#i've spent way too long thinking about this

[forhappysake]

Fluffy Surprise

Author's Note: Not proofread and the first fic I've written in like six months so read if you dareeee

Summary: Reader decides to give Spencer a present when he returns to their new home.

Warnings: People with cat allergies, beware! (?) Fluff ofc.

You moved into the new house two weeks ago.  Technically, you moved all your stuff into the new house two weeks ago. In boxes. Lots and lots of heavy boxes.

Spencer had come up with a system, labeling each box with the room it would go into at the new house. You had worked together to pack everything, label each box, and unload the boxes into your new home. 

And it seemed like the moment he set the last box down and you were ready to start setting the place up, his phone rang. 

Spencer had been gone for one week. 

The case was halfway across the country, somewhere in Santa Fe. You couldn’t exactly be mad at him for being gone, but unpacking and trying to organize everything without his input was a nightmare. You were finishing the last box in your shared bedroom, carefully placing his clothes on wooden hangers and organizing them in the closet, when your phone rang. 

Spencer’s name lit up the screen. You answered quickly. 

“Hi, Spence,” you said, plopping down on the freshly made bed.

You could tell how tired he was from the long pause he took before responding. “Hey, honey. How’s the unpacking?” he asked with a small sigh. 

You frowned to yourself, worried about how tired he sounded. “Oh, it’s alright. I’d like you to look through all the rooms when you get home, just to make sure everything is where it should be.” You let out a soft laugh, “I also had a hard time hanging up all the pictures and paintings without you, so we may have to straighten some of them up when you get back.” 

Another pause followed, though this time you could envision him nodding to himself. “We can do that,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to do it all by yourself. I promise I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It was fine, Spencer. Besides, I’m pretty sure chasing a serial killer or something gives you an excuse.” 

He sighed on the other end of the line. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. We caught the unsub this evening. I’m hoping to be home late this evening, but it probably won’t be until after you go to bed.”

You smiled, content with the thought of him coming home to your freshly decorated home. “Oh, I’ll be staying up. I want to see your reaction to the place.”

“Alright,” he said, clearly too tired to urge you to go to bed instead with a list of facts about the health benefits of a good night’s sleep. 

You sighed. “As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I’ve got about fifteen more boxes to go.” 

“I understand. I should probably get some work done, too. Files, reports, you know how it is,” his voice was barely a whisper now, the exhaustion beginning to get the better of him. 

“Don’t work too hard, Spence,” you cautioned. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you.”

“I won’t. I love you too,” he answered. The end of his line promptly went dead.

You looked around the bedroom, discarding your phone on the bed. You couldn’t help but wonder if there was something you could do to make Spencer’s return home a bit more special. 

You sat up and leaned over, furrowing your brow and resting your head in the palm of your hand as you tried to think of things Spencer liked. Of course, Spencer liked a lot of things. He liked sweet coffee, puzzles, and a classic novel in some foreign language you couldn’t comprehend. 

None of those things were overly special, in your mind. As you sat and wracked your brain, a thought finally came to you. 

One month ago, walking by a local cat cafe, Spencer spotted the most beautiful calico. She had fluffy hair, one black ear, one orange. Her little paws were white and she was so well mannered. Spencer and yourself had gone in immediately and he had spent your time inside doting on the calico, whose name, you learned, was Calypso. 

You bolted up from the bed and out into the living room, finding your purse sitting among the unpacked boxes. You shot out to the car, and without a second thought, drove the ten minutes to the cat cafe. 

You said a silent prayer that the cat was still available as you pulled into a parking space across the street. As if on cue, you looked up to see the same cat lounging lazily in the window sill, green eyes poised on you. 

The adoption process was quick, quicker than you anticipated. Fifty dollars later, you were on the road with Calypso in the passenger seat, sitting demurely in the carrier the shelter had provided you with to take her home in. 

On the way home you had to stop at PetSmart to pick up a litter box, a few toys, and a scratching post with the hope that your new furry friend would not decimate your new furniture. Calypso remained in the carrier, watching quietly from the shopping cart as you agonized over which treats to get. 

Soon enough, you were on your way home. The moment you walked through the front door, you set the carrier down and allowed Calypso to wander free. She was tentative at first, gently sniffing the floor and getting the feel for her new surroundings. However, after ten minutes, she perched herself on the kitchen counter, looking quite like the queen of her own castle. 

You took this chance to open her new toys and scatter them about the house, as well as find a secluded corner for her litterbox.

