#yes this is what i do in my free time

[thecranekick]

and what if i started posting my lawrusso sims

[malachitezmeyka]

Me, thinking about my OCs, like I always do: Oh, isn’t it ironic how so much of Suiren’s character and personality is built around the fact she’s so similar to her mother and how her relationship with that fact changes, and she will end up falling for an earthbender who excels/specialises in a subbending form

Also me, five minutes later, physically sitting up in bed: AND MIDORI ENDED UP FALLING FOR A NONBENDER TURNED AIRBENDER JUST LIKE HER AUNTIE HOLY SHIT-

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

some misc Barn & Wally doodles from the past week or so <3 i heart them

[moeblob]

A lil guy !

[skyloftian-nutcase]

TotK DLC idea!

The screen is black. You don’t hear anything for a long time. Then, faintly, in the distance, you can hear it.

Link. Link. Open your eyes.

While the line echoes familiarity, the voice does not.

Or. Well. It does. Because while it isn’t Zelda, it’s a familiar man’s voice speaking gently, so gently you almost don’t recognize it because there’s no way he ever spoke like this in the main game.

But he is now. And instead of a golden light being the first image you see before the screen shows Link awakening… you see gloom floating in the air. The image cuts to a Hylian waking up who… doesn’t look like Link from TotK?? He’s different, still small in stature, with slightly tanner skin, platinum light blonde hair, and red eyes. But… something’s wrong with his forehead. There’s a weird line on it.

This new character you apparently are gonna be playing in the DLC blearily blinks his eyes open, clearly groggy and too weak to really move. But then that line on his forehead moves a hair, it splits apart, and you realize it’s a freaking eye, red and yellow and it’s like the ones on gloom hands and oh gosh what the hell is it doing on his forehead—

Link realizes something is off and his eyes blow wide, his hands reach for his forehead and he screams in agony and terror, only for someone to scoop him into a hug to soothe him.

And suddenly you realize why that voice was eerily familiar.

It’s Ganondorf. He resurrected you from the era of the Imprisoning War. You, who have a history with him and his family. You, who he wants to protect, who he views as his kid, who he calls a prince and says he’ll keep you safe by controlling your body with his dark magic if he has to.

Welcome to Tears of the Kingdom: Hero’s Shadow.

You have to play a long gone Hero who was resurrected. Ganondorf, who is still recovering his strength in preparation for killing the current Hero, tasks you with finding your betrothed, his daughter, as well as his wife. They’re buried somewhere in the Depths like you were. He wants you to find their burial sites so he can use his secret stone to resurrect them like he did you, and control them as well. Which is doubly bad when you realize his wife was the original Sage of Lightning. He gives you free reign to wander once you go through a tutorial (he tests you to see if you’ve recovered enough strength), because he knows you love wandering and collecting things. Your own personal objective, however, is trying to help Hyrule from the Depths, to break free from Ganondorf’s control, because Link would rather set himself on fire than let Ganondorf resurrect and control the love of his life and his mother-in-law. Your best hope is to find shards of the shattered Master Sword to try and stab the eye on Dark Link’s forehead and break the control Ganondorf has on you. Until you can, though, the monsters are your allies, you can teleport across the Depths by manifesting out of the gloom created by gloom hands (just like what Phantom Ganon does), and the world below is your oyster. If you get too close to sword shards when gloom hands are nearby, Ganondorf can see your attempt and immediately takes control of your body, and no matter what button you press Link just walks back to Ganondorf’s location and stays there until you get a chance to try again.

You start with three hearts, all empty looking like when gloom hurts you, and if you get injured they just shatter. Whenever they all shatter, you respawn at Ganondorf’s location because his gloom hands came and rescued you from dying. The only way you can get more hearts is by collecting poes and offering them to the statues in the Depths. You can communicate with the spirits of soldiers, who may give you combat tips or info about the area. If you gain enough of Ganondorf’s trust, he’ll let you command monsters, and he might even let you wander the Surface (under his supervision) during a blood moon.

You learn of Link’s and Ganondorf’s history through discovering ancient relics/texts that trigger memories. This connection between you and Ganondorf stems back to time before the war, well over ten thousand years ago. Link was engaged to Ganondorf’s daughter, but during the Imprisoning War the family fought against the demon king. Ganondorf did love his family, but he loved power more. Link sacrificed himself, letting himself get mortally wounded to save Rauru from a killing blow. Gan held him as he died, and it allowed Link to both beg him to stop and stab him in the heart with a light shard. The shard didn’t kill him, but it was what Rauru connected with when he hit him in the chest, allowing him to seal Ganondorf away. Ganondorf still wants the world, but his love for his family is still present, though now twisted, so he thinks he can control Link and everyone else with his dark magic in order to keep them safe and in line. Once the threat of the current Hero is eliminated, the world will be his, and his family will be safe. As such, he treats you, Link, the player, like a stubborn child, reeling you in, but does so in a horrific way, torturing Link by controlling him.

