes. 

“No, you don’t have to. I prefer silence, anyway.” Jaskier looked up and noticed Shrek had finished eating. He stood up and started cleaning up. “You can sleep on my good chair.” Jaskier followed the ogre’s gaze to the fauteuil in the corner. He nodded. It looked comfortable enough. He had slept on forest floors with Geralt. This was more luxury than a regular day with the witcher. 

Shrek had some board and card games, which he seemed to enjoy to play. Jaskier wondered if Shrek usually played these games on his own or if he hosted guests more often. Neither seemed likely, since the games seemed to have gone untouched for at least a decade, if not longer. They shared a few laughs. Shrek turned out to be more fun company than Jaskier would ever have expected from an ogre. His jokes were terrible and sometimes a little insensitive, but he so clearly meant well. It was clear Shrek was not used to talking or any social interactions. He spoke like a young man still trying to figure out what was socially acceptable to say and what was not. Still, he was trying and Jaskier welcomes the vivid chatting. 

When they got tired, Jaskier curled up on the comfortable fauteuil by the fire. Shrek had draped a shirt of his over the human. It stank and was dirty, but it was warm and Jaskier was still low key afraid of getting kicked out to sleep in the mud, so he didn’t voice a single word of complaint. In the silence of the night with no one to talk to, words that were already spoken returned to his mind. Jaskier tried to block them out, but they bit at his brain, keeping him awake and drawing tears from his eyes. He curled further in on himself, trying to stay quiet as he sobbed into his hands. It just hurt so much to be discarded like he was nothing but a nuisance. Was that all he was? He was sure his songs brought joy in taverns, but right now the unlikely and unrealistic idea that everyone just pretended to have a good time was so overwhelming. 

The bard flinched when he felt a huge hand on his shoulder and arm. He looked up to find Shrek hanging over him in nothing but his smalls. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the ogre clearly wasn’t good with words. “I’m fine, Shrek,” Jaskier lied as he wiped the tears off his face, “I’ll just find the nearest town tomorrow and fuck the pain away.” The words had already left him, when he realised how that might sound. “And I’ll do that tomorrow, not because I think you’re hideous, quite the contrary, you might be the most handsome ogre to ever exist, but I just assumed you would not be interested in having sex with a human… male. Human male, doesn’t seem your taste, but it could be, I wouldn’t judge you. How could I? You’ve been a most generous host! I…” 

Jaskier almost suffocated as Shrek’s palm covered the entirety of his face. He got the hint and just shut up. Shrek slowly let go of his face, allowing him to breathe again. Jaskier looked away, cheeks red. He was blabbering nonsense to an ogre who preferred peace and quiet. He guessed it was time to sleep in the mud outside, however, Shrek wasn’t yelling at him… yet. 

“So you just have sex and that helps you feel better?” Jaskier nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t mind helping you feel better. It is not like I have had lassies lining up in the swamp… or lads.” He laughed a little awkwardly, making Jaskier laugh too. He took hold of one of Shrek’s huge fingers with two of his, by comparison, tiny hands. 

“Oh Shrek, you are such a wonderful host. You really do not have to do this though. I will still want to visit you again, even when you don’t want to fuck my brains out, just so I don’t have to think about some brutish asshole.” Shrek gave him a long look, before enclosing his hand around Jaskier’s waist and lifting him off the fauteuil. 

“It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.” And Jaskier wanted to read into those words, figure out the ogre with complicated feelings, but he had no willpower to. Shrek’s bed was firm, almost hard like a plank. It smelled like him, like onions and mud and firewood. Shrek tried to undress him, but his huge fingers couldn’t get a grip on Jaskier’s complex clothing. Jaskier smiled kindly at him, helping him without even needing to look at any button. “Can I kiss you?” Jaskier didn’t even reply. Instead he pulled Shrek’s head down. It was an awkward kiss. Shrek’s mouth was way too big and neither of them were very coordinated in the moment. 

When his clothes were mostly off and Jaskier was left in his smalls, Shrek kissed down his body, his huge tongue lapping at his skin and Jaskier could hear him enjoy the taste. He hummed to signal his pleasure, letting the ogre go about his business. Shrek pulled off his smalls and to Jaskier’s complete surprise, the ogre took his cock in his mouth. Jaskier whimpered, hands grabbing the sheets. Everything about Shrek was big, including his mouth. Even when the ogre sucked him to full hardness, Jaskier still didn’t feel the back of the ogre’s throat. Shrek sucked in his balls at well and Jaskier almost cried from the pleasure of having his cock and balls inside a warm mouth.  

When Shrek let Jaskier go, his length was hard, red and leaking. Jaskier barely had time to recover, before he felt that glorious tongue on him again, this time licking over his hole. Whispered pleas left his lips as he imagined that tongue inside of him. Then a thought crossed his mind. If everything about Shrek was big, what about his dick? Jaskier had seen the ogre’s hands and one finger was already bigger than the average cock. While he normally was down to go big, the imaginable size of Shrek’s dong low key terrified him.

His mind had no opportunity to freak him out completely, because Shrek’s tongue entered him and the feeling was so, so good. Jaskier moaned as big green hands spread his cheeks and thick wetness penetrated him. “Ah… ah Shrek I hate to be a uh… fuck!” The bard trashed his arms around when his new found friend started to stroke his cock at the same time. “I’m gonna cum! Way too soon, I know! Sto..aahh...” His whole body tensed as he spilled all over himself. Shrek was unrelenting. As the bard’s cock was spent, he still had his tongue inside him, pressing at the right places and wiggling around so talentedly. “Stop, stop, stop, it’s too much, really, too much.” 

Jaskier was out of breath, head fuzzy with post-orgasmic bliss. His whole brain short-circuited as Shrek’s tongue licked over his torso, cleaning him off all the cum he had spilled over himself. “Are you all right?” The green-skinned sex machine inquired with innocent eyes that did not match the absolute tent in his smalls. 

“Say, Shrek, will I die if I swallow ogre cum?” Jaskier almost laughed at Shrek’s expression. It was a ‘yes, no, maybe’. “Ok fine, but I will suck you off still.” The human pushed at the ogre, cornering the larger frame against the opposite wall, before getting on his knees. 

“With all due respect, Jask, I don’t think you can fit me anywhere.” Jaskier didn’t listen, pulling down Sherk’s white smalls in spite of knowing the ogre was probably right. As soon as 12 inch of green cock basically slapped him in the face, Jaskier knew he was in way over his head. Still, he was confident that if he tried, he could still fit the head inside his mouth. With Shrek still assuring him he did not have to do this, Jaskier started licking all over Shrek’s length. The taste was not as bad as he feared. In fact, the more he licked, the more he started to like it. Jaskier made out with the head of Shrek’s cock, fucking the slit with his tongue. Shrek was holding his shoulder, occasionally squeezing a little as he moaned. And oh were those delicious moans, primal, guttural, deep and vibrating through Jaskier’s entire body. 

The human tried many times, but he couldn’t slip the monster cock inside his mouth. He was resilient though and kept trying, while stroking the rest of the green length. He was so caught up in his quest that he didn’t hear Shrek telling him how close he was. He made a disappointed sound as he was forcibly removed from the cock in his mouth. Jaskier crawled back up the bed and stretched out his body. “Cum on me,” he wantonly moaned and Shrek did not disappoint. Jaskier had to close his eyes and mouth as he got showered in thick, beige cum. He never had felt this dirty, but it was a good kind. He wished he could have taken Shrek in his ass. He could’ve been so full. 

Once Shrek had stopped groaning, Jaskier dared to open his eyes. He could see guilt already spreading over Shrek’s face. He must have been a sight, so much smaller than Shrek and absolutely drenched in his cum. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always fantasised about being showered in cum. Just never thought that all that cum would come from a single person.” 

Shrek let out a relieved sigh and helped him wipe some cum off his face so it wouldn’t get into his mouth or eyes. “I’ll prepare you a bath,” he spoke gently, surprising Jaskier with the thoughtfulness. His eyes followed the ogre as he put his breeches on and moved out to probably get some fresh water. A laugh escaped Jaskier as he stared at the sticky substance covering his skin. Who would’ve thought that the swamp could’ve been so pleasant? 

#shrekier #i've been a bad boy daddy #forgive me father for i have sinned #shrek x jaskier #shrek #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #netflix jaskier #the witcher #lemon #the witcher fic #shrek fic #monsterfucking #ogre #ogres #ogres are like onions

[revisionaryhistory]

Three Days ~ 77

~*~Emma~*~

I woke in the morning feeling more relaxed and rested than I had since the last week I'd been in Hawaii. Music, friends, sex, and cuddling with my boyfriend were a good recipe for contentment. I felt light as air. Part of that was knowing today was going to be a fun day. We'd been dating for a month. I'm not big on celebrating every anniversary, but I am generally aware of them. A month isn’t anything. I've had many month long relationships. As I've said before, a month is usually when I decide if it’s worth continuing. Sometimes it takes a little longer. Depends on how much we've seen each other. If it's a weekend only thing, four dates might not be enough. If it's been more frequent it might be too long. Sebastian has been in the middle. We've spent a lot of time together and some stretches away. I like the combination. If you see each other a lot it's easy to lose yourself in something new. Friends and your normal routines get pushed away in favor of the new relationship, but if you don't see each other often there's a tendency to not want to let go of your normal for the relationship. I don't know which is better. For me, if I'm more interested in doing what I normally do I'm not very interested. On the other hand, too much together at the expense of other things can cause a problem when one of you wants some normalcy back. Finding that balance can be hard. That we've both had prior obligations has made the balance easier. I like how our self-care time has worked its way into our relationship. Exercise, meditation, guitar practice have started to be us time too.

I lifted my head and saw Sebastian was still sound asleep. He was on his back, one arm over his head and one thrown out to the side. His legs were similar. The one closer to me was stretched out and nearly touching me. The other was mostly out from under the covers with a bent knee. His face was relaxed with a slight smile on his lips. One part of him was not relaxed. Nothing unusual about that.

I should help him out. He had said waking up to find me sucking his cock would be a good thing. He was positioned perfectly with space between his legs and the sheet close. I wonder how long it will take for him to wake up?

Very slowly, so as not to move the mattress, I moved between his legs. Once there, I carefully lifted the covers over his erection. I paused a moment to let any movement settle and to look. As far as penises go, he's got a nice one. Somewhere between six and seven inches, just right girth (for me anyway), with a slight up and to the right bend. He's uncut, which is actually my preference. Foreskin is fun to play with and with the under bits being protected from rubbing against pants all day, they're more sensitive. I know a man who as an adult got circumcised at his girlfriend's request. Even years later he regretted it. Sex wasn't the same. He was less sensitive and needed much more stimulation to get off be it masturbation, oral, or intercourse. He developed a preference for anal because the increased tightness made up for the loss of sensitivity. I can feel the difference inside me too. That bit of extra skin moves in an unpredictable way. I'm in the lucky minority that can often come from vaginal intercourse, but it’s easier with uncut. I like Sebastian's cock. We're good friends.