For the rest of the day, the cat watched you unpack boxes. Beady green eyes noting your movements until you disappeared from her sight. Occasionally, if you left the room for too long, you would turn to find that she had followed you. In these moments, you would stop to offer her a gentle petting and giggle as she flopped down on the floor, furry belly up to the sky. 

It was six hours after his phone call that Spencer arrived at home. 

2:19 a.m. was the time on your watch when you heard the lock turn and rose to greet him at the door. Calypso, seated in the corner of the room on a side table, perked her ears up at the new noise coming from the entrance. 

Spencer locked the door behind him and turned to face you, reaching out and pulling you in for a long hug. 

You rubbed your hands up and down his back. “Are you happy to be home?” you asked, your voice muffled by his shoulder. 

“You have no idea,” he said. He pulled away only to examine the living room. Spencer nodded in approval. “It looks really good in here. You did a great job.”

You smiled warmly, nerves settling in your stomach as you realized he’d not yet noticed the cat in the corner of the room, who was still watching him with suspicious eyes. 

“Spencer, I have to tell you something,” you said, wanting to explain yourself for doing something as impulsive as adopting a cat while he was away. 

His face suddenly became very serious. “What is it? Did something happen while I was gone? Are you alright?” 

The questions came quickly and you shook your head to reassure him. “No, Spencer, it’s nothing bad. Here, come look.” You grabbed his hand and pulled him forward until the two of you were standing behind your couch in the middle of the living room. 

“Look around,” you said. 

Spencer’s tired eyes traversed the room. You watched as they landed on paintings, the television, the clock, and nearly everything but the cat who sat entirely still in the corner. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, brow furrowed. “Did you make some major change I don’t know about? If you did, I’m sure that it’s f-”

At that moment Calypso jumped off the side table. The soft thump that accompanied her landing on the floor was enough to stop Spencer in his tracks. Finally, you watched as the feline caught his eye. 

“You didn’t,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper. His reaction wasn’t telling you much, and you were afraid that he was not pleased. 

You started trying to explain yourself. “Well, I knew that you had a long week. I wanted to do something special. I know how much you enjoyed spending time with her at the cafe and now that we have the space I figured…”

You trailed off. In the time you had spoken, Calypso had crossed the room, climbed the couch, and began butting her head up against Spencer’s hand. Panic was setting in. Why wasn’t he reacting? 

Just when you were about to push him to say something, you looked up to see a large grin plastered on his face. Spencer gently wrapped his arms around the cat and picked her up, holding her close and petting in between her ears. 

“This is the most thoughtful present ever. I love her,” he said. His excitement reminded you of a little child and pulled at your heartstrings in a way that could have made you cry. 

You sighed in relief. “I’m so glad.” 

With Calypso still draped over one arm, Spencer reached out for you, pulling you to his side. He planted a soft kiss on the top of your head. “Thank you so much. I love her. I love you,” he said, smile still evident on his face. 

“I love you too,” you said, turning to face Calypso, who looked all too content to be wrapped up in Spencer’s arms. 

“I think she’s trying to steal my man,” you joked, nudging Spencer on the side. 

Spencer laughed. “I don’t think you have to worry too much about that. My heart has room for two lovely ladies.”

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 8

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Summary: The storehouse calls to you, your path awaits.

A/N: I've been ill for a while, so this is coming out when I feel better! Sorry for the delay! A promise is a promise! More interactions!

A03 link

-

Chapter 8: The Encounter

The rest of your day is spent avoiding Messmer as best as you can, despite the heavy enforcement of soldiers who seem to follow your every move. It comes to you with great unease and irritation, but you're thankful when you've eaten supper and you can be to yourself for the rest of the evening,

Your thoughts are spent thinking about the specimen storehouse and where your heart lies in the books you could be reading. It comes with great restraint not to sneak out and go there in the dead of night, but you promise yourself you would rather worm your way through befriending Ansbach better to gain some further insight.

You go to sleep slightly content with your goals, hoping you can go through with them easily.

Ansbach is who you go to seek out after breaking your fast, dressing simply in your usual garbs before you find him in his usual spot. You strike up a conversation with him for a bit before you know his suspicions are up, knowing you're up to no good.

"You know, Lord Messmer will not be too pleased in knowing you're not where you are."

"How so? He's not looking for me, he's not sought me out." You shrug, though you cannot help but eye the red-cladded knight who loiters close by. He's aware of your presence down here, but he is allowing it for some reason. Could it be some ploy to think he's fine with it all?

"I think his Lord is so caught up in worrying about me, he should be addressing the real issue." You continue, "Any news of Miquella? Or even Lady Leda?"

