#I WAS FUCKING HOWLING. SEEING THAT FACE 2 TIMES IN A ROW LITERALLY KILLED ME. HES SO FUNNY

[kaguya-muneuji]

i decided to pull on sweets hunt niki scout bc. hes so cute !!!! and.

i get rinne five times

[wingedquill]

Juniper Berries Chapter 2

Hello, hello, here’s chapter two of my Witcher!Jaskier fic, introducing the man, the myth, the legend himself. As always, you can read it on AO3  if you like.

Part One

Chapter summary: Ciri runs and grieves and realizes that destiny hates her (or, maybe, likes her a bit too much)

***

The days stretched into weeks and she kept walking, hiding in the woods for as long as she could. But winter was gathering in the air, and after the third day in a row waking up covered in frost, she knew that she needed to start sleeping indoors.

She slipped into and out of towns, pulling the doe-eyed orphan routine until some kindly woman gave her a warm bed for the night. It never took very long. She wore Geralt’s medallion under her dress, against her heart, just in case the do-gooder was a monster. She slept with a knife under her pillow, just in case they were a monstrous human. And then, before they could question her too much, get too attached to her, start to see her as the daughter they’d never had, she was gone. Onto the next town, the next inn, the next kindly stranger.

She couldn’t go on like this.

And she wasn’t sleeping enough.

Her brain had stopped tormenting her with her cowardice. Her running, Geralt falling to a well-placed knife. Instead, it gathered up all her agonized pondering of what could I have done? and showed her the answers in bright, violent color.

Three weeks after, curled up in a hayloft of a poor but pleasant farmer.

She didn’t run. She stayed by Geralt’s side and held her head high and told them here I am. You have me. Let him go. And Geralt snarled and fought but they quickly overwhelmed both him and her. They lifted her up onto a furiously snorting horse and they pinned Geralt to the ground. He writhed like a wild thing, twisting around to look at her with frantic golden eyes.

And then they cut his throat.

She screamed and she screamed and the Nilfgaardians fell like cast-aside dolls.

Four weeks after, dozing on the window seat in a noblewoman’s bedchamber.

She didn’t run. She held a dagger to her own throat. Nilfgaard wanted her alive, and she could use that against them. Swear that you will let him live, she said. Swear by all the gods and you hold dear. And chaos curled in her voice, making her words vibrate with power.

We swear it, said one of the soldiers, lifting her up onto the same dark horse.

I’ll hunt you down, howled Geralt, pinned down again. I’ll tear you to shreds. I’ll find you.

You’ll find us, will you witcher?

The soldier leaned down over him, grabbed a hunk of his hair.

We can’t have that, he said, and then there was a flash of silver and Geralt’s scream broke the air in half. He clawed frantically at his face, fingers pressed against the bloody holes where his eyes used to be.

No! shouted Ciri as they bore her away, leaving Geralt crumpled on the ground. You promised, you swore, you—

We swore that we would let him live, said the soldier. We said nothing about leaving him whole.

She bolted awake and turned over the side of the window seat, vomiting up her dinner in thick ropes. Because that had felt so real, and what if it was one of her visions, one of her dreams-that-weren’t-dreams? What if she had run, and the furious Nilfgaardians hadn’t been content with killing Geralt? What if they had blinded him and left him for dead in the woods?

The lady woke, gasping and shrieking, sobbing about Ciri ruining the carpet.

“I let you into my house out of the goodness of my heart!” she screamed. “And this is how you repay me?”

She grabbed Ciri by the hair and dragged her off the window seat. Ciri stumbled through the vomit, making the carpet even worse, but the furious noblewoman didn’t seem to notice. She yanked her out of the room and marched her down the hall, cursing ungrateful orphans all the while.

She pulled the front door open and a gust of snow blew in.

“I’ll freeze,” Ciri said. Not a plea. Just a fact. Let this woman know what she was doing to her.

“Not my problem.” And with that, she was hurled through the door and into the blizzard. The door slammed shut behind her, lock sliding into place with a loud thud. She shifted from foot to foot, wrapping her arms around her.

The noblewoman’s home was way up on a hillside, far away from the nearest town. She liked to be above it all, literally and figuratively. But that posed a problem for Ciri. Could she make it all the way down? The wind whipped past her face, shoveling snow down her collar. She would have to try.

