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royaltealee · 7 months

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Deathly silent

ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴊᴏʀ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʀʟᴏ'ꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴇᴏ'ꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱᴛᴏʀʏꜱ. ᴅᴏ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀʀɴᴇᴅ!

Carlo x Puppet!reader

⚠️ Trigger warning's⚠️

Descriptions of a plague sickness, death, sad sad times and blood.

Part 1/2

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

The ticking clockwork echoes in the stillness of Gepettos workshop. Automated gears singing a ticking tune, keeping its pace, never faltering.

Little Carlo plays with a small ball jointed doll, black hair almost covering his face while resuming on posing the doll how he wanted.

A small smile painted his lips, cobalt blue iris keeping its figure as he sets the doll standing.

Taking a note pad, he gently lines every detail of it, soon, it takes shape.

Hair, eyes, clothes, everything in his imagination, coming to life in a single sketch of how he wanted to shape this plain doll.

Showing his father his sketchpad, the puppet maker quickly got to work.

Moulding the exact proportions his son drew, Carlo watching every second of his father's work.

Once the puppet was finished, it was the same size as the boy, Ergo rushed through its wiring, newly obtained and springing to life.

Carlo talked with it, watching as it clung to every word he spoke.

Geppetto's son now has a friend.

And Geppetto can peacefully get back to work.

_____________

He never expected this to happen.

The puppet that kept Carlo company, listened and stayed by his side...

Started to grow.

Not just physically, but mentally. It's mind shaped ideas, concepts, and jokes. Carlo laughed at every single one of them.

At first, he had only made the doll-like puppet to just be a toy for his son to keep him busy while he worked...

It was an interesting sight indeed.

Its hair grew longer... And it even explained that it could... Quite possibly a dream.

It was no longer an IT anymore.

But it was doing no harm... So the Puppet maker paid no mind.

___________

As both of them grew, Carlo grew more distant towards his father. You stayed by his side, talking with the boy from day in, to day out.

It was never a boring day for the two, even as Carlo started going to school... You would wait for him.

Till one day, he brought over another boy. Around the same age, blond hair cut into a short bob. From what you could tell, he was from the same boarding school as Carlo, from the matching uniform.

Carlo introduced you first, calling your name.

"This is Romeo, Romeo, this is my friend,"

"A puppet?"

"Yeah- please don't call me that... My name is fine."

You corrected quickly, a smile gentle on your face as you reach out a hand, the wiring of gears still being heard with every move.

Romeo carefully, and hesitantly took your hand.

Eyes widening only a tad, looking at Carlo, then snapped back to you dumbly.

"Your hands are soft. And warm."

That caught something in your gears, laughing a bit when the boy blushed in embarrassment as Carlo too started to laugh at the absurdity.

"They've always been warm and soft!" Carlo laughed.

"I didn't know! Automations are usually cold and hard! Like metal!"

Romeo clapped back, straightening up and grossing his arms, grumbling in his defense.

This started the friendship between the three of you. The hardships that would happen between Carlo and his father would slip into silence, a somber sad silence whenever Carlo would ask for a bit of his father's time... Only to be told later.

Lies that the boy hated.

And you could only watch, the sinking feeling only growing worse as the years went by.

_____________

"Go to school? With you?"

You asked, as if the very idea was a grueling puzzle. How could a puppet like yourself need school?

"Why not? Have you ever wondered what you could learn?"

Carlo asked, insistent on the idea. His graduation was next year... And he wanted to share that with you.

And he had hope his own father would be there, he'd have to! It's his own son's graduation for God's sake!

You thought for a moment, you've always stayed in the vicinity of the workshop, not a rhyme or reason other than to be close to the only person who could fix a couple of loose bolts if something were amiss.

But it was only Krat city, surely it's safe enough for any Puppet, right?

What could hurt?

____________

You were given odd looks down Krat city hall, you looked nothing like the usual puppets that Geppetto has created, fresh gears turning and auto generated voice lines from newer puppets, little to no life in their eyes.

The spare uniform that you had borrowed from Carlo fit nicely on you, considering that your proportions almost matched the smiling boy beside you, none the wiser with the questioning looks of others.

Making it, the both of you entered, you immediately saw a familiar head of blond hair, sitting next to two empty seats.

Carlo takes your hand and takes you towards the boy.

Romeo, was suffice to say, shocked to see you, in school, in a uniform no less.

"Is this even allowed?"

He whispered, glancing at the raven haired boy, who gave a cheeky smirk.

"I may have pulled a ...few strings." Carlo smiled, sitting down and looking uncharacteristically poised.

"What does THAT mean??" Romeo asked, accusatory suspicion heavy in his voice.

Watching you sit down next to Carlo, fidgeting, like you were nervous.

And he couldn't blame you, the eyes that trailed your figure were more curious and confused.

Some had to do a double take when they entered class.

You could hear the talk, surrounding your table, the clicking of your fingers stopped when a teacher had finally entered the room.

A broad smile graced his face as he took a seat when everyone went quiet.

Class would start with you questioning why you're here.

And it would end with you wanting to learn more.

________

When you were "asleep", your body

was usually stiff as a board.

Standing in your designated area while your body shuts down. But lately, you haven't been able to get comfortable.

Why would a puppet like yourself need to get comfortable?

It caused you to shift, to the point of settling on sitting down on a chair.

It was acceptable. For now.

But you kept on waking up with clear pictures in your mind, horrid pictures of burning buildings... An unfinished film hidden in your wiring that had made no sense... You had thought initially that these were human dreams.

But they just kept coming back, more excruciatingly detailed than the last...

It didn't help that they only had gotten worse when Carlo had to stay at the school due to his father not being able to take care of the poor boy...

Yet, he still held hope that he would be there for his son, on his special day.

Even when news about a suspicious murder that happened just weeks ago.. something in your gears telling you to do... The most absurd things.

Like grabbing something... Blunt, and hitting someone over the head.

Morbid thoughts that wanted to break your working wires and rework them into something less...

Human.

You then felt a gentle shake, your eyes slotting open to find the Geppetto boy, clad in his uniform, but what was amiss

Was the usual framed smile that he wore every time he was with you.

Your brows knitted, he looked tired, eyes puffy, red from either crying or lack of sleep.

Or both.

He had come home in the early morning to see you.

"Why are you back this early? You'll get in trouble for leaving your dorm room."

You saw his face sour, not expecting to be scolded.

But felt his frame lax when you pulled him into a hug.

"It's good to see you, Carlo."

"Me too,"

Your name passed his lips lightly, letting go of the hug after a while, warming your body in a way that caused you to melt.

But getting a better look at him, you saw scrapes and cuts littering his cheeks and arms. Suddenly alarmed, you rest your fingers against a gash against the top of his head.

"Carlo, What on earth happened?"

The boy quickly took your fingers in his palm and held it to his chest.

"I'm okay, me and Romeo were just training. Romeo got me good... But I knocked him down too!"

The boys obsession to be a Stalker nearly made you question if they were insane, few bolts loose perhaps?

But it was unfruitful when they hadn't changed their minds on their 18th birthdays. So much has happened, and so little time has gone by.

Carlo had become a young man so quickly that you almost felt left out.

You too, should be in the same age range as the two boys, but something blocked you from truly being grown.

And you knew.

And it hurt so much.

__________

Today was the day, you wore something quiet fitting for a day like this.

A year had passed by extremely quickly, it shocked you.

Walking down to the workshop, you knocked.

A muffled "yes?" Answered. Promptly causing you to enter.

"Mr. Geppetto? It's me. Do you know what today is?"

The man had paused, bringing his glasses up to check the calendar next to the many boxes of puppet parts that were left to be used later.

"Ah. I don't think I do? Please, enlighten me."

"It's your son's graduation from the academy."

The puppet maker winced at the tone you held.

Turning to the clock that hung from the ceiling.

"I... I simply do not have time..."

He finally answered. Lowering his eyes from your burning ones.

"Carlo... Carlo has been looking forward to this...! You can't just NOT go!"

"I need to get this done.. perhaps if I finish quickly, I'll be able to go..."

You stepped forward, fists locking hard against your sides.

"You've said that all your life! Carlo needs this!"

"Watch your tone..."

"HE'S YOUR SON!-"

"QUIET, THAT'S AN ORDER PUPPET."

You felt your jaw automatically lock.

Body stiffening against the restraints... He's... Never given an order to you before.

It felt uncomfortable, unnatural.

But your body stayed planted to the ground, as Geppetto walked towards you, gripped your shoulders and looked you at eye level.

And gave you orders.

"You will go in my place. Be there for him, congratulate him, and tell him that I love him, and that I am proud."

Orders that you must follow.

__________

You sat in the rows of seats, waiting for Carlo's name to be said, congratulating him for his hard work.

Romeo's name was called, looking over, he sees you waving, excitedly waving with a big smile.

You waved as well, yelling congratulations to the blond boy.

Looking behind him, was the familiar fluff of black hair, and icy blues that peaked at the crowd.

He looked around expectantly, smiling first when he locked eyes with you, and feeling his face flush when you screamed a congratulations to him.

But, felt his face fall when seeing the empty seat next to you.

Reserved for the only man he wanted to be there.

You instantly saw how his face formed a small frown, eyes cast down into sadness.

It grinded your gears, almost painfully so. Right where your stomach and heart should've been.

It should've been his father here.

Not you.

__________

After the ceremony, you, Carlo and Romeo stayed past leaving hours.

Sitting down in front of the school, both boys still in their ceremony gowns, caps thrown somewhere in the hall.

Both were in conversation while you just stared point blank at the busy street.

It wasn't until you felt a hand that had been placed on your back

Turning slightly, to see both boys staring at your brooding.

It felt... Consoling.

"I'm sorry that your father didn't come... I tried to convince him, but... It didn't work out."

You sighed, if only you had tried hard enough, broken free from those commands... Maybe, possibly, he could have been here.

Carlo's fingers twitched against your back.

"Don't."

You looked up quickly, seeing Carlo's face shift with anger. Bubbling in his gut was something you've never seen before.

"I wouldn't care if he'd died right here and now. So don't think it was your fault for his damn actions."

Looking back at Romeo, he dug into his shirt, feeling around till he held out a necklace.

Pulling it from his neck, he handed it to the boy next to him.

"Here, Romeo. To break my bonds to him, and to solidify our friendship and my admiration to you, till the very end."

Romeo gently took the relic in his hands, gripping it to his chest and nodding, a look of finality showing past his face.

Carlo finally looked at you, pulling out something from his pocket, it was a ring. Imbued with Ergo, the blue material shaped to look like a cut diamond.

A look of shock graced your face, holding the precious item in your palm.

"I made this... To show how much I care for you. You've been by my side when my father hasn't. And I want you by my side forever more. You were never just a puppet to me,"

He had slipped on the ring for you, watching as the band glided against your ring finger.

Having him hold your hand tightly against his, warm and secure.

"You are my everything."

That made you shortcircuit-

Unable to completely say the words, Romeo just laughed hysterically at the look of your face.

Causing you to leap up and bonk the blond on the head with a closed fist.

"Ow!!! That hurt! You're made of metal!"

Yeah.. you could get used to this.

_________

"I want to see them..!"

Carlo cried, throat dry and burning.

His fingers were completely solid against the hard shell that had encased half of his body already.

His skin turned almost deathly pale from loss of blood circulation and blue blood.

He couldn't move, but that didn't stop him from using his strength on the last bit of voice he still had left.

He called out to both you and Romeo, daily.

Geppetto couldn't see his son like this... In pain both physically and mentally.

When the puppet frenzy had started, you had disappeared.

Out in the dead of night, possibly killing humans, or already dead by the many makes shift weapons that the people of Krat had made themselves.

Carlo, having contracted the petrification disease.

"You can't see them right now son..."

"Why can't I?! They're my.. my.."

Carlo felt something bubble from his lips, spitting out a slurry of blue blood.

Coughing harshly against the tightness against his chest.

The crystals forming around his face surely didn't help either.

Cold, cold was another horrid feeling he felt.

Is this what you felt on a daily basis without the warmth of his hands?

It was unbearable.

"Carlo... Please get some rest."

His father pleated, using a rag to wipe his son's mouth from the putred stuff.

Carlo became deathly quiet, aside from his rugged breathing, he had kept his eyes up and buggy.

Hoping, pleading that you'd come back.

Just like you've always had.

__________

Blood dripped from the crevice of your hands, even getting between the grooves of your ring.

You had only one thing in your mind.

Kill

KILL

Anything that moves, breaths, or twitches, kill it.

But you never remembered finding yourself scaling an entire mansion and breaking open a window that felt so familiar to you.

Your body janked to one side of the room to the next, stumbling blindly, trying to search for anything that you could grasp on.

Your body stopped completely when you heard a groan.

A very tired groan coming from the other side of the room.

Slowly but steady, you reached your hands out, ready to break whatever neck you could feel...

You suddenly felt warm.

"You... You came back.."

You heard your name, come from the weak lips of someone you were close with.

His frighteningly cold hands reached to hold your broken face.

"You... Came back..."

He repeated.

"C̴̀͐ͅǎ̴̯̀͠r̵̡͕͈͚͍͍̼͕̍̀̈́̽̎̍͗̍́̏̚͜͠l̶̬̞͎̖͉̹̝͕̝͖̣̉͆ŏ̸̡̼̺̫̥̻͈̞̍͆̏̓́͜͝ͅ?"

Your voice wasn't the same anymore, voice box crackled with broken wires and flood of oil and Ergo. But he still smiled against his cracked and bloody lips. Reminisce of the Puppet language hard in your voice.

Your fingers were still itching, getting closer to his neck, really wanting to put him out of this painful reality, you fought instead to scoop him up against your arms.

Holding the dying boy you had grown to love.

He felt so heavy against you.. and he only grew heavier when he laid his head against your hard shoulder.

Feeling a long your hand with his, crystal-like fingers staining with the blood against your caked ones.

Feeling the band against your finger.

"You.. are my... everything."

He went deathly silent.

••••••••••••°°°°••••••••••••

This is my first time sharing my writings with Tumbler, hope ya like it ✨

#lies of p x reader #lies of p x you #lies of p #lies of p romeo #x reader #fanfic #geppetto

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sophitia-of-hyrule · 6 months

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Tears of the Kingdom is killing my love for Zelda

BotW promised a bright future, a change to the status quo, only for TotK to throw all of BotW's themes in the trash and go back to the "good old days" of absolute divine right monarchy and sexist writing. Not to mention Ganondorf having zero nuance. Despite his gorgeous design, he's by far the worst Ganondorf personality and motivation-wise. He's such a nothing character. What's the point of giving Ganon his humanoid form back if he barely has more personality than the evil cloud around Hyrule Castle.

Twilight Princess came out almost 20 years ago and it had more active and likable female characters. TotK makes TP look like peak feminism. Why is the latest game in the series so goddamn regressive? Why are we going backwards?

There's barely anything interesting about TotK. It's so shallow and again, incredibly regressive for a game that came out this year.

The more I read interviews and Nintendo statements, the more I realize they don't fucking care. They don't care about giving you a good story that makes sense, or an immersive world, or likable characters. TotK is what happens when you take "gameplay over anything else" to it's extreme.

Sure gameplay is important, but what's the point of playing a game if I'm not immersed into the world? TotK is a huge sandbox, it doesn't feel like a world, it feels like a tech demo. It has the same energy as Yandere Simulator leaving a bunch of weapons right in front of the school gate so the player can go wild. This world doesn't feel alive to me. It's like Nintendo saw people complain about BotW being "empty" and tried to solve that problem by throwing a bunch of shit everywhere with no rhyme or reason.

Sonic Frontiers has it's issues. It really does. It's extremely janky, has some bad level design and the story has a few holes. However, I could feel so much love in the dialogue and the character interactions. It was a love letter to the series and its characters. It felt like a fanfiction, but in a good way. Like a passion project. Sure the game is far, FAR from perfect, but I could tell the people who wrote for it really cared.

I didn't get that feeling playing TotK. It really felt like Nintendo just wanted to flex their new physics engine and stupid fucking building mechanic. They really gave us Zelda Nuts & Bolts and everyone clapped.

What's the point of building shit if the world feels fake and the characters are merely shadows of their former selves? What's the point of making a sequel if you're just going to ignore everything that happened in BotW to "not confuse new players"? What's the point?

I don't fucking care about the building mechanic. That's not why I play Zelda. The story is important to me. The characters are important to me. The worldbuilding is important to me. And Nintendo ignored all of those things.

In my opinion TotK's opening and ending (minus the true ending) are fantastic. But everything in between is a bitter disappointment. Nintendo confirmed the depths took very little time to make because they were auto-generated. Hyrule has barely changed except for the fact that Hateno has a bunch of ugly mushrooms everywhere now. Sky islands are few and far between, and are copy-pasted to an absurd degree. Why the fuck did this game take longer to develop than BotW? There's barely anything new. "BUT THE PHYSICS ENGINE IS INCREDIBLE" "BUT YOU CAN BUILD THINGS" Big fucking whoop. I don't care. I don't play Zelda for the fucking physics.

My boyfriend got mad at me when I said it felt like a cash grab but that's genuinely how I feel.

Edit: TotK confirms that Link bought the house in Hateno village, yet everyone in Hateno acts like they've never met him before?? Bolson doesn't even recognize him despite TotK confirming that not only did Link buy the Hateno house, they went to Hudson's wedding together. Bolson should know who Link is. Who wrote this. Who thought this was okay. Why are people praising this game.

#my post #rant #the legend of zelda #tloz #loz #zelda #tears of the kingdom #totk #tears of the kingdom critical #totk critical #tears of the kingdom criticism #totk criticism

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eoieopda · 1 year

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the one with seokjin, soju, and all the stars in the sky

Requested by Anon: Kim Seokjin got really drunk on a members-night-out, so his fiancée has to pick his cute, clingy ass up. ft. late-night wake-ups, gn!reader, and a lot of feelings about science. A/N: I accidentally deleted the draft associated with this ask, so now it's a separate post. Sorry for the wait, anon!

When Seokjin left for the evening, he'd placed a kiss on your forehead and a new book in your hands.

The novel in question was some obscure, independently published thing Namjoon had recommended. You'd mentioned it to Seokjin in passing — weeks ago — but hadn't had the downtime to seek it out since. Even if you had somehow carved out a moment to scour the local bookshops, you wouldn't have had the spare hours to immerse yourself in it the way you'd want to.

Not enough to meaningfully discuss its themes with Namjoon, anyway.

But Seokjin was Seokjin. He'd made some secret, mental note about what you said; hunted down that old single-edition book; and come up with a reason to spend his Saturday night elsewhere. He and his friends would get dinner and drinks — you'd get an overdue bubble bath and the solitude necessary to study for your unofficial, impromptu, two-member book club.

And that's precisely how you'd spent your night before tucking yourself into bed at the beautifully reasonable hour of half-past nine.

When your phone went off four hours later, you thought you were dreaming. You squinted at the screen for so long, trying to wrap your brain around the contact information blaring into your bleary eyes, that you almost failed to answer.

"Namjoon?" You croaked, throwing an arm over your eyes to hide from the offensive lamp light beaming off your bedside table. "I'm gonna need, like, a liter of coffee before I can wax poetic about the —"

"Hey, noona, it's Namjoon-ah!" He cut you off before you could finish. If the delayed, rhyming introduction didn't tip you off, the snorting, self-inflicted laughter would have.

Kim Namjoon, the designated dad of the friend group, was irrefutably ripped, zipped, and zooted.

You scrubbed your hand over your face in a futile attempt to stop your forming grin in its tracks. "Your picture popping up on my phone told me as much," You chuckled through your exhaustion, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this wake-up call?"

You heard him shout geonbae and gulp down some sort of shot before he provided you with an answer.

"Sojin has entered the chat," He announced with an absurd, deepened voice. Immediately, he cackled, "Get it? It's a portmanteau of soju and Seokjin, who is shitfaced — anyways, can you come get your man?"