"It seems Leda has found the gift you left." Ansbach addressed plainly, "What she wishes to do to deal with our betrayals, I am still left in the dark of. I have no doubt she will be finding some way to create an ambush."

"Best be on our best behaviour then." You jest, but Ansbach grunts in response. Why must everyone be so grumpy in this Keep, no, these lands? You remember fellow allies like the kindly girl Roderika, the polite sorcerer Rogier, and Boc your seamster - even in the coldness and darkness of the world, they still found kindness that could be shared with strangers.

Two days pass since your conversation with Ansbach, and despite lingering for far too long in the storehouse staring at the endless shelves, you cannot finally help the urge that calls to you.

Only dressed in a nightgown and dressing gown, its green silk robes still feel foreign on your skin. You scamper to the door of your chambers barefoot, the cold wooden floor cool against your skin as you slowly pull the door open. Looking to see no one there, you gather yourself, shutting the door behind you as darkness engulfs you in the small tower.

Feeling along the walls as your aid, you trek downwards, careful to keep your pacing quiet.

Quick as a mouse, sharp as a cat. You tell yourself as you avoid what you think are soldiers who are posted along the lower grounds, patrolling as they go.

You stick to the shadows as best as you can, passing the infirmary as you near the steps heading down into the dimly lit storehouse. Your smile broads, victory is on the horizon as you continue to sneak before you find yourself in endless bookshelves. 

Finding a small candle and taking it along with you, you pace down the bookcases until you cannot find Sir Ansbach in his usual spot. Instead of him, you find the endless books you have been dying to open since you last spoke with him.

You feel a sense of pride wash over you, eagerly picking up the first book with too much force that it knocks the tower to the ground, some books clatter open with a loud crash as you freeze, assessing your situation before turning back to continue with the pages.

You find books on the history of the lands, of the Hornsent, the war and tyranny that seem to address in length of Messmer's battles, but you work your way to find one that is of great interest to you—the History of Queen Marika and the Golden Order.

It's when your foolishness and brashness bring you to be unaware for a moment, too engrossed in what's around you, that when you try to reach for a book on the shelf that is too high for you, a voice hisses out to you in the darkness.

"Thou art rather brazen at which hour thee sneaketh."

You almost scream out, but catch yourself, your voice being stuck in your throat as you turn to who stands behind you.

You should've known you were being followed, but nothing had prepared you to finally come face to face with the redhead. You had to admit, it was rather haunting how someone so tall as he was able to move around with ease of not disrupting noise. Despite the darkness, your candle caught a glimpse of his red hair, almost blending in with the bookcases. He appears to you how an apparition would, his form languid and swaying as if he is uncertain as to what your next moves shall be. He has a ghost-like quality that only he could carry in a Keep so full of others. He instead thrives in the abyss, in the dampened walls and cold grey spots. You wonder what he carries, the stoicism that he was born with, would it be broken if he finally saw his mother again? And just how long had it been since he last saw her?

"Firstly thee fight mine own men liketh a drunken in a tavern." He spouts. "Next I findeth thee sneaking off to mine own library. Bid me, where shalt I findeth thee next? Sneaking wine into thy chambers?"

"Are you taking note of everywhere I go?" You bemoaned. "If I had known better, it seems you enjoy stalking me."

The glare he sends you is not enough to make you cower, rather you swear you see his cheeks redden at your words. He averts his eye from you, but he keeps his mood sour. "Bid me, art thee going to starteth destroying mine own books?"

You stare at him incredulously, "I read, you know?"

It's his time to gawk, his snakes look between one another before looking up to their master, the three staring as if they are silently communicating. You can't help but feel like the fool at this moment.

Messmer surprises you as if he is a grumpy unapproachable cat, slowly inching his way towards you, his movement slow, hesitant. There is bewilderment present in his features as he whispers, "Thee... read?"

"Yes," Your words are mixed with a weary laugh that has been bubbling inside your throat, "you believe I'm ready to tear your books apart like a beast?"

He doesn't answer that, rather he's quiet, maybe from embarrassment for assuming.

"Look-" you begin to walk closer towards him, not even getting as close as you predicted before something is face to face with you, squaring off. You're startled back, keeping eye contact with one of the serpents that had unwound itself around Messmer's torso to stare down at you. You never realised even up close how vivid its scales were, bright and a brilliant crimson hue. 