She set off for the town on trembling legs, not sure if the shaking was a result of the cold or the lingering nightmare. Not for the first time, she considered heading back into the woods. She could try and retrace her steps, find Geralt again. She had found him that first time, after all, destiny pulling them together like magnets. And she knew that the odds were so, so low, knew that she would likely just be consigning herself to a slow, cold death. But there was a nagging pull in her heart, demanding that she at least try.

Try and find a body, the dream whispered. Rotting into the mud. Maggots eating at his eyes.

She shoved aside her thoughts and trudged on. The snow was piling into her boots, rubbing ice into her shins. Frost gathered at her eyelashes and stuffed up her nose, turning every breath into a razor’s drag. Her fingertips were growing numb. She was racing her own body, she realized, racing her own tolerance. The winter was battering her down bit by bit, tugging at her limbs and bidding her to lie down in the snow and rest awhile. She couldn’t even see the lights of the town in the flurry of white. She didn’t even know if she was going in the right direction.

The house rose out of the storm like a lighthouse.

It was a small hut, light spilling from its windows, catching the snowflakes and making them glitter like stars. It seemed warm. Inviting. The noblewoman’s groundskeeper lived here, if she had to guess. And, though Ciri was done with kindly strangers, she regrettably needed them at that moment. So she fell against the door, pounding frantically at it with her fists.

It swung open and she toppled inside. The warm air of the cottage burned in her lungs and seared the skin of her face. The woman who had opened the door made a shocked noise and knelt down beside Ciri, pressing a hand against her cheek.

“You’re cold as ice,” she gasped. “Come, sit by the fire.”

She half-led, half-carried Ciri to a chair and piled her with furs until she was swathed in a cocoon of warmth. Her fingers prickled with the heat and she flexed them, relieved to find that they still obeyed her. She had heard stories of men who got caught in the cold too long, and who lost their hands as a result. The woman leaned down to inspect her nose and ears, frowning to herself.

“You should be safe from frostbite,” she said. “But what were you doing out in the cold?”

“I was a guest of the lady,” Ciri said. “But she threw me out.”

“Into this weather—?! No, I don’t know why I’m shocked. That’s typical of her.”

The woman scowled and turned to the pot of stew that hung over the fire, ladling out a portion into a large bowl.

“She made my husband go and check on her topiaries, can you believe it?” she grumbled. “It’s like she doesn’t realize that we’re human beings.”

She pressed the stew into Ciri’s hands.

“Eat,” she said. “You’re skin and bone, and it’ll warm you.”

“Thank you.”

“These are dark times, girl. We need to look out for each other, or what hope do we have?”

She sank into the chair next to her.

“My husband should be home soon,” she said. “He’s a good man. You can stay with us as long as you need.”

Until the storm let up, then. She nodded. Stay quiet and small and don’t show a personality, and then they won’t hate you, but they won’t want to keep you. It was a trick that had served her well.

The woman sighed.

“The world has hurt you, hasn’t it?” she said, more to herself than Ciri.

Before Ciri could even think about answering, the door cracked open.

“Mildred!” shouted a man from outside. “You find any stray dogs or wandering calves in this storm?”

Mildred looked at Ciri, raising an eyebrow.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Good! Good. I have a gentleman here who—well, he saved my life, and we don’t have much, so I offered him Law of Surprise.”

And she hoped. For one fleeting, precious moment, she thought that destiny must have been on her side again, pushing her back to Geralt. Playing out a bit of irony that would ultimately end in her favor.

But then the door opened wider, and Mildred’s husband stepped into the cottage. Next to him was a man. A witcher, going by the blood-crusted swords and bright golden eyes.

But it wasn’t Geralt.

Mildred gestured wordlessly at Ciri. The witcher turned towards her, eyes widening as he realized that he had claimed, not a dog or a cow, but a child. And Ciri decided that Geralt had been right all along.

Fuck destiny.

[negativefate]