It took you five minutes to throw on clothes and shuffle out the door to your car. The drive to the bar took only slightly longer, though it was the traffic lights and not the distance that slowed you down.

Unfortunately, twenty years came and went while you tackled the dreaded, subsequent task: parallel fucking parking.

The stress of it all nearly had you sweating by the time you entered the bar — you'd be hearing all that judgmental honking in your sleep, once you got back to it — but it all evaporated the second you saw Seokjin.

Off in the far corner, he sat on the outer half of a bench. Trapped inside that booth, visibly waiting for the sweet release of death, was Min Yoongi. You couldn't make out the details of that predominantly one-sided conversation, but you could tell by Seokjin's wild gesticulating and pink-tipped ears that he was ranting about something.

Bits and pieces fell into place as you made your away over, but no part of the overheard conversation made much sense to you.

Seokjin hiccupped, "I've said it once and I'll s-say it again —"

"— Hyung, I guarantee you've said it way more than once —" Yoongi attempted to interject, but he was quickly silenced by more of Seokjin's animated hand-waving.

"— Magic. It's magic, Yoongi. I'm tell — I'm telling you, man. There's just — hic — Science is stupid. I don't care about it, you know? And do you want — you wanna know why, Yoongi? Well, I'll t-tell you why —"

As he blinked emphatically at Yoongi, Seokjin must've somehow sensed you across the bar. He stopped dead in the middle of his unsolicited dissertation, wide-eyed with his jaw dropped, and gasped, "Baby!"

Before you could physically brace yourself for impact, he'd launched his clumsy frame out of his seat and collected you in his arms. Within seconds, without time to blink, his warm cheek was smushed against yours. Plush lips fluttered near your ear as he mumbled, "I missed you."

Of course, it'd only been a few hours since he last saw you, but he held you like you'd just returned from years at sea. Breathing deeply and contentedly, likely taking in the scent of your shampoo. Gently clutching the fabric of your jacket in his hands as if you'd float away otherwise. You had no desire whatsoever to burst that perfect, loving bubble, so you simply squeezed him tighter and told him that you'd missed him more.

Over his shoulder, you saw relief wash over Yoongi's face. No longer held hostage, he scooted himself out of the booth and immediately twisted in place to crack his back.

How long had he been stuck in there?

"Thank fuck," Yoongi sighed as he proceeded to crack his neck. He rolled his shoulders while answered the question you were about to ask, "Twenty entire minutes. Barely paused long enough to breathe, so I thought, shit — what if he dies here? I was scared I'd have to spend the rest of my days in this booth."

Seokjin, who still hadn't untangled himself from you, simply giggled. With his cheek remaining flush to yours, you could feel him grinning. He offered nothing whatsoever in his own defense, so Yoongi waved at you and turned to head off towards the restrooms.

You called out after him, prompting him to turn around. "What's so stupid about science?"

Yoongi's mouth stretched into a straight line across the entire bottom half of his face; his eyes narrowed to match. He heaved yet another sigh, gestured languidly to the half-cut fiancée clinging to you like a vest, and smirked, "He's convinced you hung the stars in the sky."

You would've melted into a puddle on the spot, but then Seokjin piped up and promptly shot your unsuspecting, lovestruck heart over the moon instead.

Abruptly changing the subject, he whispered — suddenly serious, as if it was the most important question in the world:

"Did you like the book, baby?"

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spiderh0rse · 2 months

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freeman's mind notes part 3, e11-15.

e11

would derail the alien attack to call about bad chips

"I GUESS I'LL HAVE TO TAKE THE ELEVATOR." pit.

has seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

wants a grappling hook foe swinging/climbing purposes

admits he keeps doing stupid things. Love a man with self awareness

has a passing understanding of spiderman

does Not try to save the guy in the elevator shaft

has seen willy wonka and the chocolate factory

whistling count three

would love to scare people by crashing through the roof

doesn't feel like climbing anymore! Gasp!

willing to touch a possible death laser. Seems only mildly confused when it doesn't hurt

turret bullets are worse than paintballs

breaks alarm clocks

up to 800 problems a minute solvable with dead man's gun

limbo... TWO

Admires the HEV suit construction

his roommate in college used to intrude on his half of the room. Implies he'd have liked to kill him

"hope, love, and submachine guns"

Tarzan yell :> simian instincts yet to subside

finds the turrets redundant

does a silly lil jump on the slippery floor

no longer cares about the donuts

e12

does at least know the origin of zombies

gman sighting.

willing to own an undead servant

though i can't recognize it by sound alone, I can only assume the language he speaks here is Haitian Creole.

wishes he couldn't care about living or dying

Slur count: three.

wants other people to die for him

fully expects the HECU to pin the blame for the murder on the victim

given the way gordon frequently runs his mouth when scared he genuinely does seem scared here. He was all set to have a rescue team, and now he's left hanging. Ground swept out from under him!

rambles about how he definitely isn't going to think about having killed a guy

stresses to the soldiers that he has a DOCTOR'S DEGREE

limbo mention

seems somewhat bothered by murdering people. Only somewhat but he clearly isn't just brushing it off immediately

climbs some stuff :>

delighted to find surface access

ah yeah the law he references about murder being legal in texas under absurd circumstances? No clue about that. Cool though if at all true

e13

plans to get drunk that night. This of course does not happen

implies he gets drunk every night

...you can't tell people you're on their side by killing them, Gordon

"I JUST WANT TO GO HOME" i getcha, buddy

keeps saying inane things when panicking

"Ehhh," nervous lil noise

repeats "fast climb" or "climb fast" until they blur into each other

just wants to LEAVE

detours to kill another bug. With bullets this time.

saga of impact damage continues

first generation morlok... Says he'll hold off on the cannibalism until the vending machines run dry. Cannibalism lose

thinks you really can't have too many guns

bugged by making the proper choices leading to more danger

FHE SYLLABLE COUNT WAS OFF MY MAN KNOWS RHYME SCHEMES. he's so smart. So snark. If you'll excuse me being a little incoherent for fun

fifteen counts of self defense with an automatic weapon. Of course.

accepts he'll have to get a new job

wants cheetos :'(

he HATES daylight savings time. It's employed by The Man.

expects to be polygraphed at another company

wouldn't mind being a corporate spy and selling out Black Mesa

wants to retire early

oh dude don't pay any mind to freud

string theory crowd includes one Steve and Richard, who may or may not be sacrificing goats, possibly for use in their cookouts. String theory crowd are cultists.

Steve and Richard have called the cops on Gordon. Rude. Probably warranted.

would LOVE to scare people in their offices from the vents. Especially to get the office for himself.

e14

gives up on dying in a hole to get food. this seems to be the only reason he leaves, because he'd get hungry. Is. Is he okay

considers putting an alligator in the air ducts

does NOT like the accusation that he's responsible for the mess

lead can't lie to you

"do you know if leptons are really compound particles?" They are Not! It's a very nerdy way of saying "No!"

"beep" as he presses a button

apologizes repeatedly to some guy he almost shoots

wants to own a water park but considers this far-fetched enough to require a wish

more guns = higher qol

cthulu dogssss makes me wanna pet em

yes the coverup is impractical that's correct. It's happening anyways

"beep beep beep" :)

likes the red lights telling him of the doom ahead

hums AGAIN. first reminds me of a shitty imperial march

he wants to build a house, have a fast elevator, servants.

happy to have a vehicle

doesn't WANT to be fighting nonstop

keeps repeating the alarm beeps

shocked at the giant radioactive PUDDLE i love to launch myself into in game

does seem unconcerned at the thought of going to the doctor. Just resigned.

e15

worst case scenario brain cancer. Cancer mentions up to two

cthulu dogs now named SNOT MONSTER

ticks off all the near death experiences he's had today. clearly thinking about em

contemplates that the spill from the trams is the same one as with the giant tubes

slaps himself TWICE. SIR.

always wished he could ride pneumatic tubes everywhere

he is a gopher! :D

doesn't think dog catchers get given shotguns. They have to bring their own.

would like to prank call a dog catcher with a SNOT MONSTER. and tape the results

knows better than to get bit by a radioactive animal

further analysis and hate on spiderman science

hates awkward pauses

laughs at sending houndeyes flying with shotgun blasts

physics still has priority over shooting stuff

doesn't want to join the military for Two (2) reasons. They'd order him around. They'd make him shave his beard.

"COMBO PLATTER" goof.

very good at hide and seek.

has never tried or wanted to kill the president

wasnt worried about missing a jump, but the catwalk collapsing as he hit it

doesn't know Morse code. Loser.

noise music hater. Incorrect.

grossed out by meat yet again

buddy your grenade won't do shit here

"that's not a rope" sick hlvra- (shot dead)

soooooooo irritated at his blood shell

wants earplugs

#freeman's mind #gordon freemind #mindverse #rmanotes

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shadow3142 · 2 years

Note

[Level 1] 6 for adam, viv, general; 9 for jessie and general; [Level 2] 12 for adam, jessie, and sam; [Level 4] 13, 25, 27 for sam; [Level 5] 10 for sam and viv

[and pick and choose if that's too many, you know the drill. have fun]

Sorry this took so long I forgot I had this in my drafts oops

6. Living situation; where do they live? How did they end up there?

Adam lives in a more suburban area of the city (Think like, Queens in NY), so it's not as compact as an apartment city but it's still not terribly spacious. It goes between messy and clean depending on his mood and Splog's playfulness. Most of the time, however, he keeps it in relatively good shape.

Vivian shared a somewhat small apartment near Inkopolis Square with Jeb. She moved in with him initially after he found her alone on a mission. I actually have a mock up that I did of it:

I also say 'Shared' because the above picture is of their Apartment in Inkopolis. However, between the end of the main story and Splatoon 3, the pair end up moving into Splatsville. I don't have much on that apartment yet, though.

General lives in a simple studio apartment around Inkopolis Plaza. He at one point shared it with his brother, but he doesn't any longer. Like Jeb and Vivian, he also ends up moving to Splatsville.

12. How do they sleep? How much do they usually need to sleep?

For Adam, his sleep schedule is. Not good. He typically sleeps very lightly and will wake at the slightest of things and wake up at absurd hours, which is a learned behavior from being on the field so often. In the other direction, however, get him in a place where he feels especially safe and comfortable and the man will sleep like a rock.

Jessie is probably one of the rare few people in my cast with a decent sleep schedule. Goes to bed at a reasonable time, sleeps well, wakes up at a nice time, and so on. It's impossible to wake her from a dead sleep though.

Sam is a very light sleeper. Growing up alone in the desert, she’s kind of learned to wake up at the slightest of sounds. It makes her impossible to sneak up on in many situations, so any of those whip cream pranks will not work on her.

13. What kind of morals do they follow and where did they learn them?

I think Sam is like, in between being morally good and morally grey. I’d probably call them a neutral good. She’s adopted a very lone wolf every-man-for-themselves outlook having grown up surviving off of the morsels of money she made from hunting and selling scrap metal. She’s outwardly very cold and isolationist, but I think there’s definitely a part of her that has this instinctual kick to do good and help people. That’s probably that ‘spark’ Cuttlefish is referring to when he sees her---He can tell she has that itch to help others, but she just hasn’t had much of an outlet for it.

25. Are they more or less empathetic than average?

Frankly, I think Sam is more sympathetic than she is empathetic. She doesn’t like seeing people in bad situations, but I don’t think she’s very good at putting herself in their shoes and looking at it from their perspective. I feel like she’d almost have this outlook that nobody can ever really know what someone else is seeing. Nobody will ever truly understand her, nor will she ever truly understand others.

27. Do they believe in supernatural or spiritual things?

Sam does not strike me as superstitious or religious in any way. I think she’s one of those types of people who believes that things are just the way they are with no exact rhyme or reason to it.

10. Do they respect other people as a given? Does their respect have to be earned?

Both Sam and Vivian have come to a similar conclusion on respect as a result of different upbringings. For both of them, you have to earn their respect, unless you’re somebody of high standing (I.e. A certain Splatoon Captain). I think Sam may stray from that in some regard however, as she’s much more distrusting of others from living on her own surrounded by scoundrels and other back-stabbing scrap hunters like herself. Vivian, on the other hand, gets her views on respect from her militaristic upbringing, though since learning to live on the surface and letting her tense mind relax a bit, she’s not as uptight as she used to be.

#ask #splatoon #OC: Adam #OC: Sam #OC: Vivian #OC: Jessie #OC: General #post

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tyrantisterror · 3 years

Text

The ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest 3-D: Entry Roundup

You’ve been patiently waiting for the results of the ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest 3-D, and now... you have to wait a bit longer, but at least you’ve got an entry roundup with lots of sketches and a good bit of feedback for all the entrants! My goal is to get the finalists illustrated in a week or two, and after that, the grand prize winner will be announced. But, for now, the official entry roundup! After the cut:

I should note that while I sketched these in the order they were submitted, my scanner saved the documents with random names, so they’re a bit jumbled. You know, just in case you’re like me and would get confused noticing that it’s almost in chronological order but with some entries jumbled around.

@bugcthulhu’s Obsideban was designed as a counterpart to Rohobaron - the Black King to Rohobaron’s Red King, if you will. Or, well, Black Queen in this case, as Obsideban also takes her personality from the “delinquent girl” archetype in Japanese media. Bug’s designs always ooze personality, and I had a lot of fun translating this big, gnarly retrosaur into my own style.

@toothlessloveshiccup‘s Argonox is the first - but far from the last - monster in this breakdown that brings in a bit of fantasy influence to ATOM’s roster. A golden-fleeced ram with a vicious streak, this sheep is both treasure and dragon at once. And while it wasn’t written in the monster’s profile, given the Yamaneon-rich nature of its wool, Argonox might be able to replicate the healing power of the golden fleece too! A very fun mammalian kaiju and excellent entry.

@highly-radioactive-nerd submitted Gunmetal Jeeves, a robot butler who can gigantomax temporarily create a holographic/hard light version of himself to fight kaiju. That detail was a late revision added to the entry before the contest’s deadline, made after the creator realized that ATOM allows for some truly ludicrous bullshit, which is something everyone should exploit when making entries for this in my opinion. Also, this is a robot butler who can size shift. Revel in its awesome absurdity!

Ultranerd submitted Rajasaurus, a dimetrodon-like synapsid kaiju with electric powers. His origin specifies that the electric powers are a result of the volatile nature of the Yamaneon deposits he mutated under, which is an interesting idea. That’s another theme that cropped up a lot in this contest’s entries, actually - people really wanted to play with what Yamaneon can do.

Case in point, @polygonfighter’s Yamaneolith takes the Monolith Monsters homage at the heart of Yamaneon even more apparent. I like the implication that there is a second mineral-based lifeform at the root of this Yamaneon cluster’s anomalous behavior - a parasite, perhaps? It brings up some interesting possibilities.

@ariccio50 submitted Kukulkuzana, and damn is this a cool spin on the body plan of my martians. I made a few changes here and there (splitting its tail into two is probably the biggest one), but tried to keep true to the original design, because holy hell is it gorgeous. The idea that this is a mountain-dwelling creature is really intriguing to me, as it looks like a sea creature, but at the same time, that flexible and low-slung build WOULD work pretty well in mountains, and it’s just the right mix of plausible weirdness that makes for a fun alien design.

@akitymh submitted Aramzados, a Venusian monster that’s basically an organic hot rod car. I like the idea of organic machinery being the gimmick for Venusian kaiju, and Aramzado’s does it subtly enough to not feel like that gimmick is the sole thing going for it. I especially love this monster’s stange, apparently mouth-less blade-beaked face.

@virovac submitted Rurzar and Zar Rider, a Beyonder kaiju and mecha (respecitvely) that were both modified and repurposed by humans reverse engineering Beyonder technology to make, like, a motorcycle-saurus essentially. It is a delightfully absurd concept, and a very, very detailed one (13 pages of description). There’s a dark undercurrent beneath the sillyness, though, as this pair show that humanity might still be following the same path as the Beyonders before them.

@dinosaurana brings us Krangor, a humanoid monstrosity of living kelp! The goal here was to create a Jack Kirby-esque monster dude, complete with the gibberish name and all. He’s also made out of kelp, which feels very classic 1950′s monster-y despite me not being able to think of any monsters that were explicitly made of kelp. I love him.

@kiryuthechimera submitted Genkakurah, a psychic retrosaur with some draconic features. Though his substantial powerset is probably the biggest distinguishing feature of this kaiju (given that most ATOM kaiju pretty much have the same standard powers), what really draws me to him is that reptilian pseudo-beard. It’s just a fun detail!

@glarnboudin submits Tiratola, and see, there’s that fantasy influence again! Even more explicitly dragon-y than Kraydi, Tiratola still manages to toe the line between sci-fi and fantasy enough to fit ATOM as is while still cementing its ties to my own slice of fantasy fiction. Man it’s good I’m doing a Midgaheim book next, huh?

@dragonzzilla submitted Scuttlebutt/Argonautilus, a hermit crab kaiju who lives in/with a hollowed out mecha. That’s a twist I can’t recall ever hearing before, and the idea of a kaiju and a mecha having an equal partnership that doesn’t involve one being grafted to the other is really intriguing to me. A very unique concept!

@evolutionsvoid submitted Fleagor, an enormous flea who has no idea what to do with itself now that there’s no creature large enough for it to parasitize. I love that concept - it takes the core idea of the giant bug kaiju archetype (i.e. unsettling the audience by showing how terrifying small, “insignificant” creatures would be if our sizes were reversed) and really turns it on its head. The name also plays on the Universal Monsters, who were a huge part of 1950′s pop culture thanks to their movies being re-released in that era, so all and all this one is very on brand for ATOM!

@skarmorysilver submitted Lilacorn, another entry that plays up that Midgaheim/ATOM connection. Reinterpreting the mythological unicorn as an Cenozoic wooly rhinoceros-inspired monster gives it a very unique look, both in ATOM and in the general world of unicorns, and she has a bad-girl with a heart of gold personality to boot!

dracosaurus-rex submitted Florasaura, a two-headed plant/retrosaur hybrid monster. I love me some plant monsters, I love me some retrosaurs, and I love me some rhyming the word “flora” with other words that contain similar vowell sounds, so this one has me written all over it!

@downtofragglerock submitted Sauroguana, a delightfully odd flying retrosaur. There’s a great deal of charm to the original illustration that this sketch doesn’t quite capture - it’s a deceptively simple design with a lot of personality in it, and with those unique leg-wings it really doesn’t need a whole lot of frills to stand out.

Draxi submitted Brakan, an unimpressive burrowing retrosaur kaiju whose mastery of illusions allows it to convince other kaiju it’s actually a big, super-powerful badass that’s the ultimate fighter in the universe. It’s a delightful parody of the concept of a fan self-insert god-mode character, with a really fun story built into it to boot!

@quinnred submitted O.N.I.A.C., a mysterious cocooned kaiju whose chrysalis has been turned into an organic computer of sorts by the people studying it, and seems to possess a fairly advanced intelligence for a kaiju. It’s a really bizarre and ominous idea, with built in intrigue given how vague its nature is. Is it just a kaijufied butterfly/moth who got stuck mid transformation? A relative of the Mothmanuds? Something else, perhaps equally alien? Good story potential here.

shadyserpent submitted Vespilitor, a bat/retrosaur hybrid made by the nefarious Spooks Organization. A mercurial prankster whose tendency to stir up trouble never crosses the line into maliciousness, he’s the kind of monster who would make a great foil to a lot of ATOM’s cast. I’d especially like to see him in a prank off with Ahuul - it’d be like Bugs Bunny fighting Daffy Duck, but on a kaiju scale.

@multiversefan submitted the Yamaneon King, a nomadic kaiju whose refusal to settle down causes problems as he stirs up trouble at kaiju sanctuaries all over the globe by showing up unannounced and stirring up the locals. He was basically designed to be a monster that the kaiju sanctuary initiative would struggle to deal with, which is a good idea for a post-ATOM Volume 2 story conflict.