You also realise the difference between both serpents: one had startling blue-green eyes, the other matching Messmer's. One is slightly bigger, the other slimmer and longer. You cannot help but feel inquisitive by the one inches away from your face, it also doesn't move as it inspects you. Instinctively, you hold a hand out, somewhat frightful it could change its mind and latch its jaws around your hand, but rather than that, it takes in your scent, its long tongue flickers up your finger before you gingerly stroke along its nose once it has investigated you enough.

"Woah," you marvel in wonder, "they are beautiful." Messmer seems stiff and unresponsive, watching but not daring to move. You assume he's in two minds: fight you off his serpents or allow you to continue, however, you're still hesitant you've overstepped.

His skin even ashen holds a light blush to his face, and it finally dawns on you. He can sense what the snakes feel, for his golden eye is sharp and wide in shock. He does not recoil from you, but he finally does seem to come back from whatever trance he's in, nodding in agreement with your statement. 

"Do they have names?" You ponder aloud.

Messmer's voice is soft as he points to the one with blue eyes, "Fos," he points to the other, "Eos."

It is Fos who turns from you to look up to Messmer, almost pleased to be finally formally introduced, which brings a smile to your face. To think, these serpents have their personalities and thoughts, working independently from their master if they wished.

You realise you need to say more so it does not fill the air with awkwardness, "You asked if I read?"

"I did."

"I do because I wish to learn," you answer, "Not only of these lands but of the one I have long forgotten. I am Tarnished, yes, but I also had a life before, one I have not remembered in a long time. If I am to defeat Miquella and know of his plans, I must learn more of what I'm up against."

Messmer is silent as he takes them in, his face stoic and cold but his eye is darting across your face, over the books surrounding you. It is only then that he sighs heavily. "Very well. If it is true t' is what thee needeth, it shalt be provided." The smile that grows on your face as you hear his words, "However, thee shall not seeketh this inf'rmation without mine own aid. Nor shall I allow thee to be in the storehouse alone."

A fair agreement. You think to yourself, soaking in his deal. "Deal?" You are the one to hold your hand out to him, an olive branch of peace. He stares at your hand then your face, slowly reaching out, his large clawed hand warm as you predicted, swallowing yours in the softness of his skin. "Deal."

It feels like a long time before one of you remembers to pull away, your hand feels extra cold away from his heat, the power he exudes. You go pick up the book you wished to read, but Messmer is quick to add, "T'is yours to read," his voice is a gentle whisper in the coldness of the night, "if it keeps thee from fighting mine own men."

It dawns on you, that his tone is not dour when he tells you that, there is a tinge of humour laced within him when he wants to be droll. "Now, that I don't know I can keep as a promise, Lord Messmer."

-

A/N: So, I wanted the serpent names to be cute and matching. Fun fact: Fos means light and Eos means dawn but also is the personification of dawn🥺

[tragedycoded]

writing share tag!

Oh my goodness, all of my favorites left open tags yesterday. @the-golden-comet just about gave me a cavity, @dyrewrites shared the Mitra of all time, and @sableglass unleashed Dante onto the world.

You guys have been good. Here's the first 620 words of Khalid's short story, "Among the Elements," which I'm editing today. There's no content warnings... yet.

Passing on the open tag, btw. Show me what you got.