I wrapped my hand around him at the same time I took him in my mouth. No teasing. I wanted him to wake up to full on suction. My hand pulled his foreskin down where my tongue could work his most sensitive places. That's when he moved. I kept my eyes up to watch him. He stirred a little, rolling his shoulders, and slowly licked his lips before biting the lower one. Sexy as fuck. I kept a slow and steady pace. Every few strokes he became more alert. A quiet moan, shifting his hips, a hand in my hair, and finally, a "Feels good, Emma." A few seconds after speaking his eyes opened and met mine. He looked like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Since he was awake, I backed off and used my tongue to tease him. He hissed in a breath, "Fuck." When I returned to sucking him properly, he mumbled, "I love you." before arching into the bed. From there it wasn't long before his orgasm hit. I can't decide which I like better: the feel of him coming in my mouth; the way he pulled my hair; or the sounds he made better. All were good.

I kissed my way up his body, giving him time to regain his senses. I loved the way his stomach jumped with my wet kisses. I could spend all day doing nothing but covering him in kisses. I don't think he'd make it through. I estimate an hour before he'd be buried inside me. I made it to his neck before laying down on top of him. His body against mine made me smile, "Buna dimineata, Sebastian." <Good morning>

"Foarte bună dimineața, dragostea mea." <Very good morning, my love.>  Sebastian laid his hand on my face, turning it to him and kissed me softly, but thoroughly. "That's a kick ass way to wake up."

"You were positioned perfectly." I smiled and pressed my lips to his.

He kissed me again and I sank against him. The way his hand stroked my lower back felt great. The slightest bit firmer than a tickle. I shifted my hips a little, craving the contact. I needed attention, his attention. Sucking his cock may not bring me physical pleasure, but the feeling of power, his reaction, and the sounds he makes definitely have me feeling some sort of way. The sort of way that only Sebastian can fix.

Sebastian rolled us over and laid kisses on my neck. His hand moved to my breast and I hummed happily as his fingers kneaded me. When his mouth took over, I purred, hooked my leg around his, and rubbed against him. "Ah, I want you."

"Good."

It was very good from the first lick of his tongue to the final stroke of his cock. The way we kissed, touched, and held onto each other was a wonderful way to wake up.

We laid in bed holding hands while we caught our breath. I rolled over to lay my head on his shoulder and feel him. I like the stretch of skin between his armpit and pecs. I kissed him there before taking in his face, his blue eyes looking over to meet mine. "Tu iubusc, Sebasti-an."

He smiled, "Tu iubusc." We kissed softly. His fingers brushed through my hair and down to draw nonsense patterns on my forearm as it lay across his stomach.

"Want to hear my tentative plan for the day?"

"Very much."

"Go for a run, hit the gym, then back here for a shower. Relax, meditate, practice guitar, have sex. Shower. Pizza, park, movie, ice cream. Back here for slow dancing and more sex." He waved his hand around. "Eventually sleep."

"Can we add in finding where your parking space is? I'd rather drive down than deal with luggage on the train."

"Sure." He smiled. "When you fly back from Paris you should stay here. I don't want you driving tired."

"You sure?" I liked his plan.

"Wouldn't have given you a key if I wasn't." Before I could say anything, he went on. "I don't give out keys. I trust you and the thought of you asleep in my bed with me not here makes me happy."

I just looked at him.

"Why are looking at me like that?"

I don't know how I was looking at him, but with any luck, it was close to how I was feeling. "I think that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."

He started to roll his eyes and make a joke but stopped himself. "You're serious."

I raised my eyebrows and nodded.

Sebastian slowly gathered me in his arms and kissed me. "I'm glad it's me."

"I am too." I put my hand on his chest. "You don't have to..." his kiss stopped me from finishing the thought, "make a big deal out a month."

"I want to."

"Second sweetest thing anyone's said to me."

"I'm on a roll."

A few kisses later we got dressed and had a cup of coffee before heading out. We ran along the less busy streets, winding in and out, and ended up at the gym. This was a heavy day for him and I opted for a yoga class. I lifted some before the class and kept an eye on my lover. They laughed as much as they lifted. A couple of times I caught him watching me, his friends did too and would wave at me and shove him. I blew Jackson a kiss before heading to class.

I found Sebastian later sitting with the others and drinking a smoothie.

Len hugged me, "Good to see you've hung around. My boy must be doing ok."

Sebastian put his arm around my waist, "She's forgiving."

"I have no complaints." I poked him in the side, "Except he's letting me starve." I ordered a chocolate cinnamon protein smoothie. "Good work out?"

"Yes. Feeling flexible?"

That was a loaded question. I patted his face, "We'll see."

I got to hear stories while we drank our smoothies. Funny stories. Embarrassing stories. Stories that made Sebastian cover his face. I thought about diverting, but honestly, it was too funny and his reaction was too cute. I could tell he was having fun too. He filled in details on the walk home. Including several parts that would have been more embarrassing to them.

I was still laughing, "Why didn't you out them back there?"

"They would have made up more shit to embarrass me."

"Friends are awesome!"

Our afternoon was lovely. I settled next to Sebastian on the couch for meditation "Should I be doing this on my own? Not using the guides. And I missing some benefits?" I've wanted a regular practice because I know the benefits, but my stress to do it right held me back. I needed a guide. Sebastian can be my guide. Now, our second joint meditation session seemed like the time to ask.

Sebastian was holding my hand and pulled it up to his lips. He was smiling at me in a way where he thought I was cute and I was the one overthinking. "The object is to change your brain waves by relaxation and not focusing on thoughts that drifty by. It’s training to focus and what to do with interruption. It's whichever works for you."

"Will you do mine with me and give me feedback. I'm not sure what I’m supposed to feel or be doing."

"Sure."

"It won't ruin your practice?"

He frowned and shook his head, "Might learn something new."

I picked one of my favorites that I thought would resonate for him. There's a short story about finding peace and when you take it in it's part of you and can return there. You imagine yourself suspended in a globe of light supported in a bubble or being surrounded by loving hands. You breathe in peace as yellow sparkling light and breath out your worries. Then you’re walked through letting go and releasing tension and back to the bubble breathing in joy. By the end of the meditation, you’re breathing in the yellow light and breathing it back out. The dark has been released. There's several minutes of quiet before your brought back to full awareness.

When it was over, I opened my eyes and let out a sigh. Sebastian took my hand, "Tell me what you felt. What you did?"

"I see myself in a transparent balloon surrounded by golden light. In the bubble I bounce slowly, never touching down, arms out, kinda dancing to the music. I see me breathing in the yellow and breathing out the black. I'm listening to the affirmations as I bounce in the ball, I'm always smiling and bouncing, and by the and the air I’m breathing out is the same sparking gold I breathed in."

He smiled, "How do you feel?"

"Happy relaxed. Arms and limp heavy. I don’t want to move."

"Did you get pulled into thoughts?”

"Some, but it's pretty easy to get back into my bouncing and twirling.”

Sebastian leaned over and kissed me, "You're getting the benefits of mediation. If you a more comfortable with words and music stay with it."

I cocked my head, "What did you think?"

The way he took a minute to think told me it wasn't his favorite. "You get caught up in counting breaths if it's silent. I had trouble not critiquing my floating and my breathing never went to yellow. Frustrating."

We laughed. "You need unstructured and I need more structure. The opposite doesn’t work."

"Yes, but both do the job."

"Cool." I kissed him as I stood up. "Gonna get my guitar."

Sebastian kicked back on the couch with his fingers laced on his stomach and his eyes closed while I practiced. Maybe he was meditating again since my version didn’t work for him. He just sat there with a smile on his face. I ran through favorites and familiar things. Sebastian never moved. When I finished I walked over, putting a knee beside him and pressing my lips to his. “You asleep?”

He smiled wider, but didn’t open his eyes, “Nope, listening and enjoying my life.”

“Good.” I kissed him again, “I’m going to get ready. Big date tonight.”

~*~*~

I walked into the family room in the bright pink swing dress with embroidered accents. It was a fun first date outfit that would look good with the necklace my boyfriend had bought me. We'd be walking a lot, so I wore flat strappy sandals. Sebastian was in jeans, a white t-shirt with an abstract blue geometric print, and white trainers. We make a cute couple.

He sat up on the couch, "Can I take a picture of you?"

"Sure."

This was a little more complicated than him hitting a button on his phone. I didn't mind. His wanting me a certain way, to capture how he sees me, made me feel beautiful.

He got what he wanted he came over and kissed me, "You look pretty."

My face dropped, "Pretty?"

"First date. I don't want to overdo it."

I smiled, "You didn't get laid on our first date, how far do you want to take this?"

There was an immediate change in his attitude. He cupped the back of my neck, bringing me in for a deeply passionate kiss. "You're so beautiful. I can’t help myself. I don't know how I got so lucky."

I patted his chest, "Don't oversell."

He kissed me again, his hand leaving my neck to settle on my ass "Too much for a first date. Perfect for now."

My heart rate quickened. He does such things to me. I folded my arms around his neck and took over the kiss, pulling at his bottom lip before fully engaging. His grip on my butt tightened and he pulled me up and against him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He took my hand and headed toward the door. A few steps in he leaned closer. "Back on track for getting laid later?"

I scoffed, "Absolutely."

Turning the other way he pumped his fist, "Yes."

We took a cab to a by-the-slice pizza place before heading into Washington Park. We found a bench and unpacked our dinner. Sebastian always takes up a lot of space. He sprawls. Sitting on the bench his thighs were wide, well into my space. My response was to drape my legs over the invading one. When food was gone, he laid his arm on my leg, his fingers playing on the skin behind my kneel. We watched people, talked, and enjoyed the sunshine.

There was time before the movie and we took off walking. On the edge of the park, he pointed our joint hands at the buildings on the NYU campus. "You went to NYU."

"Grad school. I used to walk this park a lot. Lunch. Study."

He squeezed my hand, "We could have walked by each other or sat on the lawn feet from each other."

"Maybe." I saw a familiar face crossing the street toward us and pulled him in that direction. "One of my professors." We drew closer and I stepped into his path, "Dr. Simon."

"Emiliana, what a surprise. Are you here buying books for next semester?" He shook my hand with a smile.

This is embarrassing. "No, unfortunately, I wasn't accepted. Thank you for your wonderful recommendation." I glanced beside me, "I'm here visiting my boyfriend. Sebastian, this is Dr. Simon. He taught my favorite reading class and was my student teaching supervisor. Dr. Simon, Sebastian Stan."

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. "If you need to learn to read, you're in luck."

Sebastian laughed, "I could have used her help about twenty-five years ago."

Dr. Simon returned to me, "What do you mean you weren't accepted?"

Sebastian was lost. I explained quickly, "I applied for a new doctoral program in digital media and learning. Dr. Simon was nice enough to write me a recommendation." I looked to Dr. Simon. "I received confirmation of my application and that emails would go out in May. I never received anything."

"It’s a new program, nothing is on time. I assumed since you were on campus they'd gone out. Between your master's work, your post-grad continuing education, your online classroom, and marvelous letters of recommendation it wasn't a difficult decision. Congratulations, Emiliana."