rambling stream of consciousness essay i wrote to myself dec 29, 2014

listening to harsh noise music while driving down the highway i had just taken off at 630 from my house and before that woken up at 5 to get ready and finish cleaning the last set of things and before that leaving a party at kevins house and not telling anyone that i wasn't going to be there for new years and causing disappointment and before that seeing a show at dead leaf with a great 8bit band at the end and before that walking back and forth to the liquor store to get some beer and before that awkwardly getting dinner after my cousin came to visit when we probably should have gotten dinner with them and then before that i am cleaning up the basement again, organizing stupid cables, making a couple old devices work which is fun, but is it worth the time spent even? if not, then is my time on this planet even fucking worth it or am i just making trash like i believe these actual physical well designed objects that come to my home are so jump to me landing in kansas city and here i put on a tape just to get in the mood again i get there only an hour after landing i clumsily look up directions to get to jacks house on my phone i find there’s a bus that gets me there for fuckin a dollar fifty and i give them 2 and they give me a ticket for 50 cents back i ride the bus and i'm pretty tired for lack of sleep, and we drive through some weird semi industrial areas that are sparsely developed yet there are people getting on and off the bus fairly consistently i almost don't even notice who is getting on and off and at one point i look back to the back of the bus and see that i don't remember hardly any of the people getting on one person is looking back at me with a mousey face i typify some of these midwest people's looks certain women especially have a certain look that just reminds me of various nondescript porn actresses or something i start reading a economics book and it talks about oil prices and how scarcity reflects prices and is a major signal to the economy it is an interesting point of view but i look for holes in the logic because it seems obviously presenting a plain vewpoint it is clear that the US for example doesn't give a fuck about scarcity or perhaps the signalling system is so degraded that there is a runaway development the roads are overbuilt the cars are overrunning the roads if i take the face value economic view that this is a supply and demand problem i see it as a very perverse value system that rewards wasting they clearly even mention that soviet economies have gross inefficiencies and if we reflect on our own inefficiency it's clear to see that we are not perfect i feel that the author should have made this more clear i notice that i passed a street that i saw on my map (wyanadote) and while i didn't think it was "already" time to get off, several people are standing for several city blocks instead of sitting waiting to get off therefore I realize perhaps we're at a central location and certainly we are I stumble a couple blocks from the "main transit center" to another crossing on wyanodote, and i pass several office buildings with retail space that is broken down on the first floors first an eye doctor shop, filled with eye product ads but being torn to pieces otherwise then a sandwich shop, with dark cloudy windows and closed signs and a vibe of a previous generations comfort food when i reach the bustop at the streets that i had spotted on my map i was pleased and the troost bus came almost instantly i didn't understand how to scan my transfer so the lady did it for me, and i was acting bashful she was wondering if i knew it was the troost bus and i said yes i was wondering if that question was loaded i rode the bus in the front and looked at all the people that got on and off as we went towards jacks house we passed a row of two story townhouses that were red and white and repetitive that just looked like a dead end life situation for successful people i remembered my talk with my dad about retirement plans and investing money and about how i was literally thinking of blowing my brains out rather than do that and how i was yet again thinking about suicide in the bus i didn't even take it seriously but the vividness of me blowing my fucking head off was really awful i finally started recognizing some troost landmarks and scrambled off the bus i gave my ticket to a guy that wanted a transfer and he lamented being late for the bus that i just got off i don't know how to respond to this very well but wished him luck i walked up to jacks house and there are birds and squirrels and life just running wild there it is bright and sunny though a bit chilly (maybe 40 deg) and all these animals just were simply flourishing i walk inside through a couple closed doors and find my keys in the decorative chicken ornament i was surprised to also find several condoms inside the chicken, which was really amusing (e.g. the rooster...cock...haha) then i sat for a minute and petted the cat i wondered why the cat wasn't outside killing all the abundant wildlife whatever i was wearing three jackets because i was convinced that frontier would charge me for stuffing my jacket in my backpack and making it oversized in reality they didn't appear to care but they charge 50 dollars for a goddamn carry on that wasn't declared so i didn't risk it so i take off several layers and start my car i find where i left several of the christmas presents that I had meant to bring back home in the trunk and sort of kick myself for it i consider taking my car to a dealership to get it fixed up but have no idea where i also consider getting some food somewhere but decide to just hit the road i'm fairly tired still so i decide the stop off at fast food a couple miles out of town during the ride i am listening to some shitty talk radio about some guys that are talking about their "online trading academy" for stock trading i pull over and get some mountain dew, burrito and gasoline. slurping reality blub sucker is all i am at that moment. i do a couple stretches but it doesn't really feel very good. i am still listening to the radio in the parking lot and i notice that they replay recorded segments of themselves suggesting it is not at all a live show. at that point i decide it's time to blast the "white eye of winter" cassette and just start driving. i decide intentionally to start making stream of consciousness analogies to the noises instead of just letting it wash over me in some nonverbal stupidity i realize music journalists are probably better than me at this but i take some interest in just naming the feelings that i get so I'll repeat that hear a full spectrum white wash starts and then quickly gets crushed into a rumbling full force debase attack that's totally intentional about getting a skull crushing sound "large numbers of priests that were administrating the gulags were arrested and presumed killed" "others were sent to the labor camps...and suffered more slowly...assumed to be part of stalins fringe" a demented drum sound with a short delay time and extremely high feedback pounds and is absorbed by a sea-worthy hiss that fuzzes out and pounds once again to a deep drum a wind swept saturation takes hold and kills everything around it dead leaves litter the ground like there was never life anyways a thin veneer on the surface of our planet oscillations that never even really meant anything the dark fades away...like a comet that is completely grey....without color next a dirty fucking liquid sounds like it's being squeezed through a rubber feeding tube and a vaguely operatic chorus sings in the background, lulliby for a screaming nightmare some full bodied drone hovers over the chorus and takes the 17th century in it's arms and lays it gently to rest, taking each of the sharp moments, the sick deaths, the negative atrocity culture, and bringing it up onto a safer place, one where the only thing that matters is th industrialization of our times the industrialization has replaced any notion that feelings matter, any notion that a fair working environment is something that people deserve we could give retards something to do but it's already done and if you go up the ladder you see more and more things have been automated away you don't think about the roads being built do you? you don't think about the farms that cover 80+ percent of arable land do you? even when you're flying from new york to LA you don't hardly notice that humans have claimed this land for themselves scintillation frequency evokes this convulsive thought control that rises into a nasty chemical haze that demands more resources it's silenced into yet another flailing drippy sound fade out