Sir K submitted Jadeera, a kirin kaiju that can actually forcibly convert most of its body to Yamaneon to enter a dormant, statue-like state in a loose homage to King Shisa. Though the fantasy elements are far more present than I usually prefer for ATOM kaiju, I think it should be noted they’re pushed that far for a purpose - a theme in Jadeera’s entry, which continues where its creator left off with their submission to the previous ATOM create a kaiju contest (Yokaigon), is that the world of kaiju is more complicated and challenging than many are willing to accept, which is a theme in ATOM itself. Yokaigon’s more supernatural/occult powers are based on the ghost parascience of my setting, which ATOM has delved into a bit (Pathogen being the big example), so it’s not as out of left field as some might think.

@cerothenull brings us our final entry (unless some got lost thanks to tumblr’s shitty tagging system), the flying spider Naeranti. She’s a kaiju spider who uses silk to make complicate hot-air balloons, more or less, and that’s just delightful. ATOM could always use more spider-monsters, and with a really unique gimmick backing up a wonderfully distinct look, Naeranti is sure to stand out among her fellow giant arachnids.

Well, that’s the roundup! In a week (or two, depending on how much my hand cramps) we’ll have the five finalists, and sometime after that, the grand prize winner!

#The Atomic Time of Monsters #The ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest 3D

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drowningbydegrees · 3 years

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This prompt from the Music Prompt List wouldn’t leave me alone, so have Geralt being awkwardly kind of fluffy. <3

incidental music background music for a play, movie or television show. It sets the mood and illustrates the action for a play~unnoticed

Read on AO3

Does anyone ever mean to fall in love? Geralt doesn’t. It doesn’t happen like the ballads say, with flowers, and sonnets, and grand gestures. It happens in the in between, the quiet moments that Jaskier’s songs never touch on. Love creeps like a vine on a building, sneaking in and sprawling out so slowly that by the time it covers the wall, you can’t remember a time before it was there anymore.

It starts, at least, in things that make sense. It’s a lopsided little smile Jaskier gifts him with when he catches Geralt listening to him play. It’s the soft hum on the other side of the campfire one night when Jaskier knows Geralt can’t sleep. It’s warm hands patching up Geralt’s torn shoulder with a tenderness he doesn’t really require.

But then the feeling strays so unfairly, into the ridiculous and sometimes thoroughly obnoxious. It’s Jaskier looking hopelessly disheveled, his hair sticking up in strange directions from a hand absently run through it, a splotch of ink on his cheek where he tapped his quill against it, deep in thought. It’s listening to him complain off and on for two miles because he can’t think of a rhyme for bloedzuiger. It’s coming back late from a contract to find Jaskier has fallen asleep curled up in the entirety of the bedding in their room. These aren’t precisely lovable things. They’re messy, irritating even. And yet. And yet. And yet...

For so long, Geralt does not think they are things he loves. They’re just things that are, like the din of conversation at an inn. They’re the suggestion of something distant in a painting, smudges devoid of details that exist all the same.

***

Much like affection, winter sort of ambushes Geralt. Rich green foliage goes red and gold until all the world is ablaze. It’s beautiful in the way that these fleeting moments so often are, a riot of color that withers away even more abruptly than it arrived. There’s a chill in the air that promises snow will soon cover the dead leaves crunching under their feet, a sign Geralt can no longer ignore.

It doesn’t matter. They flit in and out of each other’s lives all the time, and already Jaskier has traveled with him almost nonstop since the spring. Geralt most certainly doesn’t need the company. To go their separate ways is as reasonable in this moment as it has been every other time they’ve done it over the last decade. Somehow this time it leaves Geralt feeling inexplicably hollow.

Geralt has always been at home with silence. It’s a quality that lends itself well to the life of a witcher, this ability to find peace instead of loneliness in the quiet of his own company. But they spend that night in their room’s single bed and Geralt lies awake wondering when the warm press of Jaskier’s face tucked against his neck became such a welcome thing, when his fingers tangling in the bard’s hair got to be so instinctive. When did Jaskier get to be so wrapped up in his life as to leave Geralt dreading the absence?

None of that chases away the sunrise, or the silence that promises to follow in its wake. They break apart the way they always do when their plans take them in different directions. Could be a week, a month, a year even. They’ve done it a hundred times, and they do not belong to one another, so Geralt doesn’t know what to make of the unexpected urge to look back.

He lets the Path carry him away as it always does, and it’s fine, really. A day passes, and then another, and a third. At this pace he’ll easily reach Kaer Morhen before the snow really starts in. It’s fine, as it should be… except when it’s not.

There’s no familiar face smiling at him from the other side of their fire. There’s no strumming of lute strings. There’s no endless, exhausting conversation. What he’s faced with now is everything his life was ordained to be, everything Geralt has been used to for decades, and yet this time it feels all wrong.

Maybe he’s always been lonely, but it’s the first time Geralt recognizes the feeling for what it is. Loneliness is a stone’s throw away from grief, and this is grieving in some strange, subdued way. It’s a hole in the shape of another person’s life and for a strange, fleeting second, he lets himself wonder if he ought to have gone to Oxenfurt with Jaskier.

That’s an absurd thought. He always goes to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier nearly always goes to Oxenfurt, and they’ve never broached the idea of any alternative arrangement. It’s only a few months, probably. Maybe. They always find each other again eventually don’t they?

Geralt sets out for Oxenfurt before the sun comes up.

***

He does not know, Geralt realizes, what Jaskier does in the cold months where they part ways. He knows the bard teaches when he's not entertaining in some court or another, but that's a sorry excuse for an answer. It's as paltry as it would be to sum up Jaskier's life in Geralt's company with the performances he gives in inns along their way. Both of these things are true, but neither of them are whole.

Does he sit in crowded spaces to soak up the atmosphere? Does he luxuriate in having a place that is his own and a roof over his head for a few months? Geralt has no idea, but he wants to.

Oxenfurt turns out to be less straightforward than he had hoped. He tries the college first where a young woman waxes poetic about the bard until Geralt finally manages to interrupt long enough to ask what classroom he’d be in.

“None today, I’m afraid. He’s probably- Oh, you must be the witcher.” The words hold an unexpected warmth. He’s not sure what to make of it, but before Geralt knows it, she’s rattling off Jaskier’s address.

The house is lovely from the outside. A gabled roof sits atop the gray stone exterior, not nearly so ostentatious as Geralt might have expected. It’s also further off the beaten path than he’d anticipated from someone so keen on being the life of the party.

But Geralt doesn’t even get as far as knocking before one of Jaskier’s neighbors spots him, a smartly dressed academic of some sort. “I doubt the professor is home yet.”

It’s so strange to hear anyone call Jaskier that, an uncomfortable reminder that the bard has a whole life beyond the time he spends with Geralt that the witcher doesn’t know about. Likely because it’s never occurred to him to ask, but Geralt finds himself sorely wishing he had now. “Where would I find him?”

“Are you a friend of his?” The man’s eyes narrow a little like he’s waiting for Geralt to slip up and give himself away as a thief or something.

“I’m his…” Geralt sighs. “Yeah.”

“The witcher, then.” The neighbor smiles in that absent, polite way that villagers tend to smile at passersby. It’s not a response that usually applies to him. Geralt has no idea what to make of the shift in demeanor, but the man does point down the road. “There’s an inn down that way. I’d check there this time of day.”

“Right...” It just figures, even in his absence Jaskier manages to be exhausting.

There’s a creak of hinges on Geralt’s left, and the neighbor smiles and waves. “I guess he’s home after all.”

Not entirely exhausting, then. Geralt forces his expression to remain neutral. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier lights up when he meets Geralt’s eye like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s such a tiny, inconsequential thing, but wonderfully, terribly, the world feels like it’s slid back into its proper place. The warmth that takes up residence behind Geralt’s breastbone is just further confirmation of the ruin he’s courting.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you… don’t you have some witchery thing to run off to? It may shock you to know, but the Kaedwani mountains are that way.” As Jaskier ushers Geralt inside, he points in… well, it’s definitely a direction.

“No.” Geralt shakes his head. What a pair they make, the both of them completely ridiculous.

“No what? And will you please sit down already?” Jaskier clears some of his papers away, as if what’s on the side table has any bearing at all on Geralt’s ability to sit in the armchair beside it.

Too restless to actually sit down, Geralt leans against the doorframe as he takes in Jaskier’s slightly ruffled appearance. There’s no doublet. Just trousers and a chemise rolled up to his elbows. It shouldn’t be so hard to look away, and yet he has to force himself. “The mountains are that way.”

Jaskier follows the length of Geralt’s arm where it’s pointed north. He purses his lips as he turns back to the witcher. “Okay fine. I got a bit turned around, but nevermind that. They are… wherever they are, but you are here. Why?”

Fuck. Geralt had been so focused on the coming back and finding Jaskier, there wasn’t much consideration to what reason he’d give when he got here. What can he possibly say? That it was too quiet without his endless chatter? That Geralt’s world was somehow less for Jaskier’s absence. It’s too vulnerable, so he gruffly replies, “Didn’t think I could beat the snow.”

“I see.” There’s a sweet, uneven quirk to Jaskier’s lips. The minute Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes he knows he’s been found out to some extent, but Jaskier responds in the least Jaskier-like way he’s ever seen. There’s no gloating, no teasing. Jaskier doesn’t even acknowledge that they both know he’s lying through his teeth. Most strangely of all, he’s quiet. “Well, it snows here too. You’ll probably want to think about taking a break somewhere until the weather clears up.”

Right. He hadn’t quite gotten that far either. On the road together, it’s just a given that they’ll share a room, but that’s quite a bit different from inviting himself into a space that is Jaskier’s. Not willing to admit that he’d sort of hoped to go back to the normalcy of that, Geralt sticks to answering vaguely. “I’m sorted out.”

“Are you? Because I thought you might just stay with me.” He’s seen this a thousand times. Jaskier has a knack for offering things the other person is too proud or afraid to ask for for themselves. It’s just Geralt usually isn’t the one subjected to that particular talent. “Unless I’ve got this all wrong and you didn’t come back because you missed me. Well, no. You could stay with me either way. It’s just that the appeal probably isn’t the same.”

“I could do that.” Geralt replies quickly to the offer while making every effort to sidestep Jaskier’s more dangerous insinuation. It’s kind of Jaskier to tolerate this thing Geralt can’t quite get to settle, but the witcher harbors no illusions that it’s anything more than tolerance. He tries for nonchalant and has no idea if he succeeds, but Jaskier’s lopsided smile suggests that no, he really doesn’t.

“Perfect.” Jaskier offers Geralt a hand. “Let me show you around.”

***

“Well, I guess there’s no backing out now,” Jaskier says as Geralt walks him to class. Well, no. That’s definitely not what this is. It’s just that he had an errand to run, and the college is in the same direction, so not walking together would be weird and awkward.

“What?” Geralt’s brows knit in confusion, and he watches Jaskier try to catch a snowflake on his tongue as if that will somehow give him the answer.

Jaskier smiles at Geralt, a little toothy. It’s the kind that makes Geralt feel pinned like a butterfly to a board. “It’s snowing.”

Oh right. He had said that. He knows Jaskier hadn’t bought the excuse when Geralt turned up, but the bard hasn’t said anything about it since. It was probably foolish to think that meant he’d gotten away with it. There’s nothing he can that won’t give himself away further, so Geralt opts not to say anything at all. That, at least, is normal.

And for a little while, it seems like it works. Jaskier prattles on about the weather and how beautiful Oxenfurt is at night when it’s snowy and the moon is out, and Geralt just immerses himself in the comfort of how normal this is.

At least until it’s not. The silence that falls between them is abrupt, and draws out so long that Geralt looks over at Jaskier. It’s a terrible mistake though, because Jaskier is looking right back, entirely too expectant. “Sooooooooooo. Are we going to talk about this?”

The question is oddly free of dramatics, but it doesn’t make the subject matter any less terrifying. Clinging to whatever balance they’d found since he got here, Geralt insists, “Nothing to talk about.”

“Okay.” For a second, Jaskier is quiet. His expression is thoughtful, teeth dragging enticingly along his bottom lip. “But just… It sort of seems like there is.”

He could maybe leave, say he forgot something at the house. Jaskier would probably even let him go, but they’d both know it for the retreat that it is, so Geralt doubles down. “There isn’t.”

Geralt doesn’t really know when he learned to recognize Jaskier’s ‘you are being exceedingly difficult right now’ face, but he knows the tightness at the corners of the bard’s eyes and the flat line his mouth pulls into. Yet, there’s no mockery or sign of irritation when Jaskier insists on pressing the issue. “Alright, but see there’s this one thing. Here’s what I know about you on account of traveling with you for a decade. You are generally consistent and you have never once in the entire time I’ve known you passed up an opportunity to tell me when I was wrong, or to poke fun.”

Geralt knows exactly where this is going, but arguing such an obvious truth would just bolster Jaskier’s point, he thinks. Silence isn’t really better, but it’s what Geralt sticks to as Jaskier keeps talking.” So, when you don’t tell me I’m wrong to assume you came back because you missed me… It’s hard not to assume that you came back for more than just a roof over your head.”

“What do you want me to say?” Geralt replies irritably, because if this is Jaskier’s idea of softening a rejection, it’s not helping. If he’s lucky, Jaskier will just laugh it off and Geralt will swallow everything back down, and they can move on to something less embarrassing.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier is biting his lip again, and despite the nervous tumult in his stomach, Geralt has never so badly wanted to kiss anyone in his life. “I just want you to say what’s true.”

What’s true. For the first time since they set out, Geralt pays attention to what’s there beside him. Jaskier’s heartbeat has picked up somewhere along the way, and when Geralt looks over, the bard’s cheeks are flushed from more than just the cold.

What’s true is that there are a thousand ways to tell a person you love them. Sometimes it’s a fond smile or a gentle touch or… oh. Geralt swallows and does not look at Jaskier anymore as he says, “Life is… quiet when you’re not in it.”

He knows that self-deprecating laugh he gets from Jaskier and regrets being the one to cause it. “I thought you preferred the quiet.”

“Me too.” It’s hardly more than a whisper. “But it’s not the right kind of quiet.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means,” Jaskier says and Geralt sort of hates that he’s the one struggling to say what he means and yet Jaskier is the one being apologetic over it.

“It’s like… fuck. I don’t know. When you think about the woods being quiet, it doesn’t mean silence. You still hear the wind and the birds and all that, but it belongs there, so it’s not noise.” Somehow, this doesn’t feel like what he meant to be saying at all either, but he’s committed to this ill advised analogy, so that’s a thing. “If those things stop, it’s not a good kind of quiet. It just means something’s wrong.”

“Geralt. Are you suggesting my company provides some sort of ambiance to your travels?” Jaskier’s eyes light up with some sort of mischief and Geralt scowls because he can’t decide if he’s being encouraged or teased.

Actually, Geralt supposes that is what he’s suggesting, but it doesn’t feel like a clear enough conveyance of what he means. Geralt might not need words, but Jaskier does. Sometimes ‘I love you’ is digging up the courage to admit, “The world around me feels wrong when you’re not in it.”

“So your solution was to drop the routine you’ve kept to for, actually I don’t even know how long to come back to me?”

“Obviously not. I-” With no small amount of horror, Geralt realizes that’s actually exactly what he’s done. He’s honestly very relieved that it’s still quite early and the streets are still largely empty, because Jaskier stops in the middle of the street and the witcher strongly suspects he’s about to make a very embarrassing scene. “Is that a problem?”

“Why would it be a problem? It’s absurdly romantic. I didn’t even know you were capable of that.” Sure enough, Jaskier is suddenly very close, a hand lifting to cradle Geralt’s cheek. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but he signals his intent, giving the witcher plenty of time to pull away. As if he possibly could.

Geralt’s throat is suddenly dry, and when he finally manages to say something, it’s quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you came all this way to get back to me.” Jaskier presses his forehead to Geralt’s. “I figured I could meet you partway.”

Geralt isn’t actually sure which of them closes the last couple of inches between his mouth and Jaskier’s. It’s just warm, liking what he imagines coming home would be like. Jaskier’s arms wind around Geralt’s back between his shirt and his cloak, and Geralt’s fingers tangle in Jaskier’s hair, and actually it turns out that he doesn’t care in the slightest if they’re making a scene.

Everything runs a little bit together after that. There is only the solid presence of Jaskier pressed against him and the snow coming down around them in fat, fluffy flakes that are just beginning to stick to the ground. Distantly, he thinks maybe they could just go home. It’s not as if there’s any reason to be out in the cold, except… With a disappointed groan, Geralt mumbles between kisses. “Don’t you have class?”

“Class… oh bollocks.” Jaskier pulls back, flushed and glassy eyed and Geralt wants nothing more than to pull him right back in. But there will be time for that later and the flustered way Jaskier stumbles back and looks around like he’s only just remembered they’re in public is terribly endearing. “Yes, well just… we’ll come back to this.”

Geralt laughs with unexpected ease at Jaskier’s reluctant efforts to get moving again. It’s another minute or two before Geralt remembers the one other thing that keeps crossing his mind. “When I was trying to track you down, people knew who I was.”

Jaskier’s mouth turns up, and it’s clear from the sheepish way he ducks his head that he hears the question Geralt isn’t asking. “You’re not the only one who prefers life when we’re both in it together.”

“You talk about me?” And sure, Jaskier talks about him all the time in songs and stories, but this is different.

Jaskier shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything, but they both know better. “It’s what I get to hold onto, what I get to keep when you’re not here.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Their fingers thread between each other’s and Jaskier hums the song he’s been working on. Geralt allows himself the faintest of smiles. Sometimes, love is choosing to share your existence with someone else and taking unexpected refuge in the background noise.

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #my fic #pining #and fluff

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

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prompt: “jaskier kinda letting it slip that he was some super low self worth? i kinda got that vibe from him. maybe he’s drunk or delirious or something and geralts kinda confused on what to do but Tries His Best. thank u in advance :p”

Wow, my heart.

There’s relief that coats Jaskier’s eyes like a rising sun that’s fought against a long night when he and Geralt step out of a dense forest to see a small village framing the edge of the woods, and Geralt finds his eyes wandering to Jaskier’s through the bard’s soft profile. A hint of a smile creeps at his lips, not even close to holding a candle to Jaskier’s wide, toothy grin, but enough for him to mirror Jaskier’s mood, if even just a fraction.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes out, whipping a beaming gaze toward the Witcher. “Do you know what this means?”

“You’ll stop complaining about how the ground isn’t meant to be slept on by such a delicate ass?”

“No, that’s-- I never said my ass was delicate!” Jaskier’s shift in tone, from glee to exaggerated annoyance, brings out a huff of a laugh from Geralt.

“You’re absurd, Geralt, you know that?”

Geralt tilts his head, eyes narrow and slightly devious, and he doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s cheeks grow impossibly red.

“This means,” Jaskier stresses, drawing out his words as he waves his hands toward the village. “We, my friend, can partake in the finest ale this world has to offer!”

“The finest ale,” Geralt repeats slowly. He hardly thinks this small, quaint village will house ale to exceed worldly expectations, but Jaskier’s excitement has him following the bard into the tavern, stopping briefly to tie Roach to a post by the local in and ensure she’s comfortable.

The tavern is lively when he makes it in, and Jaskier already has a large mug of ice cold ale at his table. It’s half empty, and Jaskier’s strumming loudly on his lute. Geralt nods toward the bar keep, and a moment later, he has his own mug of ale. It’s bitter, cold on his lips but hot in his chest, and he can’t help but sigh deeply around the rim of the mug.

“Oi, bard, what new adventures do you have to share of the old Witcher?”

Jaskier takes a long swing of his ale, and Geralt cocks a brow his way when the bard locks wide eyes to his tired ones.