Monday Paris is smaller than I thought it would be. We touched down into the city at 22:22 on Sunday. Despite the hour, the hotel's bar was open. Seemed as if every participant at The Symposium on Quantum Biology was drinking when we arrived. And then in the morning. It's disheartening to sit alone with the memory of how quickly my own sense of accomplishment fades after the presentation is over. Always is an inaccurate qualifier, yet the correlation between my arrival at the reception and the speed with which my cohorts opened their tablets to share the content of their picture rolls is… notable. Frankly, I would prefer pictures of dogs. Dogs are a distraction from scientific discovery, same as children. But my cohorts only want to show pictures of their children. Perhaps this is a sign of emotional immaturity, to be asked to share in a moment of joy and pride with another human being and to think instead: It's no accomplishment to produce a child. People do it by complete accident every single hour of the day. // Upon further examination, I've concluded that certain aspects of my personhood have contributed to my solitude persisting into adulthood. It has never occurred to me that solitude was a deficit, until now. It's a foolish thought. Even if I did want companionship, of all things, significant hurdles stand between myself and the want. It's not possible to bypass companionship in order to produce a child. It's ridiculous. I don't want children any more than I want a dog. It would get in the way, make a mess, distract me from my Work. And what is to be done with a child when it grows large enough but send it away? Seeing other people's children reminds me even if I did want such a thing, the improbability of attaining it removes all motivation to pursue it in the first place. As though wanting means I ought to be able to figuratively pluck whatever I want down from a tree as I pass by, no dirt under my nails or sweat on my brow--that is an even more foolish thought. Here's another-- My Work hasn't made me work in a long time. // A previously unremarkable absence has revealed itself to be the missing crucial component of my life's Work. Everyone else has a companion, and I do not--I have watched all of my cohorts complete the mating ritual ahead of me and never spared it a millisecond's thought. My fascination with human biology on a quantum level has led to my eliminating my own Corpus as a source of biology. Whether or not my cohorts are pleased with their spouses, or view this Symposium as a chance to be away from the children they show off, they have used gross anatomy without thought to accomplish the impossible. All they needed was the appropriate bodily fluids and time. I've not been asked to speak at this Symposium because I spend my free time in bodily fluids. None of us have, excepting the gross pathologists. Bodily fluids, however, are essential to the creation of life. Perhaps I ought to have spent more time in bodily fluids. // The past decade I've spent toiling in separate directions appeared before me as a path, as if in a vision--a divergence from where I have been and what I have been Working towards, yes, but it is a path--and the way is unobstructed. Cellular reprogramming in a relatively controlled environment--some persistence and dialect adjustment to negotiate the open-air markets--I drafted and constructed a prototype in a matter of hours. I've no intention of sleeping this evening. I have too much Work ahead of me.

@cowboybrunch @finickyfelix @saturnine-saturneight @ashfordlabs @autism-purgatory

@noblebs @aintgonnatakethis @the-golden-comet @asablehart @mauvecatfic

@leahnardo-da-veggie @sableglass @gioiaalbanoart @words-after-midnight

@lavender-bloom @jev-urisk @wyked-ao3

[kamabokobun]

hiiiii! I love your art so much, I'm also obsessed with Zonai and with the Dwellers <3 I was wondering if you have any additional headcanon for the Dwellers since I'm trying to stat them up for a Zelda TTRPG (if I do, do I have permission to use your art if I give you credit with a link?)

Hey!!! TYSM!!!

the only HCs i have for the dwellers for now are:

1-they are fairly agile in order to navigate the depths (imo it's very... vertical.? when i think back on the depths i get flashbacks to every time i've spent like several minutes climbing a single wall to get to a high-up light-root. plus there's all those big windy root-like things throughout the depths to climb on. [not talking about the gloom roots.] so I imagine the dwellers would be equipped to jump and climb in an efficient way in order to get around ig)

2- they don't (didn't? depending on where you are on the timeline [and whether or not i'm talking about my personal au or my ideas on who these people were in the TOTK timeline] it's a bit different i guess?) get along with the Zonai. Something like a culture clash (for lack of better wording). this idea is still a bit muddy so i'm trying not to talk too much about it.

3- I think a lot of their magics come from (or are channeled into?) talismans or tags. ( i say this because of the ofuda-like tag on the dark clumps. that also look like the bargainer clothes. which i have been using as a basis for their culture for those unaware. ) (this is another muddy headcanon that I have to elaborate on further someday)

and that's all! I don't have much on them because i haven't given myself a lot of time to think about them lately (; >_<) sorry!

aaaand also! as long as you're not profiting (monetarily) off of my art (and you give credit like you said) you're free to use my artwork :] ! Thank you for the ask!

[strunmah-mah]

Touchstarved Characters as DnD Classes

Ais

Given the existence of Ocudeus and Ais's relationship with it, Ais is an easy choice for a warlock, a person who gets their powers from a patron entity. My choice would either be The Great Old One, or The Fathomless. The both have those eldritch vibes but with slightly different emphasis. The Fathomless buts a strong emphasis on the oceanic tentacle monster, while The Great Old One has some tentacle imagery but focuses far more on the effects Eldritch beings have on the mind. Which one you think suits him more comes down to personal preference I think.

Leander

Given that magic for humans seems to largely be a learned skill, and stuff devs have said about Leander coming from a more more formal background giving him access to a proper education, Leander would 100% be a wizard. With as little information as we have about him exactly which school might be harder to pin down, but for the purpose of this I'm going School of Illusion. I think it works both as a fun reference to the first spell we ever see him cast (the illucitory lily) and a sort of foreshadowing of him duplicitous nature.

Kuras

As an angel, Kuras's divine power is innate to him in a way that I think the Divine Soul Sorcerer would be best at replicating. Not really sure what else to add, this might be an even easier pick than Ais as a Warlock.