a electric whip takes the stand fucking whining about the deprivation of resources and stuggles to make some connection fiercely spitting out brief moments of feedback between any number of frequencies that it can communicate on with an aether with non-existant endpoint it takes on more and more endpoint arcing back on itself and driving the frequencies into logical conundrums that antirepel itself and howl into additional painful derivative maneuvers it makes no difference to the machine what the effects of it's energy is being expended on, but only that some noise is being made taken astray leading reclamation of a formerly _done wrong_ system that is now instantaneously trashed and thrown under to make way for something more unplanned more unrelenting in it's consumption of power and antisocial connectivity whining and crying you see tear droplets form in the wave spectrogram taking a full 90 seconds to develop from a mixture of waveforms into a coherent pattern at your notification level notification level that is aloof from what you are supposed to be paying attention to but is instead wired into the inverse avoidance pattern the end the beginning once more gain blasting the appearance of nothing into a oscillation that has wavelengths spanning over years in time \ the bright lightning shatters a dark blank sentimental moment between us vaccum heavy rain sucks the white light from the heavens turning your back onto the keloid frostbite fallow bulbous pulsing face  trancerotten yellow drainage trapnell decade trip fucker stumble block meaningless powernazi storm chaser populace chain reveals a mathematical rule. a pseudoconsistent logic to resolve fndamental curry's paradox from thin air what you thought was a clumsy blind behemoth is now an industrialized system that seemingly stands on it's own regardless of what yo even thought your very presence is nothing more than that like a dinosaur a placement that just gives you a central prominence as i start the other side the lull the powerful lull of harmonics drilled deep into the subcortex drilled deep into the somnambulist deity that rocks the beddy-bye to sleep that keeps the sharp reality away for at least some time for that reality of simple nature, the spikes of inedible plant matter, the vast nothingness that humans have somehow decided is rightfully theirs. homesteaded one small plot at a time until the federal government stepped in and purchased the large swaths of land a musical pattern that resembles a shaman opening and closing it's arms above it's head and taken drumming starts thathits something that's the vbrational equivalent of a untuned drum mode across an entire flood basin drumming starts that calls into question or owner ship of that land and the melodic butterfly that was once a welcome sight is now almost  gone a tick tock dog growl gargling on some infected bacteria sinus cavity occupies the entire space you can hardly remember what things that you thought reckless distasteful nonsense squanders what was left of your vague fact driven storyline a sigh of relief ahlzagailzeguh stomps something fierce onto the mixing floor and drives metallic shards of broken dreams into the woodwork you don't think about who built your house did you/ why do you think you are worth anything to the other people around you when i say you am i actually referring to myself? i'm just desperately trying to offload my stupidity onto someone else? what is vulnerable to critique? i sit almost braindead when i face some of the most important situations yet when something is inconsequential i can leap into action and hurl retarded insults atpeople who don't deserve it like this girl that played prince at a party for like 4 hours i walked up to her and nearly choked her lights out and when she closed the computer i said no! play something else! i proceed to chose a random song that i thought was good off of youtube and then i proceed to just stand there and drunkenly creep on some peoples conversation wishing i could have just chosen a song that was better it's not my fault right? no, it is... there's a huge societal expectation that can't handle you being this way there's a roaring electric god that isn't going to cradle you in your arms while your social environment sees you as if you were a crying baby on an airplane take just a couple things at a time put them "in their right place" maybe then you won't have a crushing retardation lingering over everything you touch repeat this ad nauseum don't think for a minute that you can "escape" this reality you're "personal experiences" (your vacation, your hanging out with friends) is so far deviated from your systematically disassociated life happenstance that your better off to just give the middle finger to everyone and everything until it's over until it's over and you drop a sharp process into the ground and levitate transgressional power you can physically and mentally fail during this tremble weirdly under the occipital signal tension  drab naked torbid flippant crater wield two basic components and when suddenly connected create a huge imbalance that sends flux reeling superintensely into the weak painless skinless meat proper happenstance flayed skinless animal carcass rotting spongiform encephalitis eschera coli sacchromyces schizophrenia pombe river blindness parasite trapped nderneat the helencaste psycholayer obligate individual disease question i never know what to say