You have to break free of this and stop him, and the only hope you have is the distant call of a sword spirit…

[yoosung-ah]

a brief summary of Mystic Messenger (OG edition) x

[front-facing-pokemon]

[busnautica]

The red lights turn off. The controls go dark, joysticks limp in Al-An’s grip. The headlights shut off.  The thing lets them go. Whatever it was. Wherever it had come from. It lets them go and disappears, and the only reason Robin can even tell is because that blue mouth and red markings vanish somewhere out in front of them.  And then it hits her.  They're dead in the water. Dead, five hundred meters down, in a pitch black cave, with a tank that gave them less than four minutes of air and a sea truck cabin with a steadily depleting oxygen supply. A sea truck that was extremely damaged, maybe unrecoverable, but thankfully, for the moment, didn't seem ruptured.  Logic. Panic kills. Need logic.  Robin tries coaching it into herself, but somehow isn't able to. Just feels the fear gripping the both of them, the adrenaline causing her body to shake and leans into it. Doesn't mean to, doesn't want to, but there's not a lot of positives at the moment.  The flashlight is blindingly powerful in comparison to the previous darkness. Al-An holds it in one hand and tries pressing the ignition with the other, but all that happens is a soft clicking noise when the button is pressed. The engine's aren't online. They've probably been torn clean off.  Logic. Al-An’s good at logic. Al-An can handle it.  "Robin, calm down," Al-An's suddenly saying. Harsh, maybe without meaning to. He sounds stressed. Speaks through gritted teeth. "You're going to cause us both to panic." 

something something i said wounding was my comfort fic, and therefore again I need comfort lmfao - but also Oh my god my hand slippded my hand really slipped why go through grief when i can watch alyou go through it again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Anyway - I know you said not to say sorry but sorry i gotta tag you once more @crypticvirago - go read the rest here

[cent-scratchnsniff]

it was just going to be a few warmup doodles but then she infected the rest of the page like the ever eternal and spreading spores. hod!!! hod. hod :)

[luck-of-the-drawings]

!!! FLASHING LIGHTS WARNING!!! [IM NOT FUCKIN AROUND!!]

REACHED THE CUSP OF 'THIS MAY NEVER BE ABSOLUTELY FINISHED N IF I DONT SHOW IT NOW, IT WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY.' SO HERE, A PROJECT IVE BEEN ORBITING AROUND UHH SINCE 2021 OR SO.

[summertimemusician]

Linktober 2024, Day 1, Mirror (Self)

Alright here we go again.

Technically a sneak peak of a bigger thing to come in the future that I'm repurposing, and the result of my final playthrough and readthrough before EoW dropped being Four Swords Adventures and that made me sad about Shadow Link again.

Note that this is for the Four Swords Adventures iteration of Shadow Link that might evolve into an LU Shadow, not Dark Link in either LOZ or LU, I have other plans for him.

This one shot was brought to you by Scars by The Crane Wives, Ribs by The Crane Wives, Ruin by The Amazing Devil and Two Minutes by The Amazing Devil because the author's playlist decided to be incredibly cheeky when they blacked out to write this like an ancient seers being cursed with visions and then called mad and hearing they've been put up for execution.

As always the nature of the relationship can be romantic or platonic, mostly due to the author's time constraints and further plans.

Anyway enjoy the reading!

It was cold.

The sort of cold after a wildfire, when everything's turned back to ash, the sort that left burned your vision white after the flames licked through your veins and left an ache in your bones. He shuddered, coughed black onto the stone floor, shaking with a muffled whimper.

It never got any easier, being dragged from the Dark World and into the Realm of Light, the goddesses' world itself revolting against an intruder, wanting the wound torn asunder into their oh so precious realm cauterized. To purge the intrusion and smite it where it stands.

Too bad for them (and for him), his master didn't particularly care about what the world wanted. Didn't particularly care that he hadn't grow accustomed to the pain or the cold, he had to stand up. There was work to be done.