Vere

Vere is interesting. Given our first impression is that of a snarling shadow beast in the corner of out vision, part of me is inclined towards Shadow Magic Sorcerer. His power seems to be innate to him and I think the Hound of Ill Omen ability synergizes well with Vere's status as the Senobium's hunting dog. HOWEVER, the devs recently dropped the extra bit of lore implying that Vere used to be worshiped as a god, which does make an interesting argument for casting him as a cleric. I don't think most cleric abilities mesh as well with Vere's in game abilities, but thematically the Ambition Domain meshes well with his personality.

Mhin

Mhin is the one I'm least confident on. Their attempt to sneak into the Senobium speaks to them being a Rogue, The revelation that they're regular collecting bounties from soulless hunting points them to being a Ranger, and the Alchemist's observation that their a scientist suggests that when the full games drops they might be something of an Artificer, or depending on your tolerance for psuedo canon, maybe a Blood Hunter? IDK, I'm a little bit at a loss of what to do with this guy.

Bonus the Origins

Now given that all Origins more or less have the same skill set with some flavor difference All of them could easily be Aberrant Mind Sorcerers and be done with it. Their power is innate to them, and that power is power over the minds of others. It's a good solid choice, but if you wanted to give the Origins more influence over their skills sets below would be my choices

The Unnamed

Raised at a temple as an oracle? The Unnnamed is a Cleric. Given that it was thought their ability could create a groupmind the Solidarity or Zeal Domains could be an interesting choice, That the people under their influence are so violent could be an argument for the War Domain, or that everyone was so mislead as to what your ability is could be an argument for Trickery Domain. Ultimately as a self insert the Unnamed's background is fluid and any choice is valid, but thematically I think I think those four could all work really well. TBH I really wish there was a Madness Domain or something so you could channel that Dionysus Maenadic energy, I think that'd work really well, but homebrew is not my area.

The Alchemist

This Origin knows magic, magic is a learned skill for humans, The Alchemist is a Wizard, maybe an Artificer. Again, self insert, either choice is valid. If you go Wizard I think School of Enchantment could be a good choice, would tie into their powers a bit better then some of the other options. If you go Artificier there is an Alchemist subclass, it's a match made in heaven

The Hound

The Hound has a very specific archetype built into it and that is the Rogue: Thief. They're a street kid who survived by stealing. I don't know if there's another choice that could work for this Origin even half as well. works for this

[jaguarys]

On the note of the snippet I posted. Ultimately what makes me go batshit insane about the Sith is that it's truly not about the magic of it all. It's about people being hurt and hurting others in turn.

What it is to become a Sith is to enmesh yourself, forever, in pain. It's at the very forefront of the doctrine, but even ignoring the mentality of it, on the basest level it is about physical and emotional pain. In agreeing to be an apprentice, you're agreeing to years of torture. You're agreeing to anything your master chooses to subject you to; they themselves have suffered as you have and they're chomping at the bit to inflict it upon you too. They have convinced themselves this pain has made them strong, but it has only made them vindictive.

Becoming a Sith is not about becoming powerful. It's about surviving the sheer horror of the training itself and convincing yourself survival is the same as control, that it's the same as power. It's about taking the seething, burning hatred you feel for the person who has tortured you and passing it onto your student, and repeating this for centuries. It's about licking your own wounds, not only the physical but those of centuries of disgraced Sith before you, hiding in the shadiest corners of the galaxy with no one but the person you hate most and believe you owe everything to.

The Sith are fundamentally pathetic, fundamentally impotent, fundamentally miserable, and it simply cannot be extricated from the mess of it all

[black-and-yellow]

Ingenue

Reel it in.

(NB even though this reads right to left, the pages are ordered so that they will be in order when scrolled through on full screen)

[yellowloid]

(forbidden) love, secrets, memories and regrets in am's 'tranquility base hotel and casino'

[wayfinderships]

I'll be so doomed the day I ever get a girl f/o

[arcaneyouth]

aheem heem...... whimper..........

[cool-person-yey]

the concept of soulmates is cool but do not think about it too much. just don't.