[marveldcnewcanon]

Reaction of Joker: this is my prequel to The Dark Knight and I don’t need you telling me its not, I need you to write a fanfic

The only non-spoiler thing I can immediately think of is “Every Joker deserves a dance number.”

Okay, on to a non-chronological blurt of my feelings disgusted as a review.

1) Right off the bat: THOMAS WAYNE IS NOT A VILLAIN. He is, however, the father of Batman and acted exactly as any red-blooded Wayne does. That punch was so sharp, my vision flickered and I thought it was Batman punching Joker.

2) lol, Bruce was so catatonic. I’ve interpreted Bruce Wayne as being a special needs kid since I was a kid and I kinda wanted that kid to say he had a condition in much of the same way Arthur has to apologize with “I have a condition.”

3) Last Wayne comment, I’m sorry, but its them, is that many of you have wondered if Suicide Squad counts as a Batman movie. After watching Batman v Superman and Joker, we can now say, no, it does not. Because Bruce Wayne’s parents didn’t die in front of a theater showing of Zorro in Suicide Squad. You may, in your ignorance and naivety say that Batman and Robin and Batman Forever didn’t feature this. Which, frankly, proves my point. If they wanted to be true Batman movies, they would have atleast had a picture of Thomas and Martha pre-shot-to-death like The Lego Batman Movie. There is no point to ANY story set in Gotham City if Thomas and Martha aren’t shot in it.

4) Anyway, 10/10 movie. Go watch it. Watch it again. You haven’t watched it enough times. The Clown Prince of Crime is... the King Lear/Macbeth of the modern age. It’s like... “You think you are a good actor, capable of depth and range, able to make an audience feel for you even as you spiral into depravity? Oh, then let me see the clip of you playing as the Joker.”

5) 1981 looked awful. I’m so happy to have been raised in the 90s.

6) This really was a comedy. Joker found true community, belonging and a sense of purpose. ... In Arkham. That’s beautiful. (Dear god, you wouldn’t believe how many people cheered in my theater at every dramatic “upswing”. Like, literally howling with released tension when Arthur shot the city boys.)

7) After about the 3rd hallucination of “Black Harley” i began to actually think she was real, probably only because once his stand up was confirmed as real, I started to think she was, too. LOL, NVM, no one loves you, Arthur. I wonder if how many people are going to go apeshit because three black women died in this movie. ... ... Oh, wait, the first social worker didn’t die.

8) Once Arthur got into the habit of killing, NBC’s Hannibal Lector started speaking in my head, “Honestly, you’d be far healthier if you killed him.”

9) I want a sequel of this, but I don’t want one, but I do, but I don’t... But I do... 

10) In the smallest recesses of my mind, I was scared the movie really was going to make them brothers. I was fearful for my batjokes fangirls.

11) I don’t care how little it makes sense, in my fevered daydreams, this is canonically a prequel with Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy and Ledger!Joker is the modern copycat killer of a madman from 1981. And BvS/SS are now the 20-year future story of a middle-aged Batman enduring his Robin being kidnapped and tortured into being the 3rd Joker. I’m sorry... but if WB didn’t want me to do this, they should not have made “Joker is significantly older than Bruce” “Joker is the same age as Bruce” and “Joker is significantly younger than Bruce” movies all in a fucking row. 

THIS IS THE WORLD, NOW. Because the Joker lives to torment Bruce Wayne and will continue to do so, even when he dies. Because that adorable little blank face needs to SMILE.