"Really?" I'd been disappointed, but had been distracted since late May.

Dr. Simon leaned in, showing me his phone, "I'm on the admissions committee." The top of a document read “Acceptance Fall 2019” and there was my name on a list of ten.

I dropped Sebastian's hand and hugged my former, and apparently future, mentor. "Thank you so much."

He laughed, "Don't thank me, you did the work. I'll check on the emails tomorrow. You two have a good night. Nice to meet you, Sebastian."

"You too, Dr. Simon."

I stared after Dr. Simon for a few seconds before facing Sebastian. I was excited and in shock. "Oh my god."

Sebastian's smile matched how I felt. He took both of my hands, "Congratulations, baby."

I threw myself into his arms, feeling my feet leave the ground, "Thank you."

He was still smiling widely when we parted. I got a sweet kiss before he took my hand and started in the direction from which we'd come. "Do you want to skip the movie?"

"No, no." I shook my head. “More to celebrate.”

"You need to tell me everything."

I took a deep breath, letting it sink in a little more. "After I moved to Beacon, I started taking classes every winter. Too cold to do much else. Continuing ed, coding, and digital media. That's when I started building my online class. Last summer NYU announced a new doctoral program. Several of the classes I’d taken fell under the listed courses. I figured I might as well apply the classes to a degree. Since I hadn't heard from them I’d started researching other programs, but got distracted and hadn't applied."

"Umm, distracted.”

"Much more fun than classes.”

"Good to know." He bumped my hip with his "Does this mean you're moving back to the city?"

I thought I noticed a lilt to his voice and felt bad squashing it. "No, it's an online program. Predominately. I think there's a couple of in-person seminars each term, but even those can be arranged distance learning."

"I can't say I'm not a little disappointed." He let go of my hand to put his arm around me. "At least you'll have a place to stay for seminars."

"At least." I squeezed his waist and held onto the hand on my shoulder. “The way it was on the website there's a lot of room for designing my own degree. There are parameters and foundation courses, but it's up to me and my advisor to make it work for me."

"That's exciting, a do-it-yourself doctorate."

I laughed, "Yeah, I liked that idea. Take what’s important to me, what I want to do."

"What do you want to do?"

"Not sure. Maybe nothing. Just something to further my teaching. I like learning and taking classes." I took a step away where his hand fell off my shoulder and I could turn to him. "I do know what I want to do right now. See a first date movie with my handsome older lover." I didn’t want to derail our date too much.

Sebastian gasped, "Scandalous. Cradle robber.” We had a good laugh with that one. "How do you feel about a subtitled horror movie."

"You'll have to read it to me when I cover my eyes."

"The Orphanage" turned out to be both an effective scary movie and a touching drama. We jumped and cringed. I buried my face against Sebastian's shoulder. And by the and we both had cried.

The sky was dark when we exited the theatre. I tucked my arm through his while we walked. Sebastian stuck his hand in his pocket, squeezing my arm close. We talked on the way to our next stop. I enjoyed hearing Sebastian's opinion on the filmmaking.

Admittedly, I didn't pay attention to the same details he did. "Now, I want to see it again and see what you do."

"You don't want to get me started. I can talk for hours. Friends make me shut up."

I rubbed his bicep, "If I want you to stop talking, I'm sure I can find a way to distract you."

"I'm sure you can."

I smiled slyly, "I'm excited to see you in something and hear how it came together. Or see several takes and then see the final product. How often is the movie not what you expect from what you shot?"

"Usually. It’s more of nuances than anything major. Sometimes what I thought was the best isn't used. You have to trust the director. It's their vision. Marvel movies are different because sometimes you have no idea how anything connects. You may know someone is in the movie, but if you don't have a scene with them, you'd never know. Seeing those the first time was fun. Any project is if I can get out of my head" He put his hand over mine, "You'll get to see and if you ask me questions while we're watching something at home you'll hear more than you want."

I sang, "I know how to distract you."

Sebastian went for a mango gelato and I had milk chocolate. It didn't matter since we wound up sharing. I staked out a table while he bought it. For once I preferred what I ordered. From there it was a short walk back to his place. Inside, I handed him my phone, "My playlist tonight?"

He quickly unlocked and found the app, "What's it called?"

I quirked an eyebrow, "Bastian slow dance."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, "Naturally. How silly of me?" He started scrolling. “Thanks for going with Bastian."

"Alphabetical order is our friend."

After hooking my phone into the speaker system and hitting play he came back to me, holding out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

I put my hand in his and curtsied, "I'd be delighted."

"First time you curtsied we were heading into the pool house."

"Not for dancing."

He hummed with a grin, "Still rhythmic movement."

"It was a good night, but so were the two before."

We reminisced and laughed. Sharing memories of things we knew and a few we didn’t. "Here we are, a month after the world’s longest and most innocent first date." He pressed his lips to mine in a chaste kiss. "I'm a better man and in love in a way that I didn’t know was possible. I’m happy it's you."

The sincerity in his tone and the love emanating from his eyes burned. I slid my fingers through his hair, leaving them on the nape of his neck. "You're a good man, Bastian. I don't believe you've ever been less than a good man, you just lost your way. I'm glad I was there when you got back on track."

His lips tightened and he shook his head, "I was back on track, but I didn't know where to go or how to get there. Once I had your attention how could I not crave it." He kissed me longer this time. "Nothing is chance. A bag of chocolate chips started a neurochemical reaction. Ghirardelli knew we were a good match.”

“And we were smart enough to not mess it up."

We danced in silence. My head on his shoulder. His hand warming my lower back. His lips brushed my temple as the second song ended. I felt my pulse pick up. I looked up, meeting the soft touch of his lips, the slightest taste of his tongue. He held my body tighter against his. "I love you."

I smoothed my hand over his shoulder, "I love you."

His eyes squinted as he looked at me, "You rarely say too. I love you too."

I smiled slowly, "Too makes it sound like an afterthought, a response, instead of a fact."

"Hmm." The corner of his mouth turned up and he glanced toward the hall then back to me. "I'm going to carry you off to my bed and make love to you now."

Perfect Peace Guided Meditation

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #fanfiction #sebastian stan X ofc #marvel actor fanfiction

[thewickling]

Winding Moonrise - 7 to 9

I got around to making a Winding Moonrise masterpost to make finding parts easier.

As five arrives, Lan Wangji comes to himself, uniquely refreshed. Never had he slept in a day in his life, but this cloud-like sensation of zen is what he imagines it feels like from all the stories he’s heard. His chest swells with calm. His arms warm with peace. His mind shines with tranquility.

Opening his eyes, understanding washes over him. Wei Wuxian’s billowing fringe blocks his face but undoubtedly this is his moon sleeping in his embrace. His breath catches in his throat.

His limbs lock. His heart speeds up. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Each beat grows heavy.

His ears protest reaching for sound he hasn't quite registered that lulled him into the best sleep of his existence. The phrases of their hearts beating not in sync but in accompaniment of each other lingers in his mind as his galloping pulse sullies what little remains of the melody they improvised throughout the night until it separates to pieces that can no longer be recognized as one. This subconscious duet diverted to different tempos, where one played at pleasure and the other speeding up into an uncoordinated gallop, in the twilight summoned an overwhelming sense of lost in him. The grief gutted deep for something barely realized he ever had. Even as he slowed his own pace and adjusted his placement, he could not recapture that easy, effortless work any more than a child experiencing the beauty of moon could chase moonlight and bottle it.

That is what Lan Wangji would think if he were capable of thought. All he did was stare at Wei Wuxian. With an indescrible feeling in his chest, he regretted how that song was gone yet he if continued to sleep he would have never realized it was playing.

Cough.

Reaching out with his ears, he catches Lan Xichen's familiar voice.

Did he appreciate that he was saved from this situation or regret he could not appreciate Wei Wuxian for longer? Then again, now that he was awake, he no longer had any right to impose his proximity on Wei Wuxian. He exhales.

Untangling himself from Wei Wuxian's sticky limbs, he tucks the other in. He inhales more carefully than he needs to, drawing all of their mingled scents into his lungs. The smile that graces his lips is bittersweet.

As he steps out the door, Wei Wuxian kicks his leg out.

His xiong glides through the hall as soon as he steps out. Lan Wangji automatically falls into place beside him. Their direction tells him exactly where they are heading: his uncle's study.

He's taken this path thousands of times. He lost count how many times quietly entered and stopped at the entrance for confirmation of his presence before taking a seat in one of the two lacquered wooden seats. Lan Xichen circles to stand by Lan Qiren's right.

Lan Qiren sits at his desk. Despite the morning, stacks of papers dominate his in box. Without looking up, he asks, "Have you told him?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head.

Observing his youngest nephew, he dictates, "Tell him."

"No."

Folding his fingers together, he repeats, "No?"

Lan Qiren considers himself just, but when it comes to his nephew and that Wei Ying his calm is more akin to a calm before a storm. That one sound takes all of his patience.

"Mnn." Lan Wangji stares. His back remains unyielding. His shoulders firmly set.

"You!" He grinds his teeth. A part of him hates that he's encouraging Lan Wangji to fraternize with Wei Wuxian, but the rest of him has responsibilities to the pack. "You already brought him back. Tell him."

"Is that an order?" he asks, looking beyond Lan Qiren to Lan Xichen who took over the pack several years ago.

He smiles helplessly. "Lan Zhan, uncle worries about you. Wei-gongzi should know."

How Lan Wangji lamented to the moon the last dozen of years hangs unspoken. Perhaps another wolf may live well after rejecting one's mate, but Lan Xichen thinks that is not the nature of their pack. From their ancestor Lan An to his own father to his didi, the death of their mate weakened their will. Lan An secluded himself as did their father. Lan Wangji barely found himself again after Lan Sizhui arrived. So this refusal confounds him.

"I refuse." His gaze relays his determination. He understands that finding a mate is a blessing; losing a mate is a curse. Few ever have the opportunty to discover a second. That Lan Wangji did not past from heart-sickness was deemed a miracle by their pack. Now that his mate lives, rejecting spits in the face of the moon. Yet Wei Wuxian still fears dogs, after he asked if their pack walks in wolf skins around their lands, so he won't impose that unfair choice on Wei Wuxian.

"Tell me. Why refuse your mate?" The last word twists on Lan Qiren's tongue. Despite the origins of their pack, since his xiong's stupidity, he holds no fondness for fated mates. "You fought so hard for him to be accepted. Why is he unworthy now?"

He isn't, I am, he thinks. Sharing that they are mates, with all that he should as a hunter, with the goodness that composes Wei Wuxian, would he reject Lan Wangji? He can't force Wei Wuxian into a fate-bond. This is the only path for them. He simply repeats, "I refuse."

"You argued for him to be accepted. Now it isn't worthy?" Lan Qiren prods. "He knows about our pack.He's a danger."

"Do you plan to hold him?" Lan Wangji recites, "The pack prohibits imprisoning one's mate-"

"Lan Zhan," he shouts. His face bursts red. He trembles with fury at the implication that he is behaving like his older brother, Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji's biological father.