[longagoitwastuesday]

So so indebted to u for posting those lovely illustrations from Cyrano <333 & even more so for yr tags!! I'm completely in love w yr analysis, please feel free to ramble as long as u wish! Browsing through yr Cyrano de Bergerac tag has given me glimpses of so many adaptations & translations I'd never heard of before! I'll be watching the Solès version next, which I have only discovered today through u ^_^ As for translations, have u read many/all of them? I've only encountered the Renauld & Burgess translations in the wild, & I was curious to hear yr translation thoughts that they might guide my decision on which one I buy first (not necessarily Renauld or Burgess ofc). Have a splendid day & sorry for the likespam! 💙

Sorry for the delay. Don't mind the likespam, I'm glad you enjoyed my tags about Cyrano, and that they could contribute a bit to a further appreciation of the play. I loved it a lot, I got obsessed with it for months. It's always nice to know other people deeply love too that which is loved haha I hope you enjoy the Solès version, it may well be my favourite one!

About translations, I'm touched you're asking me, but I don't really know whether mine is the best opinion to ask. I have read... four or five English translations iirc, the ones I could find online, and I do (and especially did, back when I was reading them) have a lot of opinions about them. However, nor English nor French are my first languages (they are third and fourth respectively, so not even close). I just read and compare translations because that's one of my favourite things to do.

The fact is that no translation is perfect, of course. I barely remember Renauld's, but I think it was quite literal; that's good for understanding the basics of the text, concepts and characters, but form is subject, and there's always something that escapes too literal translations. Thomas and Guillemard's if I recall correctly is similar to Hooker's in cadence. It had some beautiful fragments, some I preferred over Hooker's, but overall I think to recall I liked Hooker's more. If memory serves, Hooker's was the most traditionally poetic and beautiful in my opinion. Burgess' is a whole different thing, with its perks and drawbacks.

Something noticeable in the other translations is that they are too... "epic". They do well the poetic, sorrowful, grief stricken, crushed by regrets aspects of Cyrano and the play in general, but they fall quite short in the funny and even pathetic aspects, and that too is key in Cyrano, both character and play. Given the characteristics of both languages, following the cadence of the French too literally, with those long verses, makes an English version sound far too solemn at times when the French text isn't. Thus Burgess changes the very cadence of the text, adapting it more to the English language. This translation is the one that best sets the different moods in the play, and as I said before form is subject, and that too is key: after all, the poetic aspect of Cyrano is as much true as his angry facet and his goofy one. If Cyrano isn't funny he isn't Cyrano, just as he wouldn't be Cyrano without his devotion to Roxane or his insecurities; Cyrano is who he is precisely because he has all these facets, because one side covers the other, because one trait is born from another, because one facet is used as weapon to protect the others, like a game of mirrors and smoke. We see them at different points through the play, often converging. Burgess' enhances that. He plays with the language itself in form and musicality, with words and absences, with truths masking other truths, with things stated but untold, much like Cyrano does. And the stage directions, poetic and with literary value in their own right in a way that reminded me of Valle Inclán and Oscar Wilde, interact with the text at times in an almost metatextual dimension that enhances that bond Cyrano has with words, giving them a sort of liminal air and strengthening that constant in the play: that words both conceal and unveil Cyrano, that in words he hides and words give him away.

But not all is good, at all. Unlike Hooker, Burgess reads to me as not entirely understanding every facet of the characters, and as if he didn't even like the play all that much, as if he had a bit of a disdainful attitude towards it, and found it too mushy. Which I can understand, but then why do you translate it? In my opinion the Burgess' translation does well bending English to transmit the different moods the French text does, and does pretty well understanding the more solemn, cool, funny, angry, poetic aspects of Cyrano, but less so his devotion, vulnerability, insecurities and his pathetism. It doesn't seem to get Roxane at all, how similar she is to Cyrano, nor why she has so many admirers. It does a very poor job at understanding Christian and his value, and writes him off as stupid imo. While I enjoyed the language aspect of the Burgess translation, I remember being quite angry at certain points reading it because of what it did to the characters and some changes he introduces. I think he did something very questionable with Le Bret and Castel-Jaloux, and I remember being incensed because of Roxane at times (for instance, she doesn't go to Arras in his version, which is a key scene to show just how much fire Roxane has, and that establishes several parallels with Cyrano, in attitude and words, but even in act since she does a bit what Cyrano later does with the nuns in the last act), and being very angry at several choices about Christian too. While not explicitly stated, I think the McAvoy production and the musical both follow this translation, because they too introduce these changes, and they make Christian as a character, and to an extent the entire play, not make sense.

For instance, once such change is that Christian is afraid that Roxane will be cultured (McAvoy's version has that infamous "shit"/"fuck" that I detest), when in the original French it's literally the opposite. He is not afraid she will be cultured, he is afraid she won't, because he does love and appreciate and admires those aspects of her, as he appreciates and admires them in Cyrano. That's key! Just as Cyrano longs to have what Christian has, Christian wants the same! That words escape him doesn't mean he doesn't understand or appreciate them. The dynamics make no sense without this aspect, and Burgess (and the productions that directly or indirectly follow him) constantly erases this core trait of Christian.