“Geralt,” Jaskier slurs out loudly, and Geralt takes brief, mental note to Jaskier’s incredibly low tolerance to alcohol.

“Geralt of Rivia! Can I tell them about the fleders? I want to tell them about the fleders!”

Geralt only grunts in response. It’s hardly an exciting story, but Jaskier will put his fib of a spin on it. He offers a curt nod, taking another swig of his ale, and Jaskier leaps from his seat.

“Fly, fleders, fly,” Jaskier sings. “Fly high, and try, but you cannot hide from the Witcher’s eye!”

Geralt thinks back to that day, and his heart beat quickens, for just a single, brief moment. There’s so much in this world that could crush the lively bard, and he doesn’t... he won’t... Sighing, he takes another sip of his ale, watching with an arched brow as the bar keep places another at Jaskier’s table.

“The sword he swings is broad and steel, designed by magic, designed to kill!”

Geralt spends longer than he would like to admit considering how “steel” and “kill” don’t particularly rhyme, and he can’t quite grasp how Jaskier can make it work, but the bard does, effortlessly, even in his apparent drunken state, and Geralt drops his chin into his palm, denying another ale in favor of keeping a clear mind as Jaskier drifts down a sea of alcohol.

For two hours, Jaskier drinks and sings, and the tavern eats him up like fresh, warm bread that’s just been pulled from a wood stove. Geralt keeps a careful eye on each, drunken civilian, and twice, he stiffens in his seat when a man and a woman get too close for comfort to the drunk bard.

“Jaskier,” he finally interrupts after a third man makes an unsettling pass at the bard. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier draws out the name, emphasizing ever consonant despite the general slur of his tone. “I’m just getting started--”

“--you’re done,” Geralt repeats, and maybe it’s malicious, but he puts an orderly sense of power behind his tone that has Jaskier nodding with a dramatic frown.

“Well,” Jaskier shouts, waving his arms about and craning his neck toward everyone as Geralt shoves him out with a hand on his back. “I bid you all a fond farewell!”

Rain has picked up when the two exit the tavern, and Jaskier takes three steps before he trips over his own feet. Geralt tries to reach him in time, but he’s a hair too slow. Jaskier lands face first into a puddle of mud, and Geralt’s at his side in an instant, chasing the flick of concern that nudges at his heart.

“Jaskier, are you...”

His words fall flat at Jaskier’s loud, drunken laughter that rings out across the quiet town.

“How clumsy of me!”

Geralt grunts, sighing deeply as he yanks Jaskier to his feet, pulling him into the inn. He pays more for a room with a tub, wishing to combat Jaskier’s poor mood that will come with morning while the bard is still too far gone on eight mugs of ale.

The inn keeper prepares the bath when Geralt slides a few extra coins her way, and soon enough he’s nudging Jaskier into their shared room for the night.

“Get in,” he tells Jaskier, and Jaskier shouts, face going impossibly red.

“Geralt of Rivia! Turn yourself around while I undress!”

Geralt has a brief thought to encourage this argument, pointing out the few times Jaskier’s seen him naked, but he only grunts, too tired to play along with Jaskier’s antics, and turns on his heel until he’s facing the window.

He watches the rain sliding down the window pane, and upon a closer look, he can faintly make out Jaskier’s reflection behind him. The bard is stumbling, struggling to free himself of his pants, and twice, he almost falls headfirst into the large tub. Geralt huffs out a quiet laugh, turning only when Jaskier finally calls out to him.

“This might be the best bath I’ve ever had,” Jaskier starts. “I think it’s the best bath in the world.”

“Are you always this generous toward the world when drunk?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier huffs out, lips pulling into a pout that Geralt stares at with narrow eyes as he takes a seat against the wall under the window, one knee drawn to his chest while the other leg is stretched out in front of him, toe close enough to brush against the wooden tub.

“You need to learn to appreciate the finer things in life!”

“I don’t need to view the world in light under a drunken haze,” Geralt grunts out, and Jaskier sighs and tilts his head back until he’s staring at the ceiling. Geralt’s eyes follow the way Jaskier’s shoulders slump against the deep sigh. He frowns, tilting his head.

“You’re probably right.” Jaskier rolls his head until he meets Geralt’s eyes. “But you have to admit, it’s fun.”

“What’s fun?”

“Pretending.”

“Pretending.” Geralt repeats, drawing out the word slowly, tone shifting up slightly in quiet question.

“Pretending that you’re better than what you are.”

Geralt’s muscles stiffen at Jaskier’s words, and his brows furrow.

“It’s fun to forget for a moment that your true worth merely amounts to songs that ring out of hyperbolic lies.”

A burst of burning pain blooms like fire across Geralt’s chest. Jaskier’s words stab like a sword pushing past his rib cage to his heart, and for just a brief moment, he imagines pulling Jaskier into his arms as if to shelter the bard from harmful thoughts, but his muscles protest the idea, too stiff against a weight of heavy shock.

“Jaskier,” he breathes out, tone reflecting the pain that coats his eyes, and Jaskier pulls his gaze back to the ceiling.

“You’re a Witcher, Geralt. You’re a legend, and I’m just... small in comparison to your stories.”

Geralt’s muscles move before his mind does, and he moves with them, allowing instinct to push forward for his mind is flitting into unfamiliar territory. He slowly crawls the small distance until he’s inches from Jaskier, and while he normally likes to smirk at Jaskier’s flushing cheeks, he ignores the glow of red this time in favor of placing a rough palm to Jaskier’s damp arm.

“You aren’t small. You tell my stories.”

“I lie.”

“You paint a picture--”

“--a picture that lies--”

“--a picture that encourages imagination,” Geralt presses, determined to win this argument. His fingers tighten slightly on Jaskier’s arm. “You have a gift, Jaskier, and you use it to bring light to an otherwise dark world.”

There are things he could say, that he could alter, that Jaskier brings light to his dark world, but Jaskier’s already tearing up, eyes welling with large tears that threaten to slip down his flushing face, and Geralt gives the bard’s arm a tight squeeze.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Geralt.”

Grunting, Geralt gets to his feet and turns sharply on his heel until he’s facing the bed. He can feel an unfamiliar creep of heat starting toward his cheeks.

“You’ve come a long way from describing my talent as a pie without filling,” Jaskier presses with a few sniffs, and Geralt risks a quick look over his shoulder.

“Yes, well, I’m going to sleep. I’m sure I’ll be up half the night with you making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit.”

Jaskier scoffs, though there’s no heat behind it. “Will you allow me to join you when I finish?”

Grunting, Geralt slips his shoes off near the foot of the bed. “Only if you bring a good attitude.”

#the witcher #netflix the witcher #my writing #my witcher writing #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #jaskalt #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #drunk jaskier #emotional whump #yall it's weird writing in geralt's perspective for once #he's difficult to write i'll tell you that

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writtenjewels · 3 years

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Flyt

Hytham stood in the crowd listening as two engaged in a flyting contest. To his surprise, Eivor was in the crowd instead of one of the participants for a change. Eivor caught Hytham's eye and flashed the smile that made Hytham's insides squirm. He returned the smile before focusing all his attention on the flyt.

The people in his new home loved this sort of battle just as much as the ones that required axes and bows. The rhythm of the words was just as important as the actual rhyme, and failing at either meant a loss. Hytham had attended a few of these now and it never ceased to amaze him how quickly those flyting could come up with the right words. At last a victor was declared and everyone applauded. The one who triumphed celebrated with a long chug of mead.

Eivor approached Hytham. “What did you think?”

“I am reminded of the Christian holy book,” Hytham replied. “There are many passages that speaks of the power of the tongue. 'Death and life are in its power'.”

“You've read the Christian holy book?” Eivor asked in surprise.

“ 'Nothing is true',” Hytham quoted. “It is our creed. I take it upon myself to learn of all beliefs. How can I know whether I agree with them if I do not understand them?”

“There's wisdom in that.” Eivor sounded impressed, which stirred up the nervous squirming inside Hytham again. This time it was much harder to mask his pleasure. “Will you be displaying your tongue's power in a flyt?”

“I have no skill.”

“I had no skill in your leap of faith before you showed me,” Eivor pointed out. “Here, we will do an easy flyt together.”

“But I do not wish to insult you.”

Eivor stared for a moment, rolled their eyes, and spoke: “The way you walk in shadows is absurd. You speak so soft, I scarce hear a word. Why lose a finger to hide your blade?” Eivor waited with raised eyebrows. Hytham realized they were waiting for him to finish the rhyme.

“At least I won't lose it in a raid,” he said at last.

“Not bad. Let's go again. How can you hide in clothes that are white? Go anywhere and you will be spotted on sight! No one will speak of your deeds when you die.”

Hytham was starting to get the hang of it. “For you to have glory, the skalds must lie.”

“Brilliant!” Eivor laughed. “You are a natural, Hytham!” They clapped him gently on the shoulder. “It's not often I lose, but you thoroughly beat me with that last line. So vicious! I can believe your tongue has death and life in its power.”

“Even so,” Hytham said, trying to calm his racing pulse caused by Eivor's closeness and touch, “I would prefer not to insult others.”

“I am still glad to know you have more than one deadly weapon.” Eivor winked at him and patted his shoulder again. “I look forward to learning even more about you.” With that they were gone, though the warmth of their touch lingered on Hytham for much longer.

#eivor wolfkissed #hytham #assassin's creed valhalla #eivor x hytham

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unpopularly-opinionated · 3 years

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FINALLY FINISHED NARUTO AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Honestly, and this might sound harsh, but I think I give the series overall a 6/10. Being generous, I’d say it’s maybe a 7/10, but I’m deducting one point because I’m almost positive the only reason I’d rate it that high is because despite all it’s flaws, after watching 720 episodes across two series and 10 movies, you’re just going to be attached to the characters and show regardless of how you feel about it.

I know it’s super popular, or was anyways, and I can absolutely see why, but there were just too many issues that bothered me personally. It’s frustrating because I want to like it, I really do. There’s so many elements at work here that are so just perfectly me that it’s almost weird that I don’t like it, but I don’t. Obviously I liked it enough to spend hours upon hours watching it, but I think I just kept expecting it to get better at some point, and that point never happened.

More about my issues with it below...

I don’t know how to frame this (I never do) so it’s mostly just off the cuff.

I’ll start with the easily dismissible criticisms, the movies. Obviously all but one of the movies are non-canon (and I’ll get to the canon one shortly...), and they’re made by other studios so it’s not entirely fair to criticize the series based on them. I’m far too used to this weird format from Pokemon and their non-canon movies, so it wasn’t a huge deal to me. I will say that, much like the Pokemon films, almost all of the Naruto films followed the same exact format: Naruto goes to a location we’ve never heard of before and will never hear of again and is forced to protect someone abrasive and annoying until the enemy is defeated and they become BFFs that we’ll never see or hear from again.

I’d say, in order from best to worst:

Road to Ninja - Naruto the Movie

Naruto the Movie 2: Legend of the Stone of Gelel

Naruto Shippuden: The Movie 3: Inheritors of the Will of Fire

Naruto Shippuden: The Movie - Bonds

Naruto Shippuden: The Lost Tower

Naruto the Movie: Ninja Clash in the Land of Snow

Naruto Shippuden: The Movie

Naruto the Movie 3: Guardians of the Crescent Moon Kingdom

Naruto Shippuden the Movie: Blood Prison

The Last: Naruto the Movie

Yes, you read that right. The one canonical movie I put in dead last. Originally I thought that position was reserved for Blood Prison, which offended me because of just how utterly contrived the plot was and how out of character everyone needed to act to get it moving. But somehow, The Last took last place because of just how bad of a movie it was that for some reason has the audacity to be canon. And look, I know why it’s canon. It’s where Naruto and Hinata ‘officially’ get together and it ‘explains’ some missing plot elements from the series (more on that...), so of course it’s canon.

But come the fuck on, the last movie in the franchise, the one canonical movie, the one that may or may not take place after the Great Shinobi War, I.E. the big final battle of the series, has Naruto going into the fucking hollow earth through a cave portal that takes him to the moon, which is falling because the man on the moon is an incel and hates earth? What kind of methamphetamines were the writers on for that one. The Hinata and Naruto bits were fine, but holy fuck was that plot bad. They may as well have put Naruto in a spaceship and sent him to Mars to fight Martian Shinobi, I mean if we’ve already crossed the line, why not run a marathon beyond it.

The movie was meant to explain away a one-off line made in the series, that admittedly I did sit and ponder whether or not they’d ever explain it, about the Sage of Six Path’s brother, Homura, who went to go live on the moon after they defeated their mother Kaguya. It was mentioned so briefly and only once that I thought for sure it wasn’t ever going to be brought up again. I also wondered where Byakugan came from since we’d gotten an explanation for Sharingan and Rennigan during the series, but never for Byakugan. I actually don’t mind the explanation that it came from Homura’s bloodline, I think that tracks well enough. The man on the moon bit was...odd, but when I thought of how strong Homura was, I didn’t think much of it. I actually thought he somehow was going to still be alive and he’d come down to earth after they defeated Kaguya, but that never happened.

Here’s the rub though, and one of my issues with the series as a whole, which is that the show seemed to keep writing itself into these weird corners where they’d be forced to do something completely nonsensical, purely because they were the ones who wrote them into those corners. It would’ve been simpler to just say all visual jutsu was derived from Kaguya’s power, or the Homura died so there’s no man on the moon, or that Tsunade died so Kekashi needs to become Hokage, etc. They didn’t have to write themselves into these scenarios, but they did anyway and the end result was them having to write complete and utter nonsense to rationalize why they did it in the first place.

Kekashi becoming Hokage doesn’t really make any sense, like at all. They literally bisected Tsunade during the war but willed her back to life when they could’ve just as easily killed her then and there since she’s largely irrelevant to the rest of the series after the war, and then it would’ve made more sense why Kekashi, the man who on numerous occasions said he didn’t want to be Hokage, would then be forced to become Hokage as he’d be the next strongest (eligible) shinobi after Tsunade. I feel like it was all meant to be a payoff to Obito’s dying words to Kekashi which told him to become Hokage, which even then I found myself asking why the fuck would he say that? Kekashi almost was Hokage once before and was so relieved when Tsunade woke up from her coma so he wouldn’t have to.

Also can we talk about how bad that final episode was? I mean don’t get me wrong, it was cutesy as fuck and actually brought a tear to my eye (when Naruto asked Iruka to be his dad I fucking lost it, I won’t lie), but they cut it off before the wedding? Before the aftermath? Before he becomes Hokage? Like I understand Boruto exists, but I don’t feel like that’s a justifiable excuse for ending your long-running series on merely the assumption that he’ll become Hokage in the future. Maybe if the show was a whole 500 episodes shorter I’d be comfortable with it ending on a vague, yet hopeful ending, but when I’ve spent fuck knows how many hours on this series you bet your ass I’m expecting some mother fucking payoff.

Also do not even get me started on Sasuke. What. The. Fuck?!?!? My guy literally just sends a note via carrier pigeon to the wedding? That’s it? Did I just fucking hallucinate the last 720 episodes or wasn’t Sasuke supposed to be like the second main character??? The absolute absurdity.

This isn’t even much of a comparison because it’s so much shorter than Naruto, but it’s all I got in the moment, but imagine if at the end of Return of the Jedi, Han Solo just decides to fucking dip. He’s just not there. He and Chewie hopped into the Millennium Falcon the moment the Death Star was destroyed and just dipped. No longer in the movie, just gone. Didn’t say anything to Luke or Leia, just up and left. That would be insane.

It’s even more offensive knowing him and Sakura end of together. My. Fucking. Gods. This has been the relationship I’d been dreading since the start when it became abundantly clear they weren’t doing even the barest minimum to actually establish a relationship between them. As it is, when I watched The Last, I thought to myself: “Well, Naruto and Hinata’s relationship hasn’t been the most well-developed relationship I’ve seen, but it’s still leagues better than whatever hatchet job they’re going to pull to convince me Sasuke and Sakura end up together”. We didn’t even get the hatchet job. That’s just how little of a shit they gave. They did not even bother pretending to give any explanation as to how I’m supposed to believe they end up together. I’m quite literally just supposed to believe it because I know it will happen. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, it’s just something that is and therefor I must accept it. Absolutely ridiculous. As it stands, the show gave us more reasons why Sakura and Lee should end up together than they did for her and Sasuke. Fuck, I’d even buy Sakura and Inu before I’d buy Sakura and Sasuke.

I could go on, I really could, but it’s late and I’m just looking forward to putting this behind me. At some point, probably not too soon, I will watch Boruto. As it is, my watch schedule is pretty thoroughly booked up for a while. I can’t foresee myself ever watching this again. I know I sound harsh on it, but I wanna reemphasize that I want to like this show. It’s not a show I think is bad period, it’s a good show I think was just done rather poorly. It all felt very off-the-cuff, much like this shitty review. I don’t know what the manga-to-adaptation pipeline looked like when the show was live, but clearly something got fucked up somewhere. This really feels like the Fullmetal Alchemist to Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood, and I can’t help but want Naruto to get the Brotherhood treatment...if such a treatment even exists.

#random rant #random #anime #personal #review #pls don't scream at me for my bad opinions #I get that this show was obscenely popular #still is to an extent #it was as painful for me to write this as it was for you to read it #I feel so conflicted on this #like I want to say I loved the show #because many many parts of it I did #but so many more parts just completely failed for me

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infini-tree · 3 years

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FANFIC: against all odds - part 4

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Summary: Moments of relative ease while they were on the run.

A/N: alternate title - haha! i tricked you all into reading my personal headcanons on the pmd universe!

I feel like there’s a vague theme, but for the life of me I can’t put words to it. This has also been sitting in my drafts for a while. How much can I write for just the fugitive arc plot point? According to the word count, over 5,000 words.

_________________________

I can’t fight. You don’t know how to manage resources on the road. If I suddenly wake up in a dungeon or we’re in peril, then I’ll do everything to switch back to you, but you have to agree to switching back when we’re just traveling. Our survival may depend on it.

Guildmaster of the Jerome Horwitz Guild,

Krupp leaned back, inspecting the writing with a frown. Was it stupid to sign a note he scrawled in the dirt in his own pine needles? Perhaps.

He signed it anyway. Listen, if he had to rank the absurdity of the events so far, this would be dead last.

The abomasnow shuffled to his feet. It was late night and this was the only time he would have to himself. He gaze shifted to the dying fire, to the two boys sleeping soundly. He lumbered his way over to the campfire to feed it a few more sticks and some fallen pine needles.

(Morbid as it was, they made excellent firestarters.)

Satisfied with the size of the flame, he made his hasty retreat from the heat. Back to the message he scrawled to the dirt. Well, it was now or later, and later happened to have the boys being awake and nosy.

How had those miscreants made him switch over? Harold managed it by making the static around him crackle in a specific way, but George--

He brought a thumb and finger together. Here goes... everything.

Snap.

_________________________

He didn’t like thinking about the day he evolved.

Under most circumstances, it should have been a happy time; certain families would make a big show of it, or at least gave congratulations. The ability to do so was in constant flux along with the waxing and waning of major disasters, so everyone treated it as something unlikely and miraculous every time.

It had been cold, but then again it was always cold at the family orchard. All he could remember was being so angry, and if his heart hadn’t froze then, then the look his mother gave him completely iced it over to protect it. To salve the pain.

(But it was still in there, thawing the ice from the inside.)

The moments after that were a blur; the ice that made a vice grip around his heart made his way into his veins, to each needle, made him glow so bright that it could’ve caused snow-blindness.

And then he had the power to protect himself.

It was a strange comparison to make, but switching over to the other guy-- it felt like that rush of emotion and power. Instead of the cold and anger, it was... the only thing he could describe it was alive, the joy of it. The fierce determination to protect that. It was foreign and terrifying to him.

He came back to his blunt claws caked in dirt and strange markings. It took too long to realize that it was writing.

It looked so minimalist, what with its lines looking all the same. Even between the curves and the straight lines, there was no rhyme or reason to the shapes of the letters.