Lan Xichen steps between them both. "Perhaps, we should discuss this later. He only just found that Wei-gongzi is alive. We should give him more time. Let's discuss this again later."

He bows as he exits the study.

Knock. Knock.

Wei Wuxian rolls over, cracking open one eye. He shouts, "Why is someone making noise so early?"

The door opens a tad. Lan Sizhui warns, "Excessive noise is not allowed."

"Can we enter?" he adds a second later.

"It's your place."

Lan Sizhui enters swiftly followed by Lan Jingyi. Two or three others hover at the doorway uncertain. Only Lan Sizhui had been sent with Wei Wuxian's garments, tagging along most certainly broke a rule or two. At the very least, it was impolite to crowd Lan Wangji's guest but in the end they were curious teenagers.

As the air circulates, a pleasant aroma hits them. The room most certainly smells of Lan Wangji's clean and pure scent. If words had to placed to it, picture a forest with a lake in the center that draws in water from the sea.

"What are you doing?" Lan Jingyi asks, staring at Wei Wuxian's still prone figure.

Pushing half-up, he rubs his back. He jokes, "I can't move. Your uncle is quite aggressive."

"Don't speak nonsense."

Lan Jingyi barely manages to swallow a curse. The other Lans back up. Everyone of their pack knows that Lan Wangji's mate died. None of them would ever dare to imagine Lan Wangji as frivilous enough to indulge in a single night of pleasure.

"Fine, fine. I'm wrong." Shaking his head, he points at Lan Sizhui. "Is that for me?"

He nods. "We had your clothes washed. If that isn-"

"Great!" He stands. His limbs protest. Sleeping atop another person is not the best for a weary body. He stretches. "I can head out."

"Leave," Lan Sizhui asks.

He nods. Thinking of the vampire he left behind in the mountains, his stomach grumbles. He rolls the knots out of his shoulders.

"You'll need an escort." Lan Sizhui says.

He quirks his head, questioningly.

"To enter and exit, you need permission or the wards alert the pack elders," Lan Sizhui explains.

"Ah."

Lan Jingyi interjects, "I'll take you."

His motives are written on his face. He wants to mess around off pack lands. What would be more interesting than following a hunter around?

A deep voice clears itself.

Lan Jingyi jumps like pup. Stepping to the side, he eyes Lan Wangji sheepishly. He inches behind Lan Sizhui.

"Uncle." They all greet in unision as if there was an invisible conductor guiding them.

Lan Wangji nods. "You plan to leave."

Wei Wuxian answers, "Yup. There's a tied up vamp to interrogate."

He angles his head.

"Don't worry. He's inside an array and I left a guard behind. I'll figure out why he took Xiao Zhui." He salutes.

Biting his cheek, he asks, "Would it impede you if I accompanied you?"

His normal protests die on his lips. A werewolf can handle themselves near vampires and of course a father wants to question the criminal who took his son. Grinning, he says, "Ah, don't you have work?"

"I took a Sabbitical."

Lan Zhan would drop everything for his son, he thinks. Glancing behind Lan Wangji, he wonders how the perfect gentlemen will respond to the magic he trends toward. He might as well join up with Lan Wangji if both of them are investigating anyway.

"Sure."

It surprises everyone when it is Lan Sizhui, not Lan Jingyi who asks, "Can I come?"

"Sizhui was there! He might remember something important. I'll go to guard him. It'd be a good experience for us to go," Lan Jingyi start off his support.

Scanning the eager and curious expression of the younger generation, Wei Wuxian rubs his neck. A tiny part of him overlays the memory of his own youth looking up to his seniors with admiration. He always went along if Lady Yu did not stop him.

"Ask your uncle," he says, offsetting their hopes onto someone else.

Lan Wangji shakes his head. "It isn't safe."

The trio at the door drops their head, disappointed.

"Sizhui and I are older," Lan Jingyi whines.

"Lan Jingyi." Lan Wangji only states the name and Lan Jingyi seals his lips.

Lan Sizhui frowns. Staring at the ground, he acquiesences. Somehow his quiet accceptance projects more disappointment than Lan Jingyi's loud protest and the others' lowered posture combined.

"Let's ago!" Wei Wuxian averts his gaze. Somehow their downcasted aura makes him want to sneak them along. The sensation creeps up on him like a vestigal instinct after all when it came to his own youth he lead Jiang Cheng and all of their cousins on tons of adventures aganist their elders's suggestion.

#MDZS #No to Mild Sads #Winding Moonrise #Wangxian #wick writes #Okay I keep delaying the plots and sads but we will get there

[deadmisanthrope]

#MisanthropeSolo - Rêve Noir

Rêve Noir - Domenico Sigalas

https://youtu.be/KEwP2fA7PGY

As I open the closet that hadn't been opened for over a century, the dark wooden doors creak as the old brass hinges turn, the smell of the past strikes me, and along with it all those memories I thought were long gone, bleached out, faded, not recalled ever since.

Inside the massive cabinet, hidden from time itself and now exposed to me for the first time in a long time, well-known items, once dear to me, like my father's pocket watch - a precious gem, not because it was his, but because I liked it, liked the sound of it, liked the weight in my hand and how it ticked constantly, always reliable if there was someone who wound it up every once in a while -, my mother's music box, which was meant to go to Stefan after she had passed away, but I selfishly kept it for myself. Stefan had his memories of her. The untainted memories of a child, too young to see what was going on behind closed doors in the world of adults. But I knew. I had seen. I had heard. Witnessed. And I still remember vividly.

Carefully I lift the box from the shelf, leaving a dark square where the wood wasn't exposed to the decay of the past century, blow the dust from the casket and slowly turn the key-shaped screw at the backside to wind up the mechanism. A strange melancholia, like a heavy blanket encloses me as the melody reaches my ear, and I open the marquetry adorned lid, as I always used to as a child to watch the comb-shaped piece of metal struck by the small pins on the barrel, turning inside the box, slowly and constantly.

Placing the music box back on the shelf while its strangely soothing song fills the room with not just the mere tune but with a certain atmosphere I hadn't felt in a long time but which still comes naturally to me, my eyes roam further through the shelves inside the closet, to explore the long lost treasures of a distant life that once was mine.

On another board, a couple of books I used to read. I was far too young to understand the deeper meaning of the words when I started to read Baudelaire, but I already appreciated the way he painted pictures of a world I had yet to explore by only using words. Words we all knew. Words we all used. And yet he managed to use them in a way I never experienced before. I even had an original copy from france which I used to learn french autodidactic. With moderate success, to say the least. Next to it a copy of Dante's "la Commedia", an anthology of Poe, well-thumbed, and other books, some of them prosaic novellas, but my predilection was clearly for poetries. Of course my father had other plans for his eldest son than letting him waste time with literature, music, poetry and other unprofitable arts. But I still cherished it as a hobby.

Furthermore, a photograph of Katherine, hidden in another book, but now partly revealed to me; I apparently had to hurry to put it back the last time I took it out, but were too sloppy to hide it properly, so a corner of the photograph became yellow over the years, decades, centuries. I hid it not only from Stefan, but from everyone. Even from her. I used to look at it every once in a while. Sometimes, when I wrote, I liked to place it on the desk next to me, so a part of her was always present and inspired me with more than just her obvious beauty. I also took it out to say her good night, whenever she was too exhausted, too tired to meet me. Of course I was always polite and decent; bid her farewell at  the door to her room when she asked me to, but was yet bold enough to steal a kiss at any given opportunity. Back then I was sure she secretly liked it.

Not much is left of the clothes that were stored in the closet. Generations of moths had feasted on the now mere rags, covered in dust - materialized time - but I can still recall most of the familar attire. The characteristic gray of the confederate army uniform. One of the many chapters in my life I'd like to erase, rip out of the book and burn the pages. After I had returned from the battlefield - deserted, they called it; looking out for myself and do what was reasonable is what I called it, and still do - it had become almost impossible to get into my father's good graces. I came back as an even greater disappointment to him and a shame to my family. The nightmares haunted me for a long time, and sometimes still do. Support for returning soldiers were an alien concept back then, and even when I look at it today, people still have no idea what horrors you have to face; things no human being should ever witness, and yet I think that a species capable of such bestiality deserves just that.

Besides the uniform there are several other pieces, beyond recognition, gone forever. But a surprisingly well preserved sleeve that stands out between the rotting cloths catches my attention.

And as I run my fingers casually along the fabric, take out what appears to be a tailcoat, fragments of the past flare up in my mind. Voices. Laughter. People whose names I don't recall. Music. Dancing. But not me.

I can see myself standing a little aside, right after I had finished a light conversation with a friend of the family, George Lockwood, more to distract myself than actually listening to him. Father would have appreciated to see me being more involved, more interested in the founding family's business. Politics. What an ineffably prosaic sort of pastime. Nothing more it was to me, back those days. And why should I care about the fate of Mystic Falls... when all I cared about... was in the center of the room, dressed in a blue gown and drawing everyone's attention, clinging to my brother's arm as he led her through the crowd, swaggering like a peacock in courtship.

She had chosen him to accompany her on the founders ball. I shouldn't be too worried about my little brother's affection for her, rather should be thankful that he kept her company while I was away, spending days at a confederate army camp just outside Richmond and helping to defend the south. Because it was just that, right? Just a harmless infatuation. But I couldn't help feeling a light sting at the scenery playing out right in front of me. Little did I know about the importance of the founders council in my future life; I just learned about the actual existence of vampires and that my beloved Katherine was one of them, which is why I low-key wished, hoped, that it would have been me who would have had the joy, the honor of being her escort for the dance.

Because of the secret we shared and the trust she put in me by telling me the truth, there was no doubt, that she appreciated my company. Still I remember vividly how we used to spend numerous afternoons wandering in the garden of my family's estate or simply roamed through the village until we reached the Fell's property with the town's church.

And now she seemed to have chosen my brother over me. Him, who whenever the topic of vampires was mentioned, shuddered with fear and disgust. He needs more convincing, I thought back then. She is just making an effort to show him that there is truly no difference between us, I tried to reassure myself. A fool I was. No compulsion needed. Just the feeling that someone cared about my point of view was enough.

From this day on, my courting became bolder. More apparent and obvious for everyone around us. I strolled through town with her, accompanied her when she visited her friend Pearl and made sure everyone saw us. I wanted this to be the image people would memorize. Not the dance at the founder's ball. And she welcomed the additional attention and my interest in her way of living. An inquisitive student I was, eager and hungry for knowledge. I wanted to learn everything and - once she would deem me ready - become one of hers and be with her forever. At night I snuck out of the house to join her in the woods where she showed me to lie in wait. Where she showed me how to bait, how to feed, how to kill...

And the more time I spent with her, the more I diverged from father and my brother; we grew apart, even cold. My brother and I, inseparable all summer, long before she stepped into the picture, rarely talked anymore. Whenever we exchanged words, it led to arguing, no matter how trivial the conversation started out. Especially since he was insistent in persuading father regarding his views on vampires. He even wanted to educate the town council and thought he could sway them. It was his naiveté that eventually led to the events that marked a turning point in our lives: The night of September 25th, 1864.  