Another key moment of Christian Burgess butchers is the scene in Arras in which Christian discovers the truth. Burgess writes their discussion masterfully in form, it's both funny and poignant, but it falls short in concept: when Cyrano tells him the whole discussion about who does Roxane love and what will happen, what they'll do, is academic because they're both going to die, Christian states that dying is his role now. This destroys entirely the thing with Christian wanting Roxane to have the right to know, and the freedom to choose, or to refuse them both. As much as Cyrano proclaims his love for truth and not mincing words even in the face of authority, Cyrano is constantly drunk on lies and mirages, masks and metaphors. It's Christian who wants it all to end, the one who wants real things, the one who wants to risk his own happiness for the chance of his friend's, as well as for the woman he loves to stop living in a lie. That is a very interesting aspect of Christian, and another aspect in which he is written as both paralleling and contrasting Cyrano. It's interesting from a moral perspective and how that works with the characters, but it's also interesting from a conceptual point of view, both in text and metatextually: what they hold most dear, what they most want, what most fulfills them, what they most fear, their different approaches to life, but also metatextually another instance of that tears/blood motif and its ramifications constant through the whole text. Erasing that climatic decision and making him just simply suicidal erases those aspects of Christian and his place in the Christian/Cyrano/Roxane dynamic, all for plain superficial angst, that perhaps hits more in the moment, but holds less meaning.

Being more literal, and more solemn, Hooker's translation (or any of the others, but Hooker's seems to love the characters and understand them) doesn't make these conceptual mistakes. Now, would I not recommend reading Burgess' translation? I can't also say that. I had a lot of fun reading it, despite the occasional anger and indignation haha Would I recommend buying it? I recommend you give an eye to it first, if you're tempted and can initially only buy one.

You can read Burgess' translation entirely in archive.com. You can also find online the complete translations of Renauld, Hooker and Thomas and Guillemard. I also found a fifth one, iirc, but I can't recall it right now (I could give a look). You could read them before choosing, or read your favourite scenes and fragments in the different translations, and choose the one in which you like them better. That's often what I do.

Edit: I've checked to make sure and Roxane does appear in Arras in the translation. It's in the introduction in which it is stated that she doesn't appear in the production for which the translation was made. The conceptualisation of Roxane I criticise and that in my opinion is constant through the text does stay, though.

[werepuppy-steve]

.

[no-s-estelle]

Rewatching the Nigerian job for the twentieth time (as you do), and it just hit me how funny Parker taking Sophie down the stairs is. Like, it's literally the ONLY thing Parker does in that sequence. There is no other reason for her to be there. And she has an extra harness! Which means that - what? Parker was hanging out in the stairwell, with a harness already set up just in case? Did Nate tell her to do that? Is that plan E.2? Or was that her own initiative? Does Parker bring a rig and an extra harness everywhere she goes just in case she needs to rappel someone down a stairwell? Idk which is funnier.

Or even better: Parker came along just for funsies and knew from their recon that there was a giant stairwell in the building, so she brought her rig to take advantage of the rappelling opportunity. And you know, you always have to have backup equipment, hence the second harness.

[victoriously-wicked]

NOVEMBER 16TH 2023

ONCE UPON A TIME APPRECIATION WEEK DAY 5

FAVOURITE PARALLELS TRIBUTE VID- REGINA’S TRUE LOVES’ DYING IN HER ARMS

Song: ‘A Thousand Years’ by Christina Perri

(Argh! For some reason, the video isn’t staying perfectly in time with the music now that I’ve uploaded it onto here. That’s annoying. But anyways, I hope you like this, I worked my ass off making it.)

This is one of the saddest parallels ever and the only reason it’s my favourite is because it’s a perfect example of how far Regina has come. We all know that her first love, Daniel, was one of the many catalysts in Regina becoming the Evil Queen (more specifically, his death was). And then having Robin, her soulmate, being brought into her life years later she not only becomes a better person, but grows to believe in the possibility of love again. It’s really a beautiful full-circle story: Daniel’s love breaks her, and she becomes the Evil Queen. But Robin’s love puts her back together again, and she becomes Regina. The Good Queen. The most heartbreaking part of this is that both men die because they love Regina. Daniel loved and died for her so that she could grow into the woman Robin fell in love with and sacrificed himself for.

[girlcrushau]