(Shadow gritted his teeth, willed himself not to think about the prophecy of a golden haired princess- because whether he liked it or not, it was prophecy. As those with divinity running through their veins are wont to spill from their throats so carelessly- of violet eyes and a smile a third moonlight and hands holding a hammer.

It always hurt more, after one of the heroes liberated one of the maidens, or the jewels, the pain lingering for days afterwards and carving a home in his metaphorical bones. But just this once he'd take the cold bite of the Four Swords over the pain in the hole in his chest that Vio's betrayal had left, something that felt so much worse than every other time before.

Just this once he wished that maybe, just maybe, the hurt would be too much to bear, that he wouldn't wake up again-

Why? Why does it hurt so much but he's still here? He already knew the Light was uncompromising and unforgiving, but he thought them at least above curses.)

His ears twitched as soft, almost silent footsteps came up to his side. Someone crouching by his fallen form, setting a cautious hand over his own that Shadow couldn't help but draw away from with a hiss, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the world again, to your face, carefully blank as you guided him to lean against your side, a silver choker with a crimson gem winked mockingly at him, the shade closing his eyes and going boneless against your side.

Shadow was so, so tired.

He heard you quietly sigh, plucking his cap from his head and running your fingers through dark amethyst, smoke and mist made hair. "I told you so."

"Shut up." He grumbled, nuzzling further into the crook of your neck. One clawed hand curling against your free wrist, digging into the skin. Absentmindedly noting there were new scratches just above the metal.

It was routine by now, the warmth of your existence against his own a welcome balm, not quite of the Realm of Light where it's unpleasant, not too close to the Dark World where he felt like melting back into the embrace of the darkness, only to howl in agony at being dragged out.

Memories not quite his own bled into his mind all the time. How you'd shape ice into flowers for the princess in winter with nary a though, of blinking and from one second to the next you'd have whatever sword he had hostage if you though it was time for a break with a smile brighter than the sun.

His master had changed that though. It took months for you to stop trying to claw the collar out and to stop trying to fight Vaati.

(Funny how holding a mage's dragon as a bargaining chip is just as effective as kidnapping a ruler.)

Your gaze flicked to the polished obsidian of the Dark Mirror, to the gold, ornate frame. "The offer is still open, you know. Let me take the suffering from you."

"No." He scowled, leaning back to glare into your eyes, a hint of fangs poking out from a maw struggling to keep the shape of a human jaw, "You helped him. Helped them." Shadow spat, there is that hurt again.

You shrugged, a movement that's just slightly awkward as you flinch, "That I did." You confirmed simply, it almost made Shadow see red as he leaned away, knocking your hand from his head in the process, but if there's anything him and the heroes shared, was a lack of a desire to hurt you. It was a little grating to be honest, "Vio even offered to take me with him, to be honest."

"Then why didn't you leave?" He demanded.

Why did you stick around?

Your eyes shuttered, a hint of conflict in your pursed lips. Before you found your words, they come out softly, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you why. You'll just have to find out yourself."

You tug your wrist from his grasp, and Shadow lets you go.

(Stubbornly pushing down on memories and emotions that arearen'tarenotanymore quite his.)

You stand and turn away, pushing the curtains away from your sight, you turn your tired eyes to Shadow with an emotion he can't put a name to. "Just keep it in mind that there's more than one way to end this. Nothing is truly inevitable."

Shadow watches you go. 'There's nothing that can be done. He tells himself, hand hesitating above the Dark Mirror, briefly, it curls into a fist. The hero's original self stares back at him.

'… Does he really believe that?'

He shakes his head, and focuses on willing the Dark Mirror to show him his counterpart.

His chest still hurts.

[ghostofcarcosa]

Prompt: When ectoplasm is used to power one of the Fenton’s devices, it can borrow ghost zone physics.

“Wow, so how’s this one supposed to work?” Bruce Wayne picked up the small silver device, examining it. It was about the size of a hockey puck, with a handle welded to the top that looked like it had originally belonged to a dresser. The handle was wrapped in simple black electrical tape with a small button on the side.

“Oh! That table of stuff is not for sale,” the red-head walked briskly over, wringing her hands, “those are just some of my brother’s projects, they’re not related to ghost hunting.”

The convention had, up until that point, been boring. Tim had disappeared about an hour ago, meeting up with a couple of friends who were also attending the Scientific, Paranormal, & Occult, Occupational Convention, or “SPOOC.” An attempt at a play on words, Bruce supposed.