Another item veiled by shadows and dust at the bottom of the closet, now brought to light by removing the tailcoat from the hanging rail diverts my attention from the melancholic retrospection of having to share her and - once the object is identified - shoves me right into another, direful memory. Carelessly I place the hook of the coathanger back on the rail, uncaring for possible creases that - over time - might ruin the well-preserved fabric forever and crouch in front of the ancient furniture to reach for what I now realize is not neatly placed on one of the shelving for a reason.

I remember, I felt cold. Cold to the point that every fiber of my body hurt and refused to move or even shift its position. I also remember the smell of damp leaves and poached up soil. There was no sound at first and I felt like floating but at the same time under heavy pressure. Like the air itself was closing and tightening around me. It was a curious feeling and while my subconsciousness began to wrap around it and explore it, I suddenly gasped for air, realizing that I haven't been breathing for quite some time. My body, now finally being able to move, jolts into a sitting position and panic filled me when more impressions kept crashing down on me. Voices, yelling men and screaming women, but far away and even more distant, smoke. And being as cold as the peaty ground I even thought I could feel the warmth of a fire that must have been at least a mile away. I took a quick look around and found myself alone, absent of any company that my foggy memory insisted on. As I looked over my shoulder, I noticed ruts in the ground that led away from my place and... towards the church. Towards the screams and the smoke.

Katherine! It shot through my head and an ice cold fist clutched at my heart. And I jumped to my feet. And I ran. I ran faster than ever before. Perhaps faster than humanly possible.

When I reached the church, I found it blazing fiercely and I quailed. Several carriages waited in the courtyard and those few people who stood outside, armed with whatever they could find, were cheering at the fire, raising their arms with joy, rejoicing. Closer to my own position I rather heard than saw poor little Anna weeping for her mother, eyes red and watery with tears fixed on the conflagration. And instead of giving each other  solace, we both just watched in horror, too afraid to leave the cover of the trees, for we might have been thrown into the burning church as well, if we got caught.

Long after dawn and long after the sun reached and transcended its zenith, when the people of Mystic Falls were sure that all vampires were perished in the fire and left to probably celebrate, I dared to leave the shadows and slowly approached what was left of the former largest building in town. Most of the stone walls had come down and beneath them I could still feel the heat coming from embers that refused to stop licking at the remains of wooden beams. As I slid my feet through the ashes and took the few steps that used to lead to the door, which was now nothing but a stone arch leading to nothing but debris, I felt the heat burning my skin. But it didn't matter. It was nothing compared to excruciating pain she must have felt. And to feel close to her for one last time, as if torturing myself would have lessened her own torment, I endured it for a while.

Slowly I rise from my knees and carefully store the muzzle - too large and peculiar in shape to be made for anything else than a human head - on one of the boards, pulling out the book next to it and part its pages to look at her picture once more; this time I make sure to fully conceal the precious keepsake to preserve it from further decay. And as I do, the soothing melody of the music box slows, further and further, and stops, rendering the room’s atmosphere to the former clotted silence.

Unaffected by any outside influences remains my own memory, unattached to any token that might not stand the test of time. It will always be there, treasured, for eternity. Long after the closet's content and the wood itself has turned to dust.

The old brass hinges creak again as I slowly push the wooden doors shut and seal those items, memories and stories - those and many more - inside, to be found again in the future, by myself or - who knows - by someone else.

~end of solo~

#tvd #the vampire diaries #The Vampire Diaries RP #damon salvatore #damon #stefan salvatore #stefan #katherine pierce #katherine #datherine #1864 #fanfic #solo #shortstory #misanthropesolo #misanthrope

[utopianatolia]

Kitaplar...

228) Albert Camus - The Plague

"Ah!" Cottard sighed. "I only wish I had a knack for writing." When Grand showed his surprise, Cottard explained with some embarrassment that being a literary man must make things easier in lots of ways. "Why?" Grand asked. "Why, because an author has more rights than ordinary people, as everybody knows. People will stand much more from him." "It looks," said Rieux to Grand on the morning when the official notices were posted, "as if this business of the rats had addled his brain, as it has done for so many other people. That's all it is. Or perhaps he's scared of the 'fever.' " "I doubt it, Doctor. If you want to know my opinion, he—" He paused; with a machine-gun rattle from its exhaust the "deratization" van was clattering by. Rieux kept silent until it was possible to make himself audible, then asked, without much interest, what Grand's opinion was. "He's a man with something pretty serious on his conscience," Grand said gravely. 

The Pretect sent instructions to Rieux, through Richard, asking him to draw up a minute to be transmitted for orders to the central administration of the colony. Rieux included in it a clinical diagnosis and statistics of the epidemic. On that day forty deaths were reported. The Prefect took the responsibility, as he put it, of tightening up the new regulations. Compulsory declaration of all cases of fever and their isolation were to be strictly enforced. The residences of sick people were to be shut up and disinfected; persons living in the same house were to go into quarantine; burials were to be supervised by the local authorities —in a manner which will be described later on. Next day the serum arrived by plane. There was enough for immediate requirements, but not enough if the epidemic were to spread. In reply to his telegram Rieux was informed that the emergency reserve stock was exhausted, but that 

One of the most striking consequences of the closing of the gates was, in fact, this sudden deprivation befalling people who were completely unprepared for it. Mothers and children, lovers, husbands and wives, who had a few days previously taken it for granted that their parting would be a short one, who had kissed one another good-by on the platform and exchanged a few trivial remarks, sure as they were of seeing one another again after a few days or, at most, a few weeks, duped by our blind human faith in the near future and little if at all diverted from their normal interests by this leave-taking—all these people found themselves, without the least warning, hopelessly cut off, prevented from seeing one another again, or even communicating with one another. For actually the closing of the gates took place some hours before the official order was made known to the public, and, naturally enough, it was impossible to take individual cases of hardship into account. It might indeed be said that the first effect of this brutal visitation was to compel our townspeople to act as if they had no feelings as individuals. During the first part of the day on which the 

Still, if it was an exile, it was, for most of us, exile in one's own home. And though the narrator experienced only the common form of exile, he cannot forget the case of those who, like Rambert the journalist and a good many others, had to endure an aggravated deprivation, since, being travelers caught by the plague and forced to stay where they were, they were cut off both from the person with whom they wanted to be and from their homes as well. In the general exile they were the most exiled; since while time gave rise for them, as for us all, to the suffering appropriate to it, there was also for them the space factor; they were obsessed by it and at every moment knocked their heads against the walls of this huge and alien lazar-house secluding them from their lost homes. These were the people, no doubt, whom one often saw wandering forlornly in the dusty town at all hours of the day, silently invoking nightfalls known to them alone and the daysprings of their happier land. And they fed their despondency with fleeting intimations, messages as disconcerting as a flight of swallows, a dew-fall at sundown, or those queer glints the sun sometimes dapples on empty streets. As for that outside world, which can always offer an escape from everything, 

themselves for having troubled too little about this in the past, and for having affected to think that, for a lover, the occupations of the loved one when they are not together could be a matter of indifference and not a source of joy. Once this had been brought home to them, they could retrace the course of their love and see where it had fallen short. In normal times all of us know, whether consciously or not, that there is no love which can't be bettered; nevertheless, we reconcile ourselves more or less easily to the fact that ours has never risen above the average. But memory is less disposed to compromise. And, in a very definite way, this misfortune which had come from outside and befallen a whole town did more than inflict on us an unmerited distress with which we might well be indignant. It also incited us to create our own suffering and thus to accept frustration as a natural state. This was one of the tricks the pestilence had of diverting attention and confounding issues. Thus each of us had to be content to live only for the day, alone under the vast indifference of the sky.

people who are fond of each other?" Rieux was silent for a moment, then said he understood it perfectly. He wished nothing better than that Rambert should be allowed to return to his wife and that all who loved one another and were parted should come together again. Only the law was the law, plague had broken out, and he could only do what had to be done. "No," Rambert said bitterly, "you can't understand. You're using the language of reason, not of the heart; you live in a world of abstractions." The doctor glanced up at the statue of the Republic, then said he did not know if he was using the language of reason, but he knew he was using the language of the facts as everybody could see them—which wasn't necessarily the same thing. The journalist tugged at his tie to straighten it. "So, I take it, I can't count on help from you. Very good. But"—his tone was challenging—"leave this town I shall." The doctor repeated that he quite understood, but all that was none of his business. "Excuse me, but it is your business." Rambert raised his voice again. "

 Toward the end of the month the ecclesiastical authorities in our town resolved to do battle against the plague with the weapons appropriate to them, and organized a Week of Prayer. These manifestations of public piety were to be concluded on Sunday by a High Mass celebrated under the auspices of St. Roch, the plague-stricken saint, and Father Paneloux was asked to preach the sermon. For a fortnight he desisted from the research work on St. Augustine and the African Church that had won for him a high place in his Order. A man of a passionate, fiery temperament, he flung himself wholeheartedly into the task assigned him. The sermon was a topic of conversation long before it was delivered and, in its way, it marks an important date in the history of the period. There were large attendances at the services of the Week of Prayer. It must not, however, be assumed that in normal times the townsfolk of Oran are particularly devout. On Sunday mornings, for instance, sea-bathing competes seriously with churchgoing.

After launching it he went on at once to quote a text from Exodus relating to the plague of Egypt, and said: "The first time this scourge appears in history, it was wielded to strike down the enemies of God. Pharaoh set himself up against the divine will, and the plague beat him to his knees. Thus from the dawn of recorded history the scourge of God has humbled the proud of heart and laid low those who hardened themselves against Him. Ponder this well, my friends, and fall on your knees." The downpour had increased in violence, and these words, striking through a silence intensified by the drumming of raindrops on the chancel windows, carried such conviction that, after a momentary hesitation, some of the worshippers slipped forward from their seats on to their knees. Others felt it right to follow their example, and the movement gradually spread until presently everyone was kneeling, from end to end of the cathedral. No sound, except an occasional creak of chairs, accompanied the movement. Then Paneloux drew himself up to his full height tnnk a deen breath and rnntinued his sermon in a vnire 

"Yes, the hour has come for serious thought. You fondly imagined it was enough to visit God on Sundays, and thus you could make free of your weekdays. You believed some brief formalities, some bendings of the knee, would recompense Him well enough for your criminal indifference. But God is not mocked. These brief encounters could not sate the fierce hunger of His love. He wished to see you longer and more often; that is His manner of loving and, indeed, it is the only manner of loving. And this is why, wearied of waiting for you to come to Him, He loosed on you this visitation; as He has visited all the cities that offended against Him since the dawn of history. Now you are learning your lesson, the lesson that was learned by Cain and his offspring, by the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, by Job and Pharaoh, by all that hardened their hearts against Him. And like them you have been beholding mankind and all creation with new eyes, since the gates of this city closed on you and on the pestilence. Now, at last, you know the hour has struck to bend your thoughts to first and last things." A wet wind was sweeping up the nave, making the candle-flames bend 

most poignant were—anynow accoruing to wnat ne tom Kieux—those of Paris. There rose before his eyes, unsummoned, vistas of old stones and riverbanks, the pigeons of the Palais-Royal, the Gare du Nord, quiet old streets round the Pantheon, and many another scene of the city he'd never known he loved so much, and these mental pictures killed all desire for any form of action. Rieux felt fairly sure he was identifying these scenes with memories of his love. And when one day Rambert told him that he liked waking up at four in the morning and thinking of his beloved Paris, the doctor guessed easily enough, basing this on his own experience, that that was his favorite time for conjuring up pictures of the woman from whom he now was parted. This was, indeed, the hour when he could feel surest she was wholly his. Till four in the morning one is seldom doing anything and at that hour, even if the night has been a night of betrayal, one is asleep. Yes, everyone sleeps at that hour, and this is reassuring, since the great longing of an unquiet heart is to possess constantly and consciously the loved one, or, failing that, to be able to plunge the loved one, when a time of absence intervenes, into a dreamless sleep timed to last unbroken until the day they meet again.