It took even longer to realize that he could read it.

Not to worry, Guildmaster!

_________________________

Sometimes, a part of him wondered if the other guy felt like turning to him was a disappointment-- if he felt this way when he switched over, then the reverse must be true.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but he didn’t have much time to think about it as George and Harold were running headfirst into a mystery dungeon that was starting to form, he just looked away for five minutes--

(True to their agreement, he snapped his fingers. He jolted up in an unfamiliar clearing, in strange clothes, with the boys giving him concerned looks that it made something in his heart twinge.

And then, recalling that he left most of the supplies back at the previous camp when he ran in to catch them, and the something was doused.)

_________________________

Sometimes luck was on their side. Sometimes the dungeons were short, and sometimes there was swaths of apple trees at the end.

Despite all that, Krupp couldn’t help but be the pessimistic one-- someone had to be. Short dungeons meant they couldn’t stay for long; those hunting for them would bulldoze through the floors, no matter how tricky the dungeon was.

Plus, he didn’t like the look of the trees here. Each and every one of them were identical-- it was a weird byproduct of taking root at the epicenter of a dungeon.

Still, food was food. He made his way over to the one the boys were trying to coax fruit out of. At first they tried to climb it, but the strangeness of the dungeon left the bark slightly less textured and with no footholds.

Now, they were trying to cut it down, taking turns tackling-- and in George’s case-- hitting it with iron tail.

The abomasnow rolled his eyes. “Get out of the way,” he grumbled. The needles on his back raised, and suddenly there were a quartet of ice shards.

George stared at him, crossing his arms. “If our attacks couldn’t do anything, what makes you think those little thing--”

The shards shot up the tree and wove through the branches. After a few moments, several apples with frostbitten stems fell down. One even managed to hit him in the head. The force was strong enough to impale itself against the pine needles.

Harold snickered before another apple hit him on the head. Considering the amount of wool, it was less of a hit, and more of a...

Well, it was lodged deep in the wool.

Krupp barked out a short laugh before realizing where he was and who he was. He clapped a hand to his mouth, attempting to play it off as a cough or-- or something else. Anything else.

His plan to scarf down one of the apples and feign choking quickly fizzled as the boys at each other in quiet disbelief, and then to him. They noticed. Of course, the miscreants who thrived off pranks, and by extension the laughter that came from it, noticed. It was stupid to think otherwise.

“Just,” he ran a hand down his face, hand outstretched towards the mareep. “Just hand the apples over so I can bag everything up and we can move on.”

From this place, from his stupid, stupid fumble.

Harold’s mouth quirked mischievously before he shook, sending the apple-- and everything else that was lodged in his wool-- flying.

(So that’s where they kept their comic supplies, he remembered thinking, before frustration took precedence over sated curiosity.)

_________________________

“How’d you do the thing?” George asked.

The noonday sun was high and sweltering. This meant that the boys started their routine of what he liked to call We’re Not Technically Touching You So You Can’t Complain, where they would walk as close to him as they could get away with, before backing away before he noticed.

“What thing?” he grumbled, flicking away the meltwater.

“You know, the thing with the ice shards,” Harold offered. “The-- you know, whoosh, whoosh!” To emphasize his point, he jumped from side to side, pantomiming how it wove through the branches.

The words come out much easier than he expected, or wanted to. “You don’t grow up on an orchard without learning how to get the season’s stock off as quickly as possible.” He shrugged, sending some melting snow careening to the ground.

The boys thought about it. George looked off to the mountains in the distance, but Harold was looking right at him. For a moment he could have sworn that there was something he could only describe as recognition in his eyes, but he nodded and it was gone.

“You know that’s not what we meant.” The snivy kicked a rock. It was sent careening off into the grass, and his shoulders dropped in slight disappointment.

“What, you want demonstrations now?” the abomasnow raised a brow. “You barely listened to anything at school!”

“Yeah, because no one’s teaching us stuff like that!” George shot back, raising his arms up to emphasize his point. “The most complicated thing Meaner’s ever taught us is don’t get hit!”

Krupp couldn’t help but wince. That might explain... a lot, actually. “I don’t know what to tell you, but that was just-- I don’t know, a thing.”

“How were you a Guildmaster for this long,” Harold shook his head, and he knew he was baiting him. They’ve been on the road long enough that the abomasnow could figure out their tells, how to tell the difference between staged theatrics and genuine emotion.

And here he was, falling for it hook, line, and sinker.

The soil beneath his feet freeze-dried at every step. “Fine, you want a lesson?” He shrugged, and this time the snow and frost tumbled down with purpose before forming a few shards.

“You either are naturally strong and can bulldoze through anything--”

“Like Captain Underpants!” Harold chimed in.

“Yeah, him.” He rolled his eyes. “Or you get creative with weak moves.”

He let the shards weave around the boys as they walked-- not too close, or else they would get frostbite, and not too fast, or they might get hurt if they moved suddenly.

Just enough so they would stay cool.

“Maneuverability’s just a matter of endurance and concentration.”

He didn’t need to look back to see the boys make a face.

(In any case, Krupp considered this a victory. They wouldn’t need to huddle so close to him now, and hopefully that was enough to stop their prying questions regarding it.)

#mellsian fanfics #captain underpants #piqua mystery dungeon #anyway breaking news! pmd au continues to live in my brain rent free

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nicnacsnonsense · 4 years

Text

@saretton was talking about a Cyrano de Bergerac AU earlier and y’all I got carried away again. Basic backstory here is Crowley is Cyrano, Aziraphale is Christian, and Anathema is Roxane. Crowley is in love with Aziraphale (obv) and Aziraphale has convinced himself he’s in love with Anathema because of internalized homophobia. The turning point in the story is when Anathema turns Aziraphale down in favor of Newt and Aziraphale realizes he’s actually rather relieved and maybe he wasn’t all that into her after all., Then Anathema points out all the things Aziraphale has been saying to her and writing to her (words that he is getting from Crowley) sound like they’re actually intended for someone other than her. Aziraphale does some thinking and concludes that Crowley is in love with someone, which is problematic because Aziraphale is actually in love with Crowley. Anyway, I wrote the very end scene where they finally get together because I’m Azcrow trash and have no self-control. Here you go:

“What brings you to my humble abode, angel?” Crowley had sprawled out in his usual position on the settee, and Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. The sinewy beauty and easy grace of the man – how had he been so blind as to never notice it before? How was he supposed to go on now that he did? How was he supposed to listen to Crowley call him angel in that tone of casual fondness without losing all control over himself and doing something that would ruin their friendship forever?

“Aziraphale?” Crowley prompted.

Aziraphale shook himself and took a seat in the armchair he always sat in, the one he’d come to think of as his in the back of his mind. “My apologies; I was lost in thought for a moment,” he said. “I stopped by because I spoke with Miss Device yesterday afternoon.”

Crowley tensed. It was a subtle movement, but Aziraphale was watching too closely to miss it. He assumed it was out of concern for Aziraphale; the meeting yesterday had not been one they had anticipated, so Crowley had been unable to help Aziraphale prepare for it. “How did that go?”

“She informed me that while she values our friendship and is flattered by and appreciates the overtures I’ve made of late, she bears no romantic feelings toward me and has instead decided to accept the suit of Newton Pulsifer.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, genuine regret lacing his voice. “I know you love her.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Aziraphale said, and in the light of a new day it did seem funny. One of those casual anecdotes about an embarrassing moment some years past and oh, wasn’t I foolish? “I don’t love her; I don’t think I ever did. That is, I certainly return her sentiments regarding our friendship, but beyond that my infatuation stemmed more from the idea of her as the sort of person I ought to be in love with than any genuine feeling.”

“It certainly seemed genuine enough,” Crowley remarked archly. A fair enough attitude as he as certainly suffered the brunt of Aziraphale’s misguided infatuation.

“It seemed so to me as well, but I have a rather marvelous gift for self-deception I’m discovering. Though I suspect deep down part of me must have known, which is why I failed so abysmally at expressing it.” He was quite certain of that in fact. Because looking at Crowley now Aziraphale felt he could write sonnet upon sonnet, pages and pages and pages of love letters. He would go on his knees before Crowley and spill his heart out in hundreds of thousands of eloquently-spun words if he thought it would do any good.

Aziraphale sighed. “It all worked out for the best, I suppose, and I do wish the two of them happiness. I very much appreciate all the help you’ve given me throughout this endeavor, regardless of how it ended.”

“Of course,” Crowley said easily. “I’d do anything for you angel, just say the word.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered for a moment, but he reclaimed it by forcing himself to take Crowley’s offer in the congenial spirit it was offered and to ignore how differently Crowley might feel if he knew of Aziraphale’s unnatural desires. “Thank you. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Really, don’t play coy. When we were speaking yesterday Miss Device pointed out how most of the things you wrote for me to give her actually sounded as though they were written with someone else in mind entirely. You’re in love.”

Crowley bolted up in alarm. “That’s not—I didn’t— Don’t be angry ange— Aziraphale. Nothing has to change; I just—“

“Don’t be absurd, Crowley. Of course I’m not angry. Well, perhaps a little hurt you didn’t think to mention that you’d fallen in love, but I understand some people finds these kinds of things difficult to talk about. I don’t hold it against you. As for nothing changing…” Aziraphale found he could no longer stand to look at Crowley, so ducked his head and watched his hands gently wringing in his lap. “Things should change. I read everything you wrote and heard all the words you said; it’s clear how deeply you feel for this woman. You should tell her— no, I insist that you tell her how you feel. There’s no way she’ll turn you down with how beautifully you express yourself. I realize my experience with Miss Device might not be exactly confidence-building in that regard, but I’m sure your lady will be able to sense the genuineness of your feelings. And of course if there’s anything I can do to help, I—“

Crowley kissed him.

Aziraphale barely had time to register what was happening before Crowley pulled away again. At some point he must have risen from the settee and was now knelt on the ground in front of Aziraphale, gazing upon him as earnestly reverent as any man at worship.

Aziraphale felt like he’d been hit by a runaway carriage. All those lines, all the little clues to the identity of the woman Crowley loved that Aziraphale had seen, but had been unable to puzzle out. They were all about him. “You’re in love with me,” he breathed.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale’s knees and pulled them away again, as light as a butterfly. When Aziraphale didn’t protest, Crowley set them back down, his long fingers curled tight as though he feared Aziraphale might bolt any second. “I meant what I said. Nothing has to change. Just let me stay by your side as your friend. Let me stay in your life. All I’m asking for is just the smallest, most insignificant crumb of you, and I swear to you I will never—“

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley seemed too shocked at first to respond, but Aziraphale continued the kiss until Crowley, tentatively at first and then with more and more fervor, returned the gesture. Aziraphale straightened back up, gently guiding Crowley along with him until they were both in the chair with Crowley astride Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley’s hands were fisted in Aziraphale’s shirt as he desperately tried to pull them even closer together. Aziraphale’s own hands were resting on Crowley’s shoulders, but after a minute he daringly reached up to run one through Crowley’s fine fire-strand hair. Crowley whined into Aziraphale’s mouth. He broke the kiss and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, ripping his glasses off and tossing them across the room to do it.

Aziraphale held Crowley in his arms, one hand still gently carding Crowley’s hair, and marveled at the turn his life had taken. An hour ago this was something he believed he would never have. A day ago this was something he had never even knew he wanted. And now here he was. At that exact moment he decided that the world was wrong about these feelings. How could they be anything but good and right when he felt so blessed?

Crowley mumbled something into Aziraphale’s neck. “What was that?” Aziraphale asked. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

Crowley turned his head slightly. “I said, is this real?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice choked with emotion. He urged Crowley up to look at him and, oh, there was the reason for the glasses. Because Crowley’s eyes were so expressive. There was so much love there, Aziraphale felt he was drowning in it. And alongside the love there was hope, cautious and terrified, but hope.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated. “My darling. My dearest. My closest and truest companion. My love, my light, my joy. My heart’s only.” Aziraphale watched as with each endearment the hope in Crowley’s eyes brightened. Crowley had gifted Aziraphale with so many beautiful words, and though Aziraphale hadn’t always listened as closely as he should have, he’d heard them all. And now it wa time he shared some of his own with Crowley. He leaned forward and spoke directly into Crowley’s ear:

“I confess this to you now, my dear,

The strangest truth I have.

Because you have always seen more clear,

Than I myself ever have.

I feel the warmth of you in my arms.

You scent is far too dear to be faked.

I wish to keep you here safe from all harms,

And to always bestow upon you more love than I take.

The beauty of your eyes–”

Here Crowley made a noise of protest. Aziraphale hushed him and continued.

“The beauty of your eyes,

Burnt amber in the light,

Is far greater than imagining could provide.

My mind would never get it right.

These sensations are far too vivid,

For this to be a dream.

But the joy here is far more fervid,

Than I have ever experienced in reality.

I no longer know what is true,

And would not care if I did.

For either I find myself here with you,

Or we lie together dreaming instead.”

For a long moment Crowley said nothing, and Aziraphale began to get nervous. “I know it’s not as good as the ones you wrote. Some of the rhymes were dreadful and I’m sure the meter was all wrong and—“

Crowley gently cupped Aziraphale’s face. “I think you’re right. This is too perfect to be anything but a dream.” He kissed Aziraphale, long and slow and deep. “So let’s never wake up.”

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #cyrano de bergerac #cyrano de omens #fanfiction #fandom fusion

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years

Text

All was Golden in the Sky (1/27)

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

----

Rating: Mature Tag List: @kmomof4 ; @shireness-says ; @profdanglaisstuff ; @captainsjedi ; @ultraluckycatnd ; @thejollyroger-writer ; @winterbaby89 ; @melsbels ; @socmono (If you’d like to be tagged or not tagged or just want to talk about Little Debbie snacks, let me know!)

AN: Ah, hello internet! I am back with my second @cssns story and this one got long. Like, twenty chapters longer than I originally planned long. I am so, so so excited to share this with you guys. (It may be my favorite thing I’ve written since Blue Line, straight up) There’s a lot of things going on in this story, but I can guarantee some ups and downs and magic and Freddie Mercury and kisses and it’s not the story I planned on writing in March. A very loud and enthusiastic shout out to @resident-of-storybrooke for her art, @distant-rose for reading 250,000 words and making even more art and @bmbbcs4evr for being a never-ending source of stressed-writing support.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

----

The cat won’t stop staring at her.

Emma glances over her shoulder, steps slowing to a crawl and, yup, there it is. The goddamn cat. Staring at her. Still.

She sighs, rolling her whole head and nearly dropping the small pile of things clutched in her arms. The cat blinks.

Honestly.

It’s absurd.

“What is your deal?” she snaps, well aware that she won’t get a response. Cats are notoriously picky about who they talk to. She assumes it has something to do with their collective frustration over the world’s perception of black cats.

And, maybe, like ancient Egypt.

“Honestly,” Emma continues. She can’t wave her hands like she wants to, laden down as she is with several plastic containers and a half gallon of milk and, on second thought, maybe that’s why the cat is following her.

It’s not, but it’s nice to pretend.

Because animals always know. Mary Margaret has several working theories about that, but she claims she still has to conduct more interviews and if Mary Margaret were there, Emma is certain, she’d be able to get the cat to leave her alone.

As it is, Mary Margaret is several thousand miles away trying to find a solution to the problem that has led Emma to this store with its copious amount of Little Debbie snacks in the middle of the night. She can’t sleep. Her brain is too wired and her nerves are drifting dangerously close to fried and she’s got no idea what to do next.

So, the reasonable thing, naturally, is to buy as many Zebra Cakes as she possibly can.

“C’mon,” Emma mumbles, kicking her foot out because the cat is now sitting in the middle of the aisle, staring at her with the kind of authority that makes her believe that maybe it’s the cat who actually owns the store. “You’ve got to move. Or I’m just going to teleport out of here and then Ruby will absolutely kill me.”

The cat blinks again.

Emma groans, gritting her teeth and it’s an empty threat. She knows it. The cat knows it. The guy behind the counter probably knows it.

She must reek with it, a distinct lack of anything that’s the crux of her problem and the problem in Storybrooke and she’s got to figure something out. That’s why she and Ruby came to New York, after all.

The seeress had been very specific about that.

Emma wasn’t all that inclined to believe in prophecy, even after growing up in a town like Storybrooke with a werewolf for a neighbor and a best friend who could very easily commune with the cat still blocking her exit, but it was difficult to ignore when said prophecy included her.

Explicitly.

A Savior of old,

With future foretold,

A key and a spark,

The future of magic and light in the dark,

A Swan and a Knight,

Preparing to fight.

Emma hates that it rhymed. She’s not surprised it rhymed. Magic, she’s come to learn, has a habit of being equal parts wonderful and the single most frustrating thing in the entire world.

She assumes it’s some kind of balance – to the force or the state of the entire universe or whatever, but it’s also kind of annoying, particularly when magic, it seems, is disappearing. It started out slow, certain spells harder to cast than others and potions that brewed just shy of perfect. But then Mary Margaret couldn’t talk to the bird she’d been having daily conversations with every morning for the last several years.

And David hadn’t been able to blink from one side of the town to the other when Emma called him about a break-in at the tackle shop near the docks.

Elsa’s ice magic was now more like...slush magic and Ruby’s most recent transformation hadn’t accounted to much more than her needing to buy two tubs of wax and an extra bag of razors.

It happened to everyone.

Even Emma.

And it’s kind of messing with her head. And sleeping patterns. Because she’s sleeping in a new bed in an apartment she can’t quite breathe in, several thousand miles away from the only home she’s ever known, desperately trying to find some sort of spark to make magic right again.

And it hadn’t entirely been her choice.

The seeress hadn’t been specific on the location of that aforementioned spark, but Emma hadn’t had much time to consider it when the first wave of magic crested over the Storybrooke town line. The suddenness of it all made Emma’s stomach fly into her throat, an attack and a push of power and the man standing there, with smoke swirling at his feet didn’t walk evenly into town. There was a slight limp to his steps, hands resting on a cane that was far too ornate, but the curl of his lips sent a chill down Emma’s spine. He was looking for her.

“I want the Savior,” he’d said, a confidence to his voice that made it clear he was quite used to getting his way. “Now.”

It hadn’t really played out that way.

It had been a complete and goddamn disaster, honestly.

There’d been flashes of light and several different explosions, the arrows from Granny’s crossbow whirring past Emma and she’d gasped as soon as Ruby’s fingers curled around her wrist. That had been disappointing.

“C’mon,” she growled, tugging and yanking and Mary Margaret nodded encouragingly as soon as she realized what was going on.

“You’ve got to go, Emma. We’re not going to be able to protect you here.”

Emma had tried to argue. She’d yelled and cursed and there had been more than a few tears on her cheeks, but she’d also known Mary Margaret was right and who was she to argue with prophecy? The Savior, apparently.

“Oh, Savior! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Shit, who does this guy think he is?” Ruby grumbled, a flash of a smile that felt distinctly out of place when the building behind them seemed dangerously close to collapsing. “We’ve got to go, Em. Now.”

Emma nodded dumbly, racking her brain for a place and somewhere safe and she’d never been anywhere, hadn’t left the confines of Storybrooke since she’d entered the confines of Storybrooke and--

Something slammed into David’s chest, a burst of power and flash of darkness and Emma gasped again. Mary Margaret whimpered.

“Now, Em,” Ruby repeated, squeezing her hand and Emma blinked.

They’d landed in the middle of New York City. On the corner of Bowery and Broome Street. Ruby had made a joke about witches.

And now, a week later, Emma hasn’t heard a single word out of Storybrooke, no update on David or the state of Mary Margaret’s tear ducts and she’s got absolutely, positively no idea how to save magic.

She refuses to consider the idea that the empty apartment in the building they just happened to land in front of is some kind of sign.

“Are you going to buy those?”