"In the early days, when they thought this epidemic was much like other epidemics, religion held its ground. But once these people realized their instant peril, they gave their thoughts to pleasure. And all the hideous fears that stamp their faces in the daytime are transformed in the fiery, dusty nightfall into a sort of hectic exaltation, an unkempt freedom fevering their blood. "And I, too, I'm no different. But what matter? Death means nothing to men like me. It's the event that proves them right."   

"So does every ill that flesh is heir to. What's true of all the evils in the world is true of plague as well. It helps men to rise above themselves. All the same, when you see the misery it brings, you'd need to be a madman, or a coward, or stone blind, to give in tamely to the plague." Rieux had hardly raised his voice at all; but Tarrou made a slight gesture as if to calm him. He was smiling. "Yes." Rieux shrugged his shoulders. "But you haven't answered my question yet. Have you weighed the consequences?" 

"You like being mysterious, don't you? Yes, fire away." "My question's this," said Tarrou. "Why do you yourself show such devotion, considering you don't believe in God? I suspect your answer may help me to mine." His face still in shadow, Rieux said that he'd already answered: that if he believed in an all-powerful God he would cease curing the sick and leave that to Him. But no one in the world believed in a God of that sort; no, not even Paneloux, who believed that he believed in such a God. And this was proved by the fact that no one ever threw himself on Providence completely. Anyhow, in this respect Rieux believed himself to be on the right road—in fighting against creation as he found it. 

Rieux turned to the window. A shadow-line on the horizon told of the presence of the sea. He was conscious only of his exhaustion, and at the same time was struggling against a sudden, irrational impulse to unburden himself a little more to his companion; an eccentric, perhaps, but who, he guessed, was one of his own kind. "I haven't a notion, Tarrou; I assure you I haven't a notion. When I entered this profession, I did it 'abstractedly,' so to speak; because I had a desire for it, because it meant a career like another, one that young men often aspire to. Perhaps, too, because it was particularly difficult for a workman's son, like myself. And then I had to see people die. Do you know that there are some who refuse to die? Have you ever heard a woman scream 'Never!' with her last gasp? Well, I have. And then I saw that I could never get hardened to it. I was young then, and I was outraged by the whole scheme of things, or so I thought. Subsequently I grew more modest. Only, I've never managed to get used to seeing people die. That's all I know. Yet after all—" Rieux fell silent and sat down. He felt his mouth dry. "After all—?" Tarrou prompted softly. "After all," the doctor repeated, then hesitated again, fixing his eyes on Tarrou, "it's something that a man of your sort can understand most likely, but, since the order of the world is shaped by death, mightn't it be better for God if we refuse to believe in Him and struggle with all our might against death, without raising our eyes toward the heaven where He sits in silence?" 

Tarrou nodded. "Yes. But your victories will never be lasting; that's all." Rieux's face darkened. "Yes, I know that. But it's no reason for giving up the struggle." "No reason, I agree. Only, I now can picture what this plague must mean for you." "Yes. A never ending defeat." Tarrou stared at the doctor for a moment, then turned and tramped heavily toward the door. Rieux followed him and was almost at his side when Tarrou, who was staring at the floor, suddenly said: "Who taught you all this, Doctor?" The reply came promptly: "Suffering." Rieux opened the door of his surgery and told Tarrou that he, too, was going out; he had a patient to visit in the suburbs. Tarrou suggested they should go together and he agreed. In the hall they encountered Mme. Rieux, and the doctor introduced Tarrou to her. "A friend of mine," he said. "Indeed," said Mme. Rieux, "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance." When she left them Tarrou turned to gaze after her. On the landing the doctor pressed a switch to turn on the lights along the stairs. But the stairs remained in darkness. Possibly some new light-saving order had come into force. Really, however, there was no knowing; for some time 

A faint smell of moisture rose from the lawns, parched though they were. Still masked by the eastward houses, the sun was warming up Joan of Arc's helmet only, and it made a  solitary patch of brightness in the Cathedral square. A clock struck eight. Rambert took some steps in the empty porch. From inside came a low sound of intoning voices, together with stale wafts of incense and dank air. Then the voices ceased. Ten small black forms came out of the building and hastened away toward the center of the town. 

Many centuries previously a profane writer had claimed to reveal a secret of the Church by declaring that purgatory did not exist. He wished to convey that there could be no half measures, there was only the alternative between heaven and hell; you were either saved or damned. That, according to Paneloux, was a heresy that could spring only from a blind, disordered soul. Nevertheless, there may well have been periods of history when purgatory could not be hoped for; periods when it was impossible to speak of venial sin. Every sin was deadly, and any indifference criminal. It was all or it was nothing. The preacher paused, and Rieux heard more clearly the whistling of the wind outside; judging by the sounds that came in below the closed doors, it had risen to storm pitch. Then he heard Father Paneloux's voice again. He was saying that the total acceptance of which he had been speaking was not to be taken in the limited sense usually given to the words; he was not thinking of mere resignation or even of that harder virtue, humility. It involved humiliation, but a humiliation to which the person humiliated gave full assent. True, the agony of a child was humiliating to the heart and to the mind. But that was why we had to come to terms with it. And that, too, was why—and here Paneloux assured those present that it was not easy to say what he was about to 

"My brothers"—the preacher's tone showed he was nearing the conclusion of his sermon—"the love of God is a hard love. It demands total self-surrender, disdain of our human personality. And yet it alone can reconcile us to suffering and the deaths of children, it alone can justify them, since we cannot understand them, and we can only make God's will ours. That is the hard lesson I would share with you today. That is the faith, cruel in men's eyes, and crucial in God's, which we must ever strive to compass. We must aspire beyond ourselves toward that high and fearful vision. And on that lofty plane all will fall into place, all discords be resolved, and truth flash forth from the dark cloud of seeming injustice. Thus in some churches of the south of France plague victims have lain sleeping many a century under the flagstones of the chancel, and priests now speak above their tombs, and the divine message they bring to men rises from that charnel, to which, nevertheless, children have contributed their share." When Rieux was preparing to leave the church a violent gust swept up the nave through the half-open doors and buffeted the faces of the departing congregation. It brought with it a smell of rain, a tang of drenched sidewalks, warning them of the weather they would encounter outside. An old priest and a young deacon who were walking 

A faint smell of moisture rose from the lawns, parched though they were. Still masked by the eastward houses, the sun was warming up Joan of Arc's helmet only, and it made a solitary patch of brightness in the Cathedral square. A clock struck eight. Rambert took some steps in the empty porch. From inside came a low sound of intoning voices, together with stale wafts of incense and dank air. Then the voices ceased. Ten small black forms came out of the building and hastened away toward the center of the town.  GERİ DÖNDÜM :)

#veba #camus #plague

[maddie-longson]

Final Crit

After a quick group brainstorm of what we wanted to cover in our final crit, I wrote our group script.

Kate: Our brief was about designing a learning centre that was based on the values of Montessori. Montessori is a teaching pedagogy most often used for kindergarten aged children, and occasionally up to teenagers. It would be considered a radical pedagogy in that it is drastically different to mainstream school systems. A typical teaching scenario in a Montessori school would involve students partaking in self directed exploration of a subject, with guidance and aid provided from the teacher. 

Maddie: The values of Montessori that we have brought through to our final design are:

Sustainability - Montessori emphasises the recycling and upcycling of materials for students use, taking donations of equipment and toys from the community.

Hands-on learning - many of the activities that children do in Montessori schools is hands on, learning how to do and learning through touch and play are hugely important.

Discovery - similar to hands-on learning, children are given the opportunity to explore and discover things for themselves rather than following a structured curriculum.

Community - Montessori heavily encouraged interaction and collaboration between students in the name of learning from one another which creates a strong community between peers. A previous critic that we had described his experience of Montessori schooling where students would share food and cook for one another.

Equality and creativity were further values that we wanted to incorporate into our design.

Jessica: To meet these values, our brief required that we cater for a variety of activities of our choice that we felt would be best suited. Since Montessori was originally designed for and most often applied to young children, and our clientele would be primarily young adults and members of the general public of all ages, the activities we chose and how we applied the values would need to be closely considered to make sure that the building wasn't designed for the wrong people. In saying that, we were particularly interested in maintaining a childlike quality to the design to reflect the roots we were coming from. A number of our early precedents were in fact Montessori kindergartens.

Zaina: Working off our brief, we came to the conclusion that the activities we chose needed to benefit visitors in ways that aren't currently available through the university. We needed activities that physically and mentally extended visitors, at their own pace and without the need for guidance. We also wanted some activities that would allow for emotional growth, helping out university students with their studies through skills like teamwork and stress relief techniques that would benefit them in the long run. Through these self-imposed parameters, the activities that we settled on were rock climbing, meditation, arts and crafts, gardening, dance, music, drawing, the board games of twister and chess, and even spaces to sleep.

 Our design is essentially a glasshouse enclosing gardens and a number of internal pods that cater to these activities. 

Kate: Discovery was the driving force of our building's form. We wanted our design to contain plenty of nooks and crannies, so visitors would be constantly exploring and finding new spaces at every visit. The organic shape of our building intends to create a space in which nothing can be taken for granted. Our gardens are similarly maze-like, allowing for moments of discovery around every corner. Moments scattered around inside reinforce this value, such as the quality of light that our external bottle wall creates, and the window seats scattered around that wall. We decided to interrupt and divert the existing circulation across the site by manipulating the topography. Outside of the building we placed two hills, one which blocks movement across the existing path of circulation, encouraging people into the building and thus sparking the opportunity for discovery. The second hill blocks direct visual access to the main entrance of the building, making it an act of discovery in itself to enter the building. The collection of sculptures that scatter across the landscape next to the hills create a moment of exploration, as they also interrupt easy circulation and their unusual forms make them an oddity that demands interaction. Inside the building, the manipulation of topography was continued at a smaller scale, drawing people up or down to certain areas of interest, while they are also guided by the flower gardens that follow the contours.

Maddie: Sustainability came into the design in a number of ways. First our choice of materials. We used a wide range of materials across the design, and the majority are intended to be materials that can be sourced sustainably. Our pods use rammed earth for structure, recycled brick as a veneer and timber for lintels and flooring. Our roof is timber, and large sections of our external wall are a bottle wall, using recycled glass bottles and held together with adobe. Second, we have taken the site into consideration to improve our design’s efficiency. To the north and south we have intentionally placed two of our bottle walls, creating thermal mass to the north and reducing heat loss through glazing to the south. Our three entrances are able to opened up with bifold doors to allow cross ventilation from the prevailing wind. Operable skylights in the roof can also help remove heat in summer. In addition, we've also placed our design to have minimal impact upon the existing trees of the site. Three trees that were particularly in the way of the design were incorporated inside, with a high roof over them and the rock climbing rocks, creating an extensive jungle gym of rock and tree climbing. Third, our spaces are designed around a system of material exchange for arts and crafts activities. Our main pod, the gathering space, acts as storage for materials that visitors bring, allowing all creative endeavours in the space to be done using recycled materials. People can then take their pick and bring in replacements later on. This aspect also ties into our use of the value of community in our design.

Zaina: While areas of the design such as the flower gardens are more inclined towards individual activities and introspection, other areas intend to bring people together and encourage interaction and collaboration. The veggie gardens are one of the most important social areas. All of the gardens are to be community-maintained, but the veggie gardens also act to give back. Food grown there would be given directly to the vegan lunches group, who would have their own space within the design. The kitchen, while for everyone's use, is large enough to cater for them, and equipped with a dumb waiter to bring food up to the roof gardens on top of the pods. These gardens are accessible via ramp and vary in height as walkway ramps connect the roofs of each pod. Again this is an element relating to exploration, and our design subverting from the expectations of a uniform level across this floor.

Jessica: Finally, fitting more into the self-imposed value of self-improvement are the meditation and sleeping spaces. Three sleeping pods are placed among the more peaceful flower gardens, giving students a designated space to relax and take a break from their studies. The meditation spaces are an underground level accessible down a ramp in the veggie gardens. The spaces utilise the inside of the forms necessary for the rock climbing rocks. Skylights create a play of light down the walls and the semi-rough concrete walls and timber floor are intentionally devoid of distractions to create the calmest spaces in the building, perfect for meditation.

To finish our presentation, I invited the critics to come up and look at our 1:500 model (made by Kate) on the site model to get a better idea of the form of the building and the changing roof levels in particular.

Sections by me and Zaina, roof and underground plans by me, site analysis diagram by Kate, interiors by me and Jessica, one detail by each of us, 1:500 model by Kate.

Plan by me and Zaina.

1:500 model by Kate.

Site analysis by Kate.

Video directed and edited by Kate, starring me and Zaina with cameos by Daniel, Shiree and Kate.

Photos courtesy of Zaina, Kate and Anthony (tutor).

#architecture #final crit #final design

[vipers-nest]

idk stuff. I have a ton of work to do today & some of this is many months old but w/e I’m SO MISERABLE I just felt like diverting myself and you know, whatever the fuck...my life is, all the time, these days. who knows what the point of all this is. don’t I have enough to do with my actual kids, etc, etc.

deep in the black night, fierce and guilty, he calls him a whore - the French way, the third least solid of his four languages - and his best friend laughs, startled, charmed. ‘again,’ he entreats - also in French, and then half in Spanish, ‘I don’t mind. I promise. if you want to.’ he does want to; Charles can tell that he means it, the venom in it, a wound ten years deep. he wants to touch it with his bare hands, feel the texture of it, the unhealed edges of it. pour himself into it.

weeks later, he still won’t talk about it. he’ll say it - over and over, like machinery, a merciless hammering beating Charles the way, he thinks in the middle of it, you beat gold - with care, into something fine, beautiful, malleable, wearable. he’s happy to be all those things, and he’s never minded being called a slut, besides; it’s true enough. he just never knew that Drigo minded. if he does mind - he still won’t talk about it at all.

*

‘dad? dad, I don’t - I don’t know.’ it’s weird to hear his own voice like that, the uncertainty real, to feel the fear and - like those old motivational posters used to say - do it anyway. weirder to feel the fear at all. he’s never scared - not like this. but there’s just been something, these last few days, a thread of brittle metal like something under his tongue that might snap any minute. ‘it’s okay,’ his dad says, soft, something out of a dream, and he says, ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ again, because he doesn’t know how else to voice the way he wants to feel. does feel. there’s guilt down there too, for making him do this; under the circumstances it’s probably pretty crappy of him.

a few weeks later he’s like, ‘I wish you were my real dad,’ and Tony laughs at him about it so he laughs too, but he kind of means it. what’s down there? he asks himself in the mirror, but mirror him doesn’t know either.

*

when he arrives, shirt clinging to him from the journey and the sun in his eyes, it’s Drigo’s wife who meets him, winds her arms around his neck, her bracelets clacking together. she’s laughing. ‘I am so happy you are here, we are so happy you are home,’ she says, accented Spanish. ‘I’m happy too,’ he tells her, her laughter infectious despite the word home twisting in his nerves like a bad sprain; she pulls him into their home, the loveliest and second biggest structure in this space they’ve built together. familiar now, after all these years.

Drigo is on the floor with one of his children. they never make him feel like he is anything less than part of the family; it comes with its own challenges. Charles watches him, watches his focus expand to take in the rest of the room again, watches him look up, the joy spread across his face, real, unequivocal. unbearable.

a few hours later, once he has showered away the rest of the world and they are sat around the table, looking over plans, she taps her husband on the arm, unable to contain herself, suddenly. ‘you have to show him.’ ‘show me what?’ Charles asks, looking between them; Drigo looks terrified, honestly. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘it isn’t finished.’ ‘when have I ever wanted something to be finished?’ it’s the right or the wrong thing to say; stricken around the eyes, his friend nods, stands up, holds his hand out. ‘yes,’ he says in Spanish, and, ‘come with me,’ and, ‘please,’ in French, where the words mean something different.

on the other side of their private beach, amongst the leaves, a new structure is being woven together. it’s lovely, organic, small, like a beach hut, but deeper. he feels a howling in his stomach, an animal thing he has no idea how to interpret; when Drigo says, ‘I wanted you to have a place here, just for when - when you are here,’ it takes all he has to let himself cry and tell him it’s wonderful, instead of bolting straight into the tall grass and making for the road.

*

‘have you ever actually done it?’ ‘done what?’ his voice is mild, surprised, like always, a man who continually sounds like he’s hearing a talking dog for the third or fourth time, a breath away from declaring everything “remarkable”. ‘you keep saying that this is your grand plan and you do this to people all the time, right?’ it’s taken him...a year, maybe, he can’t be sure between the drugs and - everything else - to be able to talk normally while he’s in this thing. the straps still bite and pinch and the pistons go on doing their job but now he can ignore them, more or less, until something changes. there isn’t even a tremor in his voice. he counts that as a win. ‘hook your latest victim up to the machines, drug them, do all that, with what, the end goal of, like you said, making them desperate enough that they finally beg you to fuck them. right?’ spelled out like that it sounds every bit as sordid and tedious as it’s felt for the last - however long. doesn’t bear thinking about. he had a job to do, once.

silence from his employer, so he mentally shrugs and carries on. ‘so, I’m interested. you’ve already proved you can do that. it’s worked. congratulations, you made me beg for your cock - not once, more than once in fact. and still here we are doing the same shit again, so I’m just interested, have you ever actually fucked any of them?’ us. any of us. he still can’t quite - believe in his circumstances. Bancroft says, ‘how dare you,’ deeply amused, apparently genuinely curious. ‘I can’t imagine you really believe that’s any of your business, do you?’ ‘so that’s a no,’ he guesses, and then adds the question he really wants to ask, ‘what the fuck are you afraid of?’ he’s hit home - he has time to see his generally unflappable employer rise up like a snake, all fear and fury, before the needle goes into his neck. ‘no,’ he says, ‘please,’ and Bancroft hushes him, calm again. ‘you won’t remember any of this.’

*

Charles calls him from the festival, lazy in bed, the sun outside making its way through the thin tent fabric to flood over his skin, light and heat. ‘I miss you,’ he says, and Drigo laughs, awkward but pleased. ‘are you sure?’ he asks, ‘I know what you get up to when you’re there.’ ‘are you jealous?’ he only says it because he knows his friend both is and isn’t, that it’s something he can wear like a necklace or an earring, to catch the light and draw his attention, and then take off and put aside so as not to have it catch on anything. and Drigo says, ‘yes,’ a burning thing, smoke in the throat, gorgeous, ‘tell me everything.’ ‘everything?’ ‘everything. tell me everything.’

*

they have some nerve, asking him these questions. this old man, in particular, seems more than usually persistent; in the end he shouts at him, yells that he wants to be left alone, and gets his wish, for a while.

though the texture of blood is unlike anything else, everything else seems to sometimes take on the texture of blood, these days. startled, he pulls his hand away from himself to look at it; he could have sworn he could smell iron in the air, his own death. but there is nothing out of the ordinary.

the old man had been so self-satisfied, so sure of himself. all these questions - about himself, about his family. ‘I have never wanted that,’ he told him, and he says it again now - I have never wanted that, I have never wanted to, I never wanted to, I never, I never wanted to, like reciting prayers. imagines painting someone’s face with it when he comes, and the whole thing turning to blood. spraying out of him like something arterial.

‘I never wanted to.’ the room is empty; nobody can judge him a liar or an honest man, or anything in between.

[scatterbrainedscholar]

  Spring into Never Summer

I.

In early June, the school year ended and I bid farewell to the windswept prairie outside Vista Academy and the quiet paths along Sand Creek.  My idea to aimlessly tour the western United States via bicycle was quashed for the time being by some lingering hip issues so I spent the first few weeks of the summer housesitting for a friend across town in Arvada.  While carefully carrying out my duty of monitoring the automatic lawn watering system, I sold or donated most of my apartment furnishings and replaced my grandma’s Altima with a used minivan.  I spent a few days converting the 12-year-old soccer-mom mobile into a micro-RV ready for an extended road trip.  In other words, I took out the seats and threw a sleeping platform together using lumber from my buddy’s garage.  For someone whose furniture building experience was so far limited to Ikea products, it felt like an engineering feat on par with building the Golden Gate bridge.

Arvada is a pretty interesting place.  On the map it looks like just another municipality swallowed up by the Denver sprawl, but when you’re there it feels like you’re in a rural town with its own identity completely separate from the city (at least in the Olde Town section).  I think this has to do with its location up on a ridge above Clear Creek, Highway 70, and the rest of Denver to the south and east.  A particularly interesting aspect of Arvada is its water “ditches”.  These are little canals running through the city’s properties that divert water from the rivers coming out of the mountains to the west.  They are apparently irrigation ditches left over from Arvada’s agricultural past.  These days, the residents still have rights to a certain amount of the water passing though their property so most of the yards around Olde Town Arvada have a large pump, sometimes disguised in cute and clever ways, to access this water which is free and in addition to the normal municipal water service.  I don’t know how common that is these days, but it sure makes me wonder about the history of water infrastructure and water rights in general….