Emma jumps at the voice, only a little surprised that it isn’t coming from the cat. Who has not moved an inch. She exhales, lungs aching with the force of it, and her tongue flashes between her lips when she realizes her mouth has been hanging open.

A Zebra Cake falls on the ground.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma stammers, nodding for emphasis and it’s an absolutely absurd look. “Of course, I um...sorry.”

The bodega owner hums, clearly unimpressed with her at whatever time it might be. Some point when people don’t normally buy Zebra Cakes, she’s sure.

He doesn’t scan them, it’s a bodega, but he does give her a quizzical look when he realizes just how many she’s buying and Emma chews on her lip. She’s still having a difficult time breathing.

“$15.72.” “What?” Emma balks. “Honestly?” He hums again, a sound that’s starting to grate on Emma’s ears. “Cash only.” “Oh my God.” She huffs, a clack of teeth and she’s seen cash before, but she doesn’t often has to use it and Storybrooke had always been bigger on bartering. It’s easy to pay for things when you can offer someone a potion in return.

It takes her a few moments to unfold the bills crumpled in her palm, the owner eyeing her cautiously. “Alright, alright,” Emma mumbles, mostly to herself as she tries to add up coins. “Is that right?”

He blinks.

It looks suspiciously similar to the cat.

“Yuh huh.” “Ok.” Emma nods towards the bag he hasn’t given her yet. “Can have that, then?”

“Are you drunk?” Her laugh is definitely not the correct response, but she can’t remember the last time she’s actually gotten some rest and her pulse seems to be running at a constant state of overwhelmed and Emma hasn’t been able to do any magic since she teleported them.

She hasn’t told Ruby that.

It’s freaking her out.

“Strange as it may seem, I am totally sober,” Emma promises, leaning over the counter to grab her bag. “You may want to restock the Zebra Cakes. Just like...FYI.”

She grins, nodding once and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse joy out of his stunned expression, but his cat was a complete asshole and Emma’s going to get her victories where she can.

She walks the almost-familiar few feet back to the apartment door, glancing up at a starless sky. It doesn’t feel right. There’s so much light in this city, a flash and a burst that makes it feel like the middle of the afternoon even at two in the morning, and none of it is real. It’s processed and fake and it makes noise, a neon hum that seems to time up with the sounds of traffic and the patter of incessant footsteps on the sidewalk outside her window and Emma knows she won’t be able to sleep.

Even if she eats twenty-six Zebra Cakes.

She definitely bought at least twenty-six Zebra Cakes.

The building is quiet once she gets inside, a silence that Emma’s mind clings to, desperate for a few moments of reprieve, and she has to shift her hold on the bag to pull her keys out of her back pocket.

She doesn’t notice him at first.

At first she thinks it’s, simply, a shadow or a byproduct of the bone-searing exhaustion she can feel in every inch of her, but then she sees it and her head snaps to the right, mouth going dry because it’s really not much more than a shadow and a shift and the rush of something that moves from the top of her head to the tips of her toes is as surprising as it is welcome.

Magic.

Her magic.

In surround sound.

Emma drops the bag. God, she hopes she didn’t crush any of her Zebra Cakes.

She takes a deep breath and a step forward – not quite confident, but, at least, a little determined and the shadow is a man and the man is grumbling some rather pointed curses under his breath, punching what, at first glance, appears to be a balled-up leather jacket.

“God damn, fucking asshole, shit romantic…”

Emma’s eyebrows fly into her hair, the magic in her veins turning from a boil to a simmer and she doesn’t mean to laugh. Again. Honestly. But her body doesn’t care and her emotions don’t care and the man jerks his head as soon as his brain processes the noises she’s making.

“Did I wake you up?”

Emma shakes her head. “No.” “You’re just...awake? Now?” “I mean…” She waves her suddenly-free hand in the space in front of her, and the jacket falls to the ground when he moves his head away from the wall. “I’d think that was kind of obvious, right? Are you awake?” “What kind of question is that?” “You asked me first!” “But that was me being concerned. Kind, even.” Emma’s next head shake turns incredulous. “You’re a crazy person,” she accuses, another hand movement. She has to keep moving. The magic at the end of her fingers feels like it’s crackling. She’s seriously going to eat all of her Zebra Cakes. “And, honestly, kind of a dick. Totally missed the mark on kind.”

The guy heaves a dramatic sigh, glancing up at her from underneath impossibly long eyelashes. His eyes are blue. Emma swallows. “I’m going to kill Scarlet,” he says, like that makes any sense and she needs to move.

She needs to get in her apartment with her copious amount of overpriced and mass-produced baked goods and she needs to figure out what the hell is happening with her magic.

And what it means for everyone else’s magic.

And the man who invaded Storybrooke.

“Well,” Emma says, “that’s, uh...that’s your prerogative, I guess. Just--” She’s going to leave. She wants to leave. She’s got to leave. But something in the back of her mind is screaming, begging, her not to and her magic shifts again, a burst of heat and rush of feeling and the man’s eyes widen.

Like he notices.

Like that’s possible.

“Am I supposed to know who Scarlet is?”

He scoffs, but it’s almost a laugh and it might be the nicest sound Emma’s heard in...well, a week. “I’d be surprised if you did,” he mutters. “Unless you’re some kind of psychic.” “I can’t say I am.” Several other things, but not a psychic. The man grins.

“Well, then I’m not surprised you think I’m a dick. I just...Scarlet is my roommate, currently doing several things behind that door that I can’t even begin to process because he’s obviously got no concern for my emotional well being.” “Which leaves you…” “Stuck in this hallway because the bastard has decided he needs to...I don’t know, take over the entire apartment. And, unfortunately, annoying you.” The grin turns into a smirk, hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably shouldn’t make Emma want to run her fingers through it. She rolls her eyes. “You’re very loud.” “That’s because it’s an impossibly uncomfortable wall.”

“You’re just going to sleep out here then?” Emma asks, and he shrugs. “That can’t be very safe.” “Are you suggesting this isn’t a safe building?” “I haven’t really been here that long.” He nods, mouth twisted in thought. “I’ve noticed that.”

“Have you just?” The man’s lips part with a soft pop, eyes widening to a size that’s even more comical because Emma is starting to have a difficult time staying upright. Her magic is thrumming in her ears. “Not in...you know, a stalker way,” he says, letting his head fall against the wall and Emma does her best to bite back her smile. “Just in a...way that we don’t normally get a lot of new tenants and it’s, well, it’s rent controlled so not many people are ever moving out and…”

“You always so articulate?” “I’m going to blame Scarlet again, honestly.” Emma laughs. It’s weird. It’s not weird. “Understandable,” she says, taking a step forward. “Is it strange that I know your roommate’s name and his life story and I’m still referring to you as some guy in my head?” “Some guy is not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

“Color me intrigued. And that’s not an answer.” He stares at her for a moment – and Emma gets the distinct feeling she’s been appraised. Or taken inventory of. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, particularly when she feels her magic settle at the base of her spine, a soft pulse that feels like a metronome for her heart and, possibly, her soul and she absolutely, positively imagines the way he looks at her.

She has to.

Because he looks at her like he knows her or could know her or has known her and the tenses don’t make sense and the magic doesn’t make sense, but she’s still not running away and her right knee cracks when she crouches down.

“A name,” Emma says, and she doesn’t imagine that. He beams at her. Like the sun or something. She’s so goddamn tired.

“Killian Jones.”

Her magic soars. Her whole body feels like it’s on pins and needles, a sudden lightness that doesn’t match up to the burst of confidence blooming in her chest, pressing on the inside of her ribs and pinching her lungs and Emma licks her lips again.

His eyes flash towards the movement.

“This is the part where you follow up with your own name, love.”

“Wow, just jumping into endearments and flirting, huh?”

“I’ve been inspired by the actions of my roommate.” “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or not.” “Not,” Killian promises. “He just got engaged, so…”

“Oh, that’s nice actually.”

“And not your name.” Emma considers her options. She’s not sure she has many, honestly, and it’s not as terrifying a prospect as it probably should be. It feels unnaturally natural, a strange contradiction that makes as much sense as anything that’s ever happened to her and she hadn’t noticed how dark it is in that hallway before.

The light above her keeps flickering on and off, bits of darkness creeping into the edge of her vision, and Killian is still smiling at her.

Ruby is going to kill her.

“Swan,” she says, the complete certainty that she’s done this before echoing in the back of her mind. “My name’s Emma Swan.”

She thrusts her hand out, fingers fluttering in the air around them. It feels heavier all the sudden, like the world is holding its breath, but that may just be Emma and Killian’s gaze darts from her hand, up her arm and back towards her lips before it lands directly on her face, or possibly, in the center of her very being and his skin is warm when it brushes against hers.

He moves his thumb across the back of her palm.

“It’s a pleasure,” he murmurs, voice shifting slightly so it sounds like him and...not. Emma has no idea what to do with that, the déjà vu bouncing around her skull, but she doesn’t pull her hand away either and she’s got no idea how long they stay there.

“My leg is starting to cramp,” she says eventually, and Killian’s answering laugh will very likely be imprinted on every corner of her brain for the rest of her life.

He stands up, an awkward bend of limbs when neither of them seem particularly inclined to actually let go of the other. “C’mon, it’s uh...you were going inside at some point, probably.” “Nothing gets past you, huh?” “Perceptive, that’s why.”

Emma nods, letting him lead her back towards her front door and the bag she’d almost forgotten about. Her magic hasn’t stopped doing whatever yet, but she’s drifting somewhere close to calm and that same sense of normal and her keys are still hanging in the lock.

“And look who was questioning the safety of the building before,” Killian says. “What---what were you doing up, Swan?”

Her eyes widen at the slightly different endearment, but it doesn’t feel wrong either and she really needs to sleep. “Oh, uh...just insomnia,” she answers evasively, a blatant lie that sounds even worse when directed at Killian. His lips twitch. She’s staring at his lips.

“Yuh huh. And that’s solved, by--” He ducks down, grabbing the bag before Emma can stop him. “The world’s largest horde of shitty baked goods.” “Ok, there’s no need to be rude about it. And my options were kind of limited, plus there was an asshole cat and--” “--Oh, I hate that cat.”

“Wait, what?” “The cat downstairs?” Killian ventures, Emma nodding like a crazy person. A crazy witch. Destined to save magic. Not to flirt with strangers in the hallway. “Yeah, that cat’s a total dick. Constantly patrolling the aisles down there like he’s serving Bastet and not some slightly skeezy bodega owner.” “I’m going to say you’ve lost me.” “Bastet. Egyptian goddess. Protected the pharaohs apparently.” “Apparently?” Killian shrugs. “As far as I’m aware the pharaohs still had a tendency to die. Some of them rather horribly, so...you know, I don’t know what she was protecting, really.” “You’re the most judgmental person I’ve ever met.” “Now you know why some guy wasn’t the most offensive thing I’ve ever been called.”

She’s charmed. Impossibly so. And she’s fairly certain Killian knows it too. He leans forward, crowding into her space and that one strand of hair hanging above his left eyebrow may be Emma’s personal undoing. “The cat hates me too, love,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t take it too personally. But that’s also not an explanation as to why you’re trying to rot your teeth out.”

“I like Zebra Cakes.” “And cavities?” “You’re very concerned with my well-being aren’t you?” Emma asks, and she knows it comes out like the accusation she was trying to avoid. Killian tenses. “I just…” she continues, softer and a little more cautious and she needs her magic to relax. It’s difficult to concentrate when she can see the muscles in his throat moving. “Well, I wasn’t lying about the insomnia. Honestly. And you’re right. We just moved in and--” “--Not used to New York, huh?” “Are you?” “I’ve been here for awhile.” It’s an evasive answer – half a fact and a hint of walls, but Emma found him trying to sleep in the hallway, so she figures it’s the best she’s going to get and the next few words out of her mouth feel like they fall straight from her heart.

“You want to come inside?” Killian blinks. Twice. Three times. And tilts his head. She’s going to cut his hair in the middle of the night. It is the middle of the night. “What?”

“Inside,” Emma says again, impressive diction when her lower lip is twisted between her teeth. “I...well, you’re not a secret serial killer, right?” “I’m not.” She’s sure he doesn’t mean for those two words to sound like the single most important two words any human being has uttered to someone who is not quite human, but Emma’s mind doesn’t care and her magic cares even less and one of them probably rocks forward first. Their shoes are touching.

Ruby is going to kill her.

Killian swallows again.

“I wouldn’t…” he starts, another guarantee that doesn’t quite match up to the situation. Emma’s déjà vu makes her knees wobble. “I’d appreciate it, Swan. If you’re sure.”

“Yeah. That’s...well, the wall looked pretty uncomfortable and I’d imagine you’d like to be as far away from your own door as possible. You know...if they start getting really creative over there.” Her rather pitiful attempt at humor hits its mark – another victory Emma is going to cling to for, at least, the next twenty-four hours – and Killian’s hand ghosts over her side when he leans forward again. “Oh God, don’t paint pictures like that,” he grumbles. “I don’t know if they’re that creative. And they’ve got to sleep at some point.” “Do they though?” “You are a God awful hostess.”

She swats at his chest – familiar and unacceptable for someone she met in the middle of the hallway not even twenty minutes before, but Killian doesn’t miss a beat. He wraps his fingers around her wrist, tugging her hand up and his eyes do something that is...magic. Maybe. It makes Emma’s breath catch and her heart grow and her keys are still hanging from the lock.

“I’m going to retract my offer,” she says, another empty threat they’re both almost too aware of.

“Do you actually like Zebra Cakes?” “They didn’t have any Swiss Rolls.”

He chuckles, nodding like it’s the most important fact he’s ever learned and leans around Emma to twist the key. The lock clicks, the door swinging open and a thin line of man-made light stretches across the hardwood floor.

They don’t have a couch.

They’re hiding from evil.

Ruby is going to kill Emma.

“You know there’s an Ikea in Brooklyn now,” Killian quips, still half a step behind Emma like he’s waiting for another invitation. She rolls her eyes. And the door sounds impossibly loud when it closes, as if they’ve crossed a line they can’t retreat from.

She’s melodramatic when she’s tired.

“I have no idea how to get to Brooklyn.” Killian makes a slightly strangled noise, toeing out of his shoes like she’s got rules for her hideout apartment, but he also doesn’t know she’s hiding out and Emma’s head is spinning. She flutters her fingers at her side, trying to work out the residual energy she’s certain will cause her to actually turn phosphorescent at some point.

“Really? No idea at all?” Emma shrugs. “Should I?” “Why did you move to New York, Swan?” They’re not just standing on thin ice anymore. They’ve fallen straight through and gotten hit in the head in the process and are suffering from hypothermia or something else detrimental to their health.

Emma’s hair feels like it’s crackling.

“You want a Zebra cake?” she asks instead, an obvious deflection. She needs to stop staring at Killian’s lips.

“Yeah, ok.”

They make it through half of them before Emma’s stomach starts to hate her for it, empty glasses on either side of them and legs stretched out. There are, at least, a few blankets in the hallway closet and Emma grabs every single one before settling back on the living room floor. Killian doesn’t say anything about that.

She appreciates it – because she kind of hates the room at the other end of the hall and the never-ending sirens always sound louder when she’s left alone with her own thoughts and, really, she can’t bring herself to walk away from him. Which is kind of a lot to deal with when she’s stuffed with Zebra Cakes.

And they don’t fall asleep immediately, they talk, quiet words and soft smiles, fluttering eyelashes and Killian’s head propped on his hand.

She tells him she was a little disappointed the bodega didn’t have chocolate syrup for her milk. He tells her he’s actually pretty thrilled for Scarlet and the still unnamed fiancée. She says she’s in law enforcement. He says he works at the library. She’d maybe like to see Times Square. He’s disgusted by even the idea.

It’s good. Great, even. It’s impossibly easy and far too simple and Emma only realizes that she’s fallen asleep when her eyes snap open, Ruby practically foaming at the mouth and throwing her shoe across the living room.

“What the hell is this?” Ruby demands. She jumps up when she doesn’t get an immediate answer, eyes no more than slits on her face and it takes Emma half a breath to realize what, exactly, has her so angry.

They’d moved at some point.

She’s still on the floor. Killian is still on the floor. But they’d drifted, hardly any space between them and an arm flung over Emma’s side, legs tangled and blankets tangled and Killian’s breath hitches when he wakes up.

“Oh fuck,” he mumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out Emma that only exacerbates Ruby even more. “Sorry, love.”

Ruby growls. Howls, honestly. She throws her whole head back, hands fisted at her side and Emma’s eyes dart around to make sure she’s run out of shoes to attack them with.

“Rubes,” she starts, “this is not…” Ruby’s glare rivals several other ancient deities. “What?” she hisses. “It’s not what? Who the hell is this jerk?”

“Some guy is honestly starting to get more and more appealing,” Killian mumbles. He pushes up, shaking the hair away from his eyes. He doesn’t actually move that far away from Emma though, hand lingering on the small of her back for a moment, as if he’s trying to ground himself and she hears him take a deep breath.

“Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?” Emma groans. “Rubes, I need you to take, like, six-hundred steps back. He lives next door.” “And we’re inviting strangers in now? Em, are you kidding me? What if something had--” “--Nothing was going to happen,” Killian interrupts sharply, and Emma knows she shouldn’t be entirely disappointed by that.

She needs to save magic.

She’s got shit to do. That doesn’t include flirting. Or sleeping. Or eating Little Debbie snacks.

“Yuh huh,” Ruby nods. “Sure. That’s why you’re all curled around each other.” Emma’s face flushes, a rush of heat and magic in her cheeks. “Ok, well, this has been stellar, Rubes, but if you’re done acting like you’re my parent or guardian, that’d be--” “--No, no, this isn’t over. I am...we can’t just let people in here, Em.” “I know!” “Do you?” She winces, knows Ruby is right and she’d acted on an instinct she’d never acknowledge before. Emma can’t shake the feeling that she knows him though, an easy sense of confidence and calm to it all and she sighs as soon as she feels Killian’s hand fall away from her.

“I should probably get going anyway,” he says, kicking away blankets. “Did I bring my coat in here with me?” Ruby sounds like she’s being strangled.

Emma cannot roll her eyes hard enough. “I don’t think so,” she mumbles. “It’s probably still in the hallway.” “Right, right,” Killian nods. He doesn’t move away immediately, smiles at her instead as if he’s trying to commit her to memory. Emma bites her lip. “So, uh...I’ll see you--” “--Out,” Ruby cries. She’s found another shoe. “Now!”

Killian winks at Emma.

Her magic does something at that.

“Later,” he whispers, and it sounds like another promise. Emma must nod. Her hair moves. And the door slams behind Killian when he leaves, Ruby doing a fairly good job of masquerading as a very impressive marble statue in the middle of a sparsely decorated living room.

“You breathing over there?” Emma quips. Ruby clicks her teeth.

“I honestly cannot tell. What the hell were you thinking, Em? Some random guy? Are we not...are we not stressed out enough here?” “What is it that you’re suggesting, exactly?” “He left his coat somewhere?” Emma’s jaw drops, a juvenile response, but that thought hadn’t even entered her mind. “Oh my God,” she stammers, eyes bugging as well. “Are you kidding me? Who do you think I am?” “If I knew that, we wouldn’t have a magical issue on our hands, now would we?” “Oh, that’s a low blow.”

Ruby sighs. “I know it is. Sorry. I just...well, I came out here and there was this dude and it was like--” She trails off, a quick shrug and jerk of her hands and Emma’s eyes narrow.

“Like what?” “Like we’d done this before. And don’t--there’s no need to tell me how impossible that is, I’m perfectly aware I’m probably just going crazy, but it’s also probably a byproduct of my magic being so fucked up, so...what?” Emma is shaking her head. She hadn’t realized. “That’s what I felt too. Déjà vu and it was...I don’t know, like he was waiting for me or something.”