  II.

One day, instead of fumbling around with screws and 2 x 6’s, I hopped on my e-bike and headed back east across town to make good on a promise I had made to a couple students.  Several weeks earlier, I had ordered eclipse glasses and was planning to hand them out to some of my students but the school year ended before they arrived.  Two of my disappointed students, who also happened to have worked quite hard on the water pressure rocket project, gave me their addresses and I promised to get them the glasses.

The trip to their houses ended up being quite the exploration of the Denver waterways.  It was early summer which is kind of like a monsoon season around Denver, and the river was swollen and intense, almost frighteningly so in places.  I started off heading northwest on a bike path alongside Clear Creek.  The creek was definitely not clear and calling it a creek seemed comically inaccurate.  On more than one occasion, I went under overpasses where it seemed the bike lane was minutes away from being flooded out.  I went over a bridge at the confluence with Ralston Creek, which also flows through Arvada.  Massive rapids formed and I wondered whether anybody ever kayaks or rafts down these streams when they are flood like this.

Besides bike paths, these waterways are also adjacent to interstate highways and other major thoroughfares but are mostly out of sight from the motorists roaring by on their own concrete rivers.  This seems very unfortunate.  You could drive all over Denver and never realize that these rivers — the whole reason Denver is where it is, — were even there.  The bike lanes allow for much more intimate contact.  I had seen numerous water birds like egrets, kingfishers, and herons and shortly after the Ralston-Clear Creek confluence I came across the biggest turtle I had ever seen outside the ocean- a behemoth snapping turtle lying on the bike bath perhaps getting some respite the turbulence of the river.

Eventually, I came upon the confluence of Clear Creek with the South Platte flowing north from downtown.  I stopped to take in this wild scene of raging rapids with a fellow DIY e-biker (although he had motors on both front and rear wheels – better for riding in the snow, he said).  I crossed and headed south and upstream, towards the spot where the much more placid Sand Creek joins the South Platte.  This section of the ride took me through a broken industrial landscape including the recycling plant that had caught fire the previous week and the massive Suncor oil refinery.  I passed by huge flare towers and under massive pipes leading to a maze of other pipes and tanks.  Breathing the air there did not feel healthy.  At one point, I was approaching what I thought must have been an old abandoned wooden train track, with its decaying and rotting timbers and rusting nails, until a small train of oil tanks shot across it right as I passed underneath.  I felt like I was on some sort of Big Oil-sponsored Six Flags ride.

Things calmed down after turning east to ride along Sand Creek as the refinery gave way to warehouses.  After about 15 miles, I finally rolled out of the riparian bike path and made my way to the students’ houses.

  II.

While staying in Arvada I made my first forays onto the road in the newly outfitted micro-RV up highway 285 to the Rocky Mountain Land Library in South Park – the intermountain valley west of Denver and site of the headwaters of the South Platte, not the fictional Comedy Central town.  The Land Library is on the site of an old cattle ranch (which was on former Ute and/or Arapaho land?), complete with abandoned 19th century buildings preserved in the dry mountain air.   The library is a work in progress but the idea is to eventually serve as a residential library focused on connecting the literature of the western landscape with the landscape itself. I tried on two occasions to volunteer to help clean up some of the old buildings but showed up too late each time and ended up just walking around and talking about birds and books with Jeff and Ann, the founders of the Land Library.  They were kind enough to let me park the van there for the night and camp out.

The ranch is separated just enough from route 9 by an old railway berm so that you don’t hear the already infrequent car traffic.  Besides one large cottonwood near the cluster of old ranch buildings and the willows edging the river, the surrounding landscape was a flat, treeless basin.  I wondered how different it looked like there before a century of over-grazing by cattle and sheep. On the second occasion, I had two days out there with all 1,400 acres of high and dry steppe (correct geographical term?) to myself.

After taking an icy bath in one of the curves of the winding middle fork of the South Platte, followed by a nap amongst the wild irises and willows, I hiked across the basin and up the eastern ridge to see what I could see.   There is a unique sense of freedom felt when walking in such a massive open landscape without a path to follow. From atop the ridge, I could see to the east was more treeless basin and ridgelines to the horizon with some snowy peaks to the southeast.  Looking north and west across the basin of South Park, the sun was setting behind the Presidential Range. It’s fun to think about water melting from those peaks and starting a journey that would shoot down and out of the mountains, through Denver, and eventually pass under the Daniel Boone bridge that takes highway 40 over the Missouri River back home in St. Louis.  Interestingly, the Land Library leases it’s land from the city of Aurora (queue more wondering about water infrastructure history).

As the wind picked up after sunset and the temperature dropped, I made my way back to the van, trying not to twist an ankle on the old bleached cattle bones that were scattered in the grass.  I made some dinner and waited for the stars to come out while listening to the end of Edward Abbey’s classic, Desert Solitaire.  I was already a big fan of Abbey’s from reading the Monkey Wrench Gang, a fun story of some anarchist environmentalists disrupting mining operations and running from the Man in the Southwest. 

Desert Solitaire is a series of Abbey’s musings from his time spent as a Park Ranger for the National Park Service at Arches National Monument (now National Park) back in the sixties.  His romantic odes to wilderness and his tirades against car culture make the book worth a read.  However, as much as I sympathize with his anti-authoritarian sentiments pervading the book, his particular brand of anarchism is a little too misanthropic and arrogant for me.  It is not the destructive, racist misanthropy of right-wing libertarianism but it’s still frustrating.  Also, his take on technology and population growth is thought-provoking but a bit simplistic.  It’s often very clear that he is speaking from a place of white privilege.  That said, I would’ve loved to hang out and hike through the desert or burn down some billboards with the guy.

After finishing the book, I tucked into my sleeping bag on my creaking plywood platform and fell asleep to the sound of coyotes yelping and howling from the ridge I had hiked to earlier that day. I spent the next morning lounging around the ranch, exploring a little and reading parts of the Land Library’s copy of The Natural Navigator by Tristan Gooley.  I was inspired to try and draw a topographical map of my surroundings but the sun and heat became a little too uncomfortable so instead I got in the van and drove nine hours to Kansas City.

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  III.

After celebrating the 4th of July with my brothers’ family and dumping some superfluous belongings in their basement, I blasted back west to Denver.  I picked up Joey, my comrade in noticing and wondering, at the Denver airport and we immediately set about gathering provisions for a weekend camping trip in the mountains.  We picked up our standard aged gouda, dry-cured meats, granola bars, and dehydrated soup and headed up to Boulder.   For a physical and mental warm-up, we went for a short walk and scramble up El Dorado canyon, where we got to work fawning over the stratigraphy of the rocks, the lichens growing on them, and the plants growing at the base of them, including some delicious raspberries. That night with fellow St. Louis-transplant Peter and his family, we feasted – appropriately for Boulder – on grilled local veggies, artisanal hot dogs, and homemade non-dairy ice cream while planning our trip.

We decided we would head to the same trail that Peter would be hiking in September with my brothers.  The trailhead into the Never Summer Wilderness was not too far from Boulder and we would be able to get to an alpine lake after hiking only 5 miles into the backcountry.  Also, since it was Forest Service land, we would not need a permit (although the trailhead was technically within Rocky Mountain National Park, strange).

After a hearty breakfast the next morning, Joey and I headed out for the trailhead.  We stopped a few times to look at some elk, go to the bathroom, and take pictures of the map and a wildflower field guide at a visitor center on our way up and over Rocky Mountain National Park.  After descending into the valley to the west, we were in the midst of a vigorous debate over the exact allosteric mechanics of hemoglobin or something like that and I missed the turnoff for the trailhead.

After several miles of backtracking, we eventually made it to the trailhead, packed up our backpacks, stretched, and started plodding along on the trail. Somehow it was already 3:30 pm.  We crossed a vast meadow then headed into the trees, an almost park-like stand of similarly aged pines with a couple wild roses here and there alongside the trail.  After less than a mile, we began the streamside ascent.

Once we were deep in the backcountry, I felt an intense sense of relief and return.  It had been too long since I had breathed heavily in fresh mountain air filled with the aroma of warm pine sap.  As we went deeper and higher into the fir and spruce, we were soon surrounded by a cornucopia of wildflowers – groves of Columbine, paintbrush, larkspur, lupine, buttercups and all kinds of other colorful, ephemeral little flowers it was impossible to keep track of, much less identify (for our untrained eyes).  We zigged and zagged our way up, never completely out of earshot of the gushing stream, passed little cascades and flower-laden glens, aspen-edged boulder fields, and whatever you call massive swaths of trees smashed down by a winter avalanche.  From pine beetles to the snow fields tucked into the north facing crevices thousands of feet above use, the noticing and wondering was overwhelming.

The last mile to the lake seemed to go on forever, and we were losing daylight quickly by the time we were above the treeline.  Joey and I have been known to get sidetracked botanizing and berry-picking and not making it to camp until after dark.  We were just keeping up our reputation.  When we finally made it to the lake, the exhaustion immediately gave way to joy and satisfaction.  With not another soul around, we celebrated and took in the scenery surrounding the lake as the sky quickly dimmed from dusk to twilight.   We turned and looked back east with an expansive view of where we had just come from, and just as we were taking in the view of the distant front range peaks across the valley, the big, bright full moon appeared over the horizon.  Exactly nine moons previous, Joey and I had been camping out about 9,000 feet below and a couple hundred miles to the northeast in the Pawnee National Grasslands, which should be more aptly named Pawnee National Fracklands.

We were lucky to find a campsite complete with an established fire ring almost immediately so we were able to get camp set up and a fire going as the temperature dropped.  We supped on our soup, chocolate, and even a couple ears of roasted corn before heading to bed for the night.  In the morning, we lazily ate breakfast under the watchful eye of the area’s resident marmots.  We took some time to explore the edge of the lake, observing and hypothesizing, then took a breathtakingly chilly dip in the lake to get the blood flowing.  We started our descent around midday and walked through some light rain and even hail.  Despite getting hung up picking and eating wild strawberries we had somehow missed the day before, we made it back to the van well before sunset. We obtained the necessary post-hike high-calorie junk food and started the search for the evenings campsite.  We turned off route 40 near Winter Park into some National Forest land and took a gravel road to a clearing right behind one of those ski-town condo developments and posted up for the night.  Joey got a fire going while I futzed around in the van, then we sat and listened to some music and discussed what exactly a flame is.  Good times.  24 hours later, Joey was back in St. Louis and I was sleeping in the van in a Walmart parking lot outside of Laramie, Wyoming.

To be continued….

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  A Year in Reading – Part III Spring into Never Summer I. In early June, the school year ended and I bid farewell to the windswept prairie outside Vista Academy and the quiet paths along Sand Creek.  

#bikes #books #colorado #travel #waterways #wilderness