The words tumble out of her without her explicit permission, something Emma doesn’t altogether appreciate because it’s not altogether true. He’d been hiding from his romantic roommate. And unnamed fiancée. But it happens anyway, an admission and something that feels almost like hope and both Emma and Ruby flinch when one of their phones ring.

“Holy shit,” Ruby mutters, hand reaching up to clutch the amulet around her neck. The phone stops ringing. Only to start again.

Emma glances around, trying to find the source of the sound and it’s underneath one of the blankets Killian had been using. That’s probably not a sign either.

She gasps. She wishes she’d stop doing that.

“David,” she yells as soon as her thumb swipes across the screen and whatever noise she makes next is ten-thousand times worse than a sigh. “Oh my God.” “What?” Ruby demands. “Oh, yeah, God, you look like garbage.”

David winces, but whether that’s from the insults or the overall state of his face, Emma can’t be sure. He’s bruised and battered and then some, one eye swollen shut and obvious stitches on his top lip, a purple hue to just about every inch of him that has Emma biting back jokes about grapes and purple people eaters.

She makes jokes when she’s nervous.

And terrified.

She’s terrified.

“What took you guys so long to answer?” David asks. “Mary Margaret is freaking out.”

“Ok, that’s not true,” Mary Margaret objects, just out of frame. She’s pacing, a quick blur behind David when she moves and there are few cuts on her arm as well. Emma blinks so she doesn’t start to cry. “I have every confidence that you guys are going to save us all.” “That was not your best work,” Emma says. “And, we’re uh...it’s a work in progress, but we didn’t really have a lot to go on and--”

“--Why did you call?” Ruby cuts in, ignoring Emma’s groan. “Why haven’t you called earlier?”

David can’t glare with only one eye, but he makes an admirable effort. “Are you kidding me?” “We were worried,” Emma whispers. “Like...you really do look like garbage, officer.”

“You should see the other guy.” “That so?” “No,” Mary Margaret answers despondently, coming to a stop and pushing her way into the frame. “The other guy is perfectly fine because the other guy is using up dark magic like it’s never going to disappear.”

“Wait, what? I thought all magic was disappearing.” “It is.”

Emma and Ruby groan in tandem that time, sitting up straighter out of habit because the voice that answer belongs to will probably yell at them if they don’t.

Regina Mills still looks impeccable, even when defending Storybrooke against some kind of apparent siege, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her pantsuit and Emma’s always wondered where she gets her lipstick. It’s always perfect.

The mayor of Storybrooke does, however, look a little annoyed at them and that’s, more or less, par for the course. Regina’s magic has always been something, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of power that makes her the obvious choice to lead a town of magical creatures and Emma still can’t wrap her mind around her place in all of this.

Regina should be the Savior.

Not her.

“How much do you two remember about The Dark One?” Regina asks cooly, taking the phone out of David’s hand without asking. Emma’s going to have to buy eye drops. It can’t be good for them to be widening this much. They’re going to dry out.

Or just fall out of her face.

“That’s a myth, isn’t it?” Ruby whispers. “The Dark One was just,..a scary story we told each other when we were kids. There’s no overpowering Darkness. That’s like saying there’s--” “--An overpowering Light?”

Emma drops the phone.

And sighs. So does Regina. She expects that.

“You honestly think that the guy who attacked Storybrooke demanding Emma is The Dark One?” Ruby asks. “C’mon. Like the Dark One. That’s not a real thing. It can’t be. That’s like saying there are actually pirates and princesses and shit.” “You’re a werewolf, Rubes,” David reasons, and he’s got a point.

“Ok, hold on a second,” Emma says. “Regina, you’re serious?” A nod. “Ok, so...The Dark One. That’s...we’re sure that’s actually who is attacking Storybrooke?” “Was.”

Emma nearly falls over. She’s sitting down. “Why past tense?” “Because that’s what’s happening, Emma,” Regina explains, sounding like she’s talking to a petulant child.

“Start at the start.”

David laughs under his breath, hissing slightly when Mary Margaret rests a hand on his shoulder. Emma’s eyes don’t leave Regina’s, a desperation in her gaze that makes her feel as if she’s run several miles and cast the world’s most complex spell and her fingers won’t stop moving. Regina may actually smile.

It’s a miracle. Of the magical variety.

“No one knows where magic came from,” Regina says. “Or where we came from, for that matter. We’re all flush with a power that very few could even dream of, let alone understand. But that power isn’t always good. There are kinks in the system, bits of darkness and twists of fate and the Dark One is said to be the one person who can control that.” “That what?” Emma asks. “Be more specific, Regina.” “The opposite of you, Ms. Swan. The seeress was very specific, was she not? The light in the dark? That’s you. You’re the key to figuring out how to maintain magic and that’s why the Dark One wants you. Desperately, in fact. I think he’s losing the grip on his control as well.”

“But Mary Margaret said they’re using magic. How is that possible?” Regina looks disappointed. That’s not surprising either. “They’re not you, Ms. Swan. The Dark One and those following him, they’re not worried about conserving their magic or anything except trying to find you. Because they believe they’ll find you. It won’t matter what they do in the meantime.” “He thinks you can jumpstart magic, Em,” David says softly, as if each letter hurts to speak. It might. He looks like garbage. “All of it. Light, dark, everything.”

“We kind of knew that though, didn’t we?” Ruby asks. She’s standing now, bobbing on the balls of her feet and Emma’s only a little worried she’s going to yank her amulet off. That’s the last thing she needs right now. “I mean..he wasn’t being very secretive about it. He was literally shouting about Emma.”

Mary Margaret makes a contrary noise.

And any sense of magic in Emma’s veins evaporates suddenly and immediately, leaving her feeling hollow and alone and she knows. “He’s coming here, isn’t he?” she asks, looking back at an already nodding Regina. “How do you know?” “People have stopped dying,” Regina answers bluntly, Ruby not bothering to make her curses quiet. David yanks the phone out of her hand.

“It’s more complicated than that,” he argues. “It’s--what happened to you last night?”

Honestly. Eye drops. She needs eye drops. In bulk.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ruby scoffs, holding both hands up in mock surrender when Emma gapes at her. “I mean you’re just a great, big giant liar, aren’t you? Emma met some guy in the hallway.” There’s a chorus of what and how and that one doesn’t even make sense because she’s fairly certain they all know how humans interact with each other, but she’s not entirely human and Mary Margaret is suspiciously quiet.

“M’s,” Emma drawls. “Thoughts? Feelings? Emotions?” “Several thousand, actually.” “You want to pick one or two? I don’t know when the Dark One is going to show up.” “We don’t know if he knows you’re in New York yet.” “You know you guys genuinely really suck at telling a complete and coherent story.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a little out of place, but Emma’s a very greedy witch and the muscles in her face ache a little when she tries to smile in response. “It’s been a disaster here since you left,” Mary Margaret says. “This man...the Dark One. He’s got--” “--Minions?” Ruby ventures.

“Not in an animated sense. More in a...yanking people apart trying to find the spark of the Savior sense.” Emma knows, rationally, she can’t feel the blood rush out of her face. It’s impossible. Her vision swims anyway. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret continues. “There have been more than a few deaths and they’ve been, well, a little bloodier than normal deaths and then...last night. Something happened.”

“Like?”

“Magic. Powerful magic.”

Emma’s going to pass out. That can’t be a good look for the so-called savior of magic. “When?” she breathes, all too aware that she’s half admitting to something very likely didn’t actually happen and Mary Margaret’s smile wavers.

“I don’t know...late though. Like maybe four in the morning?” She looks to David for confirmation, but only gets a head tilt and half-hearted shrug. “We were a little preoccupied with the previously discussed minions trying to get into our house.” Whatever noise Emma makes hurts her throat.

“God, M’s,” Ruby hisses. “Way to bury the lede.” Mary Margaret waves them off. “That’s not what’s important.” Eye drops and throat lozenges and chocolate syrup. Emma should make a list. Maybe Killian knows where there’s a drug store nearby. “It’s not,” Mary Margaret continues, “what’s important is that it was magic and it was...strong. Like. Strong. We could do everything.”

“She got a whole flock of birds to get those minions away from our door,” David mutters.

“It didn’t come from here though,” Regina adds. “That much was obvious and the Dark One while he may be the embodiment of complete evil, is not without his faculties. He’s smart. He’s calculating. And he knows that Emma isn’t in Storybrooke anymore.”

Emma exhales, pressing the pads of her fingers into her cheek like that will help the blood flow back to those particular capillaries. And the time doesn’t add up. She’d definitely fallen asleep before four o’clock.

Damn.

That shouldn’t be disappointing.

“So, what do we do?” Emma asks. “He might not know we’re here now, but that’s probably only a matter of time, right?”

Regina nods. “The prophecy was clear. You’re the Savior. A key and a spark, The future of magic and light in the dark. I think that’s the most important part. You’re the future of magic, not just because you’re going to make sure we can still have it, but because you’re going to preserve it.” “Be more specific, Regina.”

“The Dark One wants magic, but he wants to use it to twist it to his own means. Evil. And absolute. No more light magic, for any of us. You’re there to stop that.” “No pressure or anything.” “Oh, a substantial amount of that. And you’re running out of time.” “Jeez, Madam Mayor,” Ruby mutters, but Emma can’t argue and they need to do something. She flutters her fingers at her side.

“Alright,” she says. “So we’ve got to find something that will keep magic alive, but get rid of the Dark One too? Do you think they’re the same thing?” “We’re all going to die.”

The phone changes hands again, David appearing in front of the screen with a look Emma’s only seen a handful of times. She tugs her lips behind her teeth. “It’s all you, Em,” he says, a confidence in his voice that she needs to hear on repeat. “Whatever power you’ve still got, you’ve got to use it. To find something. Your magic is strong. There’s a reason you ended up in New York. There’s something there to help you.” “The world wants to help you, Ms. Swan,” Regina says. “The seeress wouldn’t have arrived to warn us, otherwise. You simply have to accept the world.”

Emma grimaces – well acquainted with years on her own and even in a town like Storybrooke, she’d always found herself standing on the outside looking in, friendships that ran deep, but not much family and only her magic and now that’s starting to disappear as well and her tongue feels as if it’s expanding in her mouth.

She licks her lips.

“You can do it,” Mary Margaret promises, Emma nodding. It’s not an agreement. It’s a brush off. They both know that.

“If you had to ballpark how soon the Dark One would get here, what would you guess?”

Regina doesn’t look amused. “I wouldn’t waste much time with the man you found in the hallway, Ms. Swan. And if memory serves there’s a rather impressive myths and legends section in the New York Public Library.”

Eventually, she’s sure she won’t let every single thought she’s ever had land on her face as well as the forefront of her brain.

“What?” Regina presses. “What’s that?” “Nothing.” “No, once more.” “The guy,” Emma says, rushing over the word and pointedly ignoring David’s gaze, “he, uh...he said he works for the library. I don’t know if it’s that one, but it’s...it’s a library.” Regina doesn’t answer. Ruby is cursing again. Mary Margaret starts pacing.

David stares straight at Emma.

“Be careful,” he says, and it’s not a request. It’s a plea. Emma’s heart stutters. “Please.”

“Ok.” The line goes dead, far quicker than it would have if David had, simply, hung up and the tears that land on Emma’s cheeks almost immediately feel like emotional and magical brands on her skin. God, she is melodramatic.

“Well,” Ruby exhales. “That’s uh...no time like the present, right?”

Emma tilts her head up, met with a determined expression that usually only shows up ahead of full moons and autumn equinoxes and her smile feels almost honest. That’s nice.

“You’re just rearing to go, huh?”

Ruby’s grin looks a little predatory. “I’m ready to go play hero, if that’s what you’re asking. You feeling particularly magical?” “I think I’m almost willing to try.” “Ah, well, that’s half the battle, isn’t it?” She holds her hand out, Emma taking it immediately and the hug she pulls her into is tight enough to crack a few ribs. “You have any idea how to get to the library?” “Not a clue.” “What do they say? It’s a grid system?” “I think I’ve heard that somewhere before, yeah.” “Well, if we get attacked somewhere in Manhattan at least we’ll probably make the newspapers or something.” “Something,” Emma echoes. “Alright, let me at least change my clothes before we try and crash the New York Public Library.”

Ruby nods, another quick squeeze and even quicker kiss pressed to Emma’s cheek. “Crash is definitely the word you were looking for there.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t mention that her magic flared to life when she saw Killian. Or that it disappeared as soon as he walked away. She bites back the admission, positive that it isn’t important or can’t be important or some other negative contradiction she’ll come up with eventually.

When she’s not treading dangerously close to a panic attack.

She didn’t object to either one of the endearments.

And it really doesn’t take long – the only clothes Emma has to change into, a pair of second-hand jeans and a few other t-shirts they’d gotten from the thrift store up the block after she’d magic’ed her way into an ATM – but she feels like she’s on the edge of something as soon as she crosses the apartment threshold, air thick and hands flexing and her eyes snap to the corner of the hallway.

Killian’s jacket is gone.

The New York Public Library is not loud. Everything else is. It takes her and Ruby what feels like a small eternity to walk up to it, a little confused because Bowery becomes a different street and I thought this was a grid, but that’s apparently a lie below a certain street and there are beads of sweat on Emma’s temple by the time they make it to 5th Ave.

Where, it sounds like, a small army of people have congregated.

Emma has no idea where to look, nails digging into her palm to stop herself from screaming. She’s not sure if she’s scared or...something else. Something else sounds worse. And very small town.

Small town witch.

What a ridiculous string of words.

The noise doesn’t stop. Not on the street or in front of the park and Emma has no idea what that smell is that appears to be coming from a nearby cart. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying to find some kind of equilibrium or even ground and the scene that flashes in front of her is not midtown Manhattan.

It’s her. But...not. She’s smiling, a look of adoration on her face that she’s never used before because there’s never been anyone who warranted a look like that before. It’s enough that, for a moment, she’s distracted by what she’s wearing – a gown, in the truest sense of the word, flowing, white fabric and oversized sleeves and she doesn’t immediately realize what’s pinching at her hair.

A crown.

She’s wearing a crown.

“Your highness,” a voice mumbles, a hint of a smile in the words and Emma’s stomach flips. That’s confusing. “Sorry I’m late.”

Emma laughs. She feels it, the noise bubbling out of her with joy and ease and she can’t quite see the face in front of her, but she wants to. Desperately.

So, naturally, she opens her eyes.

“Em,” Ruby snaps, and that word sounds fearful. It shakes and rattles around Emma’s skull, impossibly loud even in front of the New York Public Library. “You ready?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Let’s see what we can find.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #cs fic #all was golden in the sky #that stupid witch fic #I AM SO EXCITED GUYS I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH ANY OF MY LIMBS #I HOPE YOU LIKE ALL THESE WORDS #THERE ARE SO MANY WORDS

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riviae · 5 years

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@domusaeternitatis requested angsty hansa headcanons so i am here to deliver (but i also did sneak some fluffy hc’s in too!!):

Geralt:

geralt’s ability to use a crossbow in tw3 is due to training he received from milva in the books

he lost his headband during the stygga castle fight. & even after he regained his memories, he didn’t want to style his hair like that anymore... angouleme used to tease him about his headband/hair-style even tho she wore a headband too. it’s just another one of geralt’s old aches from the past that he tries to ignore.

the first night he crawled into his bed at corvo bianco (so pre-regis reunion), he had a dream that the hansa visited him. he saw milva & regis in the meadow, basking in the warm summer weather, a book between them as regis taught milva to read. milva looked confused at some points, but was earnestly trying & geralt saw a spark of excitement in her eyes when she was able to read an entire page in common speech. he saw angouleme petting one of the cats that made the estate its home--which turned into about 30 stray cats when she pulled out a few pieces of leftover fish from her rucksack, causing a general ruckus as she was so apt to do. he saw cahir sitting in the shade of the tree that overlooks geralt’s property. his hair was shorter, the scars from his incident with the hatchet peeking out from underneath his dark locks. he looked a bit older, perhaps even wiser as he watched the clouds float by. when he makes eye contact with the witcher, cahir gives a small smile. he even sees dandelion. between them there is a small wooden table and a few empty wine glasses. it looks like they’re in the middle of a game of gwent, which ends with dandelion forfeiting the match before he loses, opting to pull out his lute & sing. it’s a silly toussaint nursery rhyme, something geralt had heard children singing as they played in the fields, but soon, the gentle melody washes over the estate as everyone joins in--including geralt himself. when he later wakes to an empty house, a deep sense of melancholy burrows itself into his chest. a longing for something that could never be...

stress is the #1 trigger for his knee injury to flare up. despite the warm climate of toussaint otherwise helping with his general aches & pains, if he comes across a place where he & his hansa had visited before, it often sends him into a fit of sudden & blinding pain. on his worst days, he has to use a cane to get around.

Regis:

regis really did all the odd jobs as the barber-surgeon of the group. from haircuts to dressing wounds, regis also found himself mending clothing (with geralt’s help--as he too was able to assist in sewing holes shut or fixing busted chainmail). which suited regis just fine; he preferred domestic tasks over fighting, having seen enough bloodshed at the battle for the bridge. it wasn’t until stygga castle that he truly fought again

while he didn’t fight often, he did spar & train with the rest of the hansa (minus dandelion of course). given his agility, stamina, & regeneration, he acted as a great sparring partner. with milva, he stayed mostly in his smoke form, only reappearing for a few seconds to give her a chance to hit him w/ an arrow as they both ran through the forest to work on her accuracy & stamina. he often sparred with geralt & cahir at the same time, letting both swordsmen lunge at him. it helped them learn to fight & cooperate together as well as improved their general ability to communicate w/ others in the midst of battle. angouleme was more curious about regis’ vampiric powers than anything else, knowing full well that she was much more of a sneak-behind-someone’s-back-and-stab them kind of fighter--something that would be otherwise impossible when sparring with a higher vampire. instead, regis taught angouleme about different powers that higher vampires could possess & was the only one who saw regis’ bat form before stygga castle.

the first thing regis did upon regenerating enough that his mental faculties returned was to determine the fate of his friends. the ravens we see in the base-game are regis’ & upon hearing that, at the very least, geralt, yen, and ciri survived stygga castle (and that dandelion was still alive too), immense relief washed over him. it was only later that he let himself mourn--& he mourned in the most human way he knew: despite having abstained from alcohol before, he had a drink for each of his fallen comrades. alone, he spoke of his favorite memories of his friends. times that bonded them together, that made it so they were family. he reminisced for an entire night, voice growing hoarse as the sun rose & he gave his final farewell.

definitely a headcanon i’ve seen floating about, but during his period of regeneration, regis begins using his ravens more often; they become his eyes & ears in toussaint as he recovers since he can’t move around much at first. the ravens he is closest to he lovingly names after the hansa members who fell at stygga castle. perhaps even more bittersweet, but the 3 ravens (milva, cahir, and angouleme) become a family unit of sorts. while they still remain with their flock, the 3 corvids are the only ones that remain close to regis & are the first to answer his call. he always gives them extra chin scratches & fruit or grain. sometimes he even thinks he can see a spark of their personalities in the birds’ eyes. milva tends to lead the group & isn’t afraid of any of the other animals in the forest. angouleme is the most playful of the three, often pulling on the other 2 corvids’ tails or cawing loudly & repeatedly in a manner that reminds regis of laughter. cahir is generally quiet & brings up the rear of the trio, but when he senses danger, he’s the first to go swooping in, recklessly attacking whatever threatens them with his beak & claws.

Milva:

during their travels, milva & cahir were mostly in charge of hunting for food. while milva caught wild game, cahir fished. it became a ritual of sorts; milva would return first, then cahir. the rest of the hansa would then help prepare the food, often making soup or skewering the meat & roasting it on an open flame. despite the often meager rations split between 6 people, the food still tasted better than anything milva ate when she was alone.

milva was also the first to readily accept regis as a friend after his true nature was revealed. when she accidentally sliced her hand a few days after regis returned to the group, she didn’t even bat an eye when regis appeared before her, having smelled her injury. “well, vampire? am i gonna live?” she asked, holding her bleeding hand out expectantly while she pressed her other hand to her hip. it was a wound she could have easily cleaned herself, but she trusted regis enough to let him tend to the cut. one bandaged hand later, milva apologized for having recoiled the first time she saw his teeth. she squeezed his shoulder in apology--the first time she had initiated contact with him since he was revealed to be a vampire--and she rolled her eyes when she noticed regis’ hand hovering at her back. “tell anyone we hugged & it’ll be the last time you get to use that hand,” she said, no real malice in her voice as she pulled the vampire into a hug. she didn’t get to see the wide, fanged grin that regis gave in return.

as mentioned above, milva taught geralt how to better use a bow. along the way, she ended up teaching cahir, angouleme, & even dandelion too. geralt was the best at hitting far-away targets, but angouleme was downright dangerous in that she was enthused about using a bow. angouleme somehow convinced regis to let her try & land a trick-shot (an apple perched on the poor vampire’s head)... & to everyone’s surprise, she landed the shot with ease in front of the group. it was only later that milva noticed the absurd amount of holes in regis’ cape & he later confessed that he had secretly practiced with angouleme beforehand so she could make her trick-shot easily in front of everyone.

a few weeks after her miscarriage, milva woke from a frightening nightmare--but couldn’t remember anything about it except she knew she had seen an arrow flying through the air. it was still dark when she woke, but being unable to sleep, she carefully slipped out from her bedroll & went deep into the forest, far from where they had set up camp, & climbed the tallest tree she could find, going up until she reached the uppermost branch. staring up at the stars, she took a deep breath & screamed. all the emotion she had been holding in since the battle for the bridge poured out of her in a flurry of anguished screams & angry tears at the unfairness of the universe. she screamed into the dark until she no longer felt sad--only tired. that morning, she approached the group & chopped off her braid. it was time for a change. the group needed her just as badly as she needed them--the world had never been kind to her, but she’d be damned if she gave up now, not when there was still a child that could be saved.

Dandelion:

dandelion often acted as the comedic relief for the group--& he knew it. did he ham up some of his actions & words to rouse a chuckle or two from his friends? yes, but it was something dandelion chose to do. he wasn’t a fighter. he couldn’t brave the fray the same way everyone else could. he was a minstrel, a bard, a poet, & he vowed to use his talents to improve morale & bring some joy to the hansa as they traveled through treacherous lands to find ciri.

most nights he ended up playing his lute as the final embers of the campfire smoldered away. assuming he wasn’t drunk, he usually played until he was sure that everyone was asleep, though he could never quite tell if regis was truly asleep--or if the vampire even needed sleep at all. regardless, despite the selfish facade he often wore like a second skin, he did know the importance of a good night’s rest. & though he couldn’t stop the nightmares that his friends often woke from in the dead of night, he hoped his music could at least give them a few hours of blissful, dreamless sleep.

dandelion was completely prepared to sacrifice his life to save ciri. he owed geralt that much--the witcher having been both is best friend & one of the few people who saw past his exaggerated persona. he’d even saved dandelion’s life more times then he could count. so why did he remain in toussaint when everyone else traveled to stygga castle w/ geralt? simply because geralt asked him to. before leaving, they had one final private conversation where geralt asked dandelion to stay. to remain safe. he’d gone far enough, braved enough bloodshed to last him a lifetime. geralt knew it was likely no one in the hansa would survive the events at stygga castle & he wanted, at the very least, for dandelion, his oldest friend, to survive. to survive & tell their story, no matter how it all turned out.

when regis showed up at the Chameleon one night, looking as frantic & pale as a nightwraith, dandelion actually passed out in fear & shock. when he awoke & saw that regis was truly alive, whole, & still had all his memories, dandelion cried. it was the first time he had ever hugged the vampire, but he couldn’t help it; he had accepted the fact that only geralt had survived the events of stygga castle, but regis was here, looking a tad worse for wear, but as solid & corporeal as he had been before. once regis explained why he had come to visit, needing help to get geralt out of jail & out of what would likely be a death sentence, dandelion rose to the occasion. though regis had said his help was indispensable, something that definitely stroked his ego, dandelion had been prepared to face the duchess. prepared to finally make good on his vow that he’d die for geralt if he had to--but he didn’t need someone as keen & perceptive as regis realizing that dandelion could be brave, ‘lest he be asked to perform even more heroic deeds. furthermore, dandelion had plenty of practice hiding his true intentions/feelings since he had been working as a redanian spy for some time (even if his loyalties to political powers waned from time to time).

Cahir:

in a perfect world, one where destiny & war did not care to know his name, he’d have lived a simple life. he never would have had as much blood on his hands, never would have used a sword to cut down people in the first place. he would have been a fisherman, selling his wares at different ports while he traveled the seas, charting his way by the stars. he would be able to have a blissful, dreamless sleep, no longer confronted with prophetic dreams about an ashen-haired woman. his name would have been left unknown, no legacy to speak of, no longer associated with the White Wolf, but it would have been worth it, if such a peaceful universe existed.

cahir was surprised to learn that dandelion and geralt weren’t fans of fishing. “it’s a long tale better suited for another night,” dandelion would say, geralt grunting in agreement. it confused cahir, as he had never seen someone so skittish of fishing like dandelion was, but he didn’t pry, knowing better than to do something that could disrupt his already tumultuous relationship with geralt. instead, he found himself teaching angouleme to fish, who took to catching fish with her bare hands surprisingly well for someone of her stature. it was like fishing with a child, cahir noted, bc every time she caught a fish, she’d holler with glee... even if she caught something as small as a minnow.

cahir appreciated how readily milva trusted him--while geralt had still insisted on seeing him as an enemy, milva had offered a metaphorical olive branch. unbeknownst to her or the rest of the hansa, cahir always tried to keep sight of milva during battle, hoping to lend a hand when he could. it was after a few months of traveling together that cahir stopped keeping track of her, believing entirely in her near-supernatural archery skills... something he regretted moments before he died at stygga castle.

there are many times in the books where cahir is completely silent as the rest of the hansa banters. my interpretation? cahir, while being well-versed in common speech, & having the ability to speak it w/o too distinct of a nilfgaardian accent, still had some trouble understanding the group at times. regis already made translation difficult as he often said words that cahir had never heard before despite being trained in proper common speech, but then angouleme made it so much worse. her use of slang & weird phrases confused him beyond belief. so, when it got too confusing, cahir just pretended to follow the flow of conversation. sometimes he even just decided to take a nap if it got to be too confusing.

Angouleme:

angouleme wasn’t used to trusting people. in her life as a bandit, & even before that--when she was being raised by distant relatives who took every chance to let her know that they didn’t love her & then her hellish nightmare at the orphanage--no one had given her a reason to truly trust them. but geralt had. he asked for her freedom & allowed her to travel with him & join his hansa despite her past, despite how if they had met only weeks earlier, she would have tried to kill him without a second thought. so while she hadn’t trusted the rest of the group at first, she did trust geralt implicitly, which was enough. it was partly why she tried to raise the rest of the group’s hackles--wanting to see just how they would act towards her if she didn’t play nice. she was surprised to see that they still accepted her as a part of the hansa, even when she continued to purposefully annoy milva & regis.

after getting to know milva, angouleme immediately started to see her as an older sister. she had been an only child, but having spent time at an orphanage, she knew the merit of creating a family for yourself--a family you choose rather than one bound by blood. similarly, she genuinely saw regis as her uncle & was delighted whenever the vampire slipped in one of her sayings into his colloquial speech. he took extra time to teach her about higher vampires since she joined the hansa much later than the others & was kind enough to answer any of her questions about vampires, no matter how personal they were. as for milva, angouleme took to the archery lessons with exuberance because she wanted to both impress milva and also just enjoyed spending time w/ her. one time after a particularly fluid shot, angouleme got so excited that she squeezed milva into a tight hug w/o thinking. she was surprised to find milva return the hug with a similar intensity, stroking her hair. & if angouleme openly cried at knowing milva also saw her as family, at being given the sort of physical affection she didn’t realize she was craving, milva never mentioned it to the rest of the hansa.

in toussaint, angouleme became a cat magnet. she spent her extra coin on fish from the docks &, true to her family crest, she would hand out pieces of fish to the stray cats in the city. at the sound of her boots hitting the wooden docks, scores of cats would come racing to her in search of free food & affection. they were the hardest thing about toussaint to leave behind

before they made it to stygga castle, geralt pulled her aside to make sure angouleme really wanted to participate in the battle. he also tells her the truth about how he originally had mistaken her for ciri--but now trusts her & sees her as a member of the hansa from her merit & courage alone. “you’ve come with us far enough, angouleme. i don’t want you doing this just because you think you owe me. you don’t. you can walk away now. return to toussaint. live a happy & long life.” in response, angouleme flicked him off & stuck out her tongue. “no one’s ever forced me to do anything before & it’s too late for you to try & scare me off now. we’re comrades, remember? a hansa. family. besides, i’m not gonna die here; i’ve got a high-class brothel to open in beauclair, remember?” her words ring hollow when she collapses to the ground, bleeding out in ciri’s arms. she asks to be made a countess before she dies, a characteristic smirk still on her lips at the thought of finally having her royal bloodline acknowledged in some way.

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #milva barring #dandelion #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #angouleme #angoulême #witcher headcanons #sorry this took so long!! i kinda.... went off on this post lol #// long post

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areyougettingenoughoxygen · 4 years

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Guess Who Write Tonight’s Show?: Space Ghost Coast to Coast and a History of Stopping (or Starting) the Insanity

Hands down, I can attribute my sense of humor and possibly my love for pop culture in general to the Cartoon Network-to-Adult Swim television show Space Ghost Coast to Coast. I’m not sure if it’s due to the nostalgia I had towards the show, or if it’s just because it’s so damn funny, but SGC2C is a show that I could watch on repeat and never get bored of, and I get bored of things pretty easily. As a kid, I remember Cartoon Network not being available on every cable package like it is today, so pretty much the only time I would get to watch it was during weekend stays at my grandparents’ house. I’d sit in the downstairs area and play with my Legos, staying up way too late, and watch shows like O’ Canada (a show that was comprised of Canadian produced shorts), Cartoon Planet (another show featuring the Space Ghost crew), and of course, Space Ghost Coast to Coast. As I got older and Cartoon Network was more readily available, Space Ghost Coast to Coast went from Cartoon Network to Adult Swim, and my parents forbade me from watching anything during the adult-only programming block (although I do remember sneaking and watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force episode “Mayhem of the Mooninites”). Once I got to middle school, while I couldn’t stay up late when Adult Swim was on, I received the first seasons of Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Space Ghost Coast to Coast on DVD. My friends would talk about Adult Swim, and I’d try to insert jokes from Space Ghost, and they’d respond “Oh we don’t watch that, we watch Family Guy.” Even though I started watching Family Guy to fit in, I found myself more drawn to the absurdity that was Space Ghost Coast to Coast.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only only one who didn’t have Cartoon Network in their home. It has been stated by the creators of Space Ghost Coast to Coast that during the beginning, they would watch the episodes at the office because none of them had Cartoon Network at home. The series was produced because Cartoon Network, a network originally comprising of archived cartoons, was wanting to produce original content for as cheap as possible. They wanted it to also appeal to adult viewers, with the idea that the market hadn’t yet appealed to this market. This became a reality by using footage and content from previous Hanna-Barbera series Space Ghost and inserting it over new backgrounds and imposing interviews over that. Matt Maiellaro, Andy Merrill, Khaki Jones, and Keith Crofford all wrote the earliest episodes while Mike Lazzo headed the program and Michael Cahill edited it. All of these people would be instrumental in the future Adult Swim block, but they got their first big start with Space Ghost Coast to Coast.

The premise of Space Ghost Coast to Coast is simple to explain, but things in the show never turn out to be as they should. Space Ghost interviews the guest, Zorak plays the music and antagonistically bounces off what Space Ghost says, and Moltar attempts to direct the show. At the beginning of the series, the show stays true to theme while placing various jokes within the shows. The first episode created, “Elevator,” sticks to having Space Ghost interview funny lady Judy Tenuta, my ex’s guide to taking shrooms Timothy Leary, and lover of baking chocolate pies Ashley Judd. You’d see hints to deviation in early episodes like in the first episode aired “Spanish Translation” where the cast’s proclamations would periodically be translated to Spanish and a faux evil nursery rhyme album starring Zorak and Moltar was advertised, or in “Batmantis” where Moltar had been kidnapped and Space Ghost attempted to have stars from the Batman television show help out Zorak’s alter ego Batmantis, but for the most part Space Ghost Coast to Coast operated in that there would be guests and comedic moments came from the interviews. It’s been said that the second season’s episode “Fire Drill” (which features an intro with Space Ghost complaining about sending gift baskets to Cartoon Network, created from simply taking voice actor George Lowe’s rantings from the voice booth) is when Space Ghost Coast to Coast’s premise took shape: making a comedic cartoon where interviews are taking place that becomes pure insanity.

While adult animation and humor was hardly new in the 90s with shows like The Simpsons and South Park being mega hits, Space Ghost Coast to Coast pushed the boundaries unlike any other program. The earliest example of this in my estimation would be the episode “Transcript,” in which the show deviates from its editing of interviews to present the interview with musician Jonathan Richman almost word-for-word how the interview actually went. The episode that aired a week after, “Sharrock,” was simply an episode that played the musical stylings of departed Sonny Sharrock, with the guest being Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth posing as a guest named Fred Cracklin. One of my favorite episodes of the series is entitled “Pavement,” named after the band who performs during the episode. The episode’s premise was that Space Ghost had written the show himself so it becomes more and more outrageous as the episode goes on (an example is Space Ghost promising that The Beatles would replace Zorak as the musicians of the show, only for Pavement to show up with Space Ghost claiming that they’re The Beatles because the people watching the show are too stupid to know the difference), but the story of the episode behind the scenes was that periodically the writers would just pass around the script after a few minutes had passed and had to continue the story that had already been written.

The longer the series was on the air, the more and more they tried to push the boundaries of comedy, with the fifth season of the show introducing several episodes like this. The winners of the Haiku In For Space Ghost contest ran by Cartoon Network got to be interviewed for the show and appear on an episode of Space Ghost, only for their episode (entitled “Joshua”) to be a long parody of a corporate instructional video with the interviews being presented in the last minute of the episode. “Warren” was an episode that’s ending was the exact same scene as the beginning, and when it originally aired it aired the episode three times in a row as a continuous loop of an episode, with the joke being the length of the episode. “Waiting for Edward” had an extended minute-or-so introduction that was simply a black screen with the word “Waiting” visible to the audience. These bits of anti-humor became the precedent for what was to be expected from Space Ghost Coast to Coast, as well as what was to be expected in the future Adult Swim block.

The sixth season had even more jokes based on this anti-humor movement. “Snatch” (written by the future creators of Sealab 2021, Adam Reed and Matt Thompson) advertised at the end of the airing that the ending would be sold at an eBay auction, with it being revealed in the future that the ending was simply a message with letter dancing around to a comedic tune and eventually spelling out “THE END?” “Curling Flower Space” was presented as the end of an episode supposedly named “Brilliant Number Three” with Jerry Springer being interviewed, only for the episode to be three different accounts of how a previous Sarah Jessica Parker interview played out. What may be the most outrageous display of special Space Ghost Coast to Coast humor would be the “Fire Ant” episode. A week before “Fire Ant” aired, an episode titled “Table Read” had aired on Cartoon Network, showing the voice actors rehearsing for the upcoming episode “Fire Ant.” That was it. Once “Fire Ant” aired, it was shown as a half hour episode, with the second part of the episode being over ten minutes of Space Ghost simply slowly following an ant to its home.

Almost two years later, Space Ghost Coast to Coast was moved from late night Cartoon Network to...well, still late night Cartoon Network, but a more edgy and adult late night Cartoon Network. Adult Swim, headed by the people instrumental over the years in making Space Ghost Coast to Coast, debuted in 2001 with shows similar to the Space Ghost Coast to Coast in that older Hanna-Barbera properties were taken and had new situations crafted for them. A more adult and edgy block seemed the perfect fit for Space Ghost Coast to Coast, but while a few curse words were added, the heart of the show remained the same. While only five episodes were created for season seven, eight episodes aired. This was thanks to “Kentucky Nightmare” being used three extra times in the form of the episode “Momentary” (an episode where the producers’ moms are providing commentary for “Kentucky Nightmare”), the episode “Momentary - Creator’s Commentary (an episode where the creators provide commentary for “Momentary”), and the episode “Momentary - Jellybean” (an episode where the creators just make a bunch of noise over “Momentary”). If it sounds crazy, that’s because it was crazy. But it was so crazy that it was hilarious.

Space Ghost Coast to Coast sadly didn’t receive many episodes in the Adult Swim era before ending (only 15 if you count the “Kentucky Nightmare”/”Momentary” rehashings), and its finale in true SGC2C fashion was promoted as an “Unfinished POS.” “Live at the Fillmore” is the only episode where not a single interview happens (the show has no budget, so Space Ghost suggests to interview the old Susan Powter interview from “Spanish Translation”), and as the episode continues it is obvious that it isn’t fully animated. The episode at the credits has no credits visible, and at the very end shows the credits for “Kentucky Nightmare.” The Adult Swim era of Space Ghost Coast to Coast ends where it begins. Sure, the series was revived later for website Gamefly and featured Space Ghost interviewing video game personalities, but the show that it was was dead and gone.

While Space Ghost Coast to Coast itself may be long gone, it has lived on in other Adult Swim programs. The Brak Show is a direct spinoff with Space Ghost appearing every now and then. Aqua Teen Hunger Force itself is a semi-spinoff of Space Ghost Coast to Coast, with the first idea for the team being seen in the SGC2C episode “Baffler Meal.” ATHF shows mention of its roots in both the episode “Carl Wash” in which the villains of the episode are Carl and Carl Jr. from SGC2C episode “Chambraigne,” and in the feature film where a missile launches and directly hits Space Ghost. Space Ghost cameos can be seen in every episode of Perfect Hair Forever, and in most episodes of Off the Air. A Robot Chicken sketch showed the counsel of Adult Swim being comprised of executives and included Space Ghost as a member of the counsel. While not directly tied, Eric Andre cites Space Ghost Coast to Coast as the influence for The Eric Andre Show. Various different advertisements over the years on Adult Swim have also featured Space Ghost interviewing a representative or mascot of a company.

Eric Andre has stated that Mike Lazzo is uninterested in ever bringing back Space Ghost Coast to Coast, and with the passing of C. Martin Croker (voice of Zorak and Moltar) in 2016, it seems as though a revival of the show is impossible. It’s a shame, as Space Ghost Coast to Coast is the grandfather of modern adult comedy in my opinion. Its redefinition of what comedy is and its forceful nature of making its viewers reconsider what is funny and what isn’t is the new standard of comedy. What made it a hidden gem during its length on television would make it a standout nowadays. When I think of something being beyond its time, Space Ghost Coast to Coast is a standout.

Should I be talking about a small cult classic like Space Ghost Coast to Coast as my first musing, something that several people reading this probably haven’t even watched? I believe it’s necessary to talk about Space Ghost Coast to Coast if I’m giving you a depiction of how I’m going to talk about things and why. I’ve been able to understand numerous cultural references and personalities thanks to the show (every time Carol Channing is referenced on Rupaul’s Drag Race my only point of reference to her is when she flirted with Space Ghost). The show has also taught me more about comedy than anything else, teaching me that the joke isn’t in what you say, but the context and how you say it. You all may not have heard of Space Ghost Coast to Coast before, but I thank it for the way I communicate and the way that I enjoy pop culture.

If you want to check out the show, it’s available almost entirely on adultswim.com for free now, and will be on the HBO Max platform when it launches in May 2020. The early episodes may be hard pills to swallow at first, but the roller coaster gets better and better the longer you ride it.

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