Barbara had alerted him that an up-and-coming company, Axiom Laboratories, had announced some pretty cutting edge tech that could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. Bruce had attended the demo this morning, only to leave unimpressed. Only one of their four inventions had actually worked, and even then barely did what was advertised.

Aside from waiting for Tim to be done hanging out with his friends, Bruce had surprisingly found several start-ups that were developing some promising technology, as far as ghost-hunting equipment could be considered “promising.” The latest booth he was exploring had been pointed out to him as having “some kind of crazy idea they’ve perfected renewable energy,” which while Bruce was wary of most of the people peddling wares here, peaked his interest. So far, however, it had been a disappointment.

The girl held out her hand for the device and Bruce gave it back. “Do you know what it does?”

The girl gave him a guarded look, and he held up his hands and grinned. “Just curious!”

She glanced around the booth, the only other occupants were a couple dressed like they were late for a shift at the nuclear power plant, gas masks and all. The husband, an absolute mountain of a man, seemed to be knitting while his wife flipped through a paranormal magazine. She turned back to Bruce, sticking out her hand.

“Jazz Fenton; my parents own Fentonworks.”

“Nice to meet you Jazz. I’m Bruce Wayne.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked owlishly at him. “Oh! Like, Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne?”

He went for a disarming grin. “The one and only, hopefully?”

She let out a laugh that was probably more nervous than it was meant to be, and glanced over at the couple again. “Just to warn you, if my parents spot you, you’ll be stuck her for the rest of the day while my dad rants about ghosts.”

“Noted. So if that’s not a ghost hunting device, what is it?”

Jazz fidgeted with the silver hockey puck, plucking at the edge with her fingernail. A hatch popped open, revealing a small switch. She flicked it and popped the hatch closed.

“It’s a prototype gravity binder. Uses gravitational force to stick itself to the ground. I think.” She held it out over the floor in front of Bruce, and he took a step back. Jazz carefully checked the ground below before hitting the button and dropping it.

It hit the ground at Bruce’s feet and he looked at her, unimpressed. Jazz grinned. “Pick it up.”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow, but bent down to the small device. An audible humming was coming from it, and it almost felt like it was vibrating slightly as Bruce gripped the handle.

“Be careful not to push the button again. That turns it off,” Jazz said.

Bruce reached down and grabbed the black handle.

It didn’t budge.

Bruce frowned, gripping it with both hands and pulling. It was as if the small device had been bonded to the floor. He looked back up at Jazz, who had a wry grin on her face. 

“Now, hit the button.” 

Bruce did so, and the humming immediately stopped, the device powering down. He hesitantly picked it up from the floor, unable to stop the surprise that bloomed across his face as it now only weighed a few ounces, like before. The floor where it had fallen was undamaged and unmarked.

Bruce handed the device back to Jazz, “Alright, color me impressed. How does it work? I’m pretty sure this thing breaks several laws of physics.” 

Jazz simply shrugged, placing it back on the side table with several other devices that Bruce couldn’t begin to guess the purpose of. “My brother is more into the engineering and sciencey part of the family business. You’ll have to ask him once he gets back. That is, if he didn’t ditch me to explore the city.” The last part was grumbled under her breath.

Bruce looked back at the device. Had Bruce seen some crazy stuff in his time in the Justice League? Absolutely. He had three different friends who used magic on a daily basis. But no other League independent company had anything close to this kind of tech, let alone a family business that specialized in ghost hunting, of all things.

“I think I’d like to meet your brother. I’m going to be honest, this is unbelievably impressive. Has he ever thought about applying for the engineering and development internship at Wayne Enterprises?”

A contemplative look passed over Jazz’s face. “Honestly, Mr. Wayne? My brother Danny is smart, and a talented inventor. But I’m not sure that kind of thing would be his style. I’ve been pushing him to start thinking about college now that he’s graduating soon, but he seems pretty convinced he’s going to be stuck in Amity Park working for my parents for the rest of his life. Not that he doesn’t care about the family business, but...” She trailed off, glancing back over at her parents. Some poor soul had wandered a little too close to the front of the booth, and Bruce could hear the couple yapping non-stop about ghosts. “He does need to spend some time away from it.”

“What are you proposing?”

Jazz drummed her fingers against the table. “I’m in my second year at Gotham U. Danny’s going to be eighteen next year, but refuses to apply to any colleges because of his grades. He... well, let’s just say there were some extenuating circumstances that caused it.” She shook her head, “He’ll probably end up at community college living at home, at least if I can convince him to stay in school. He won’t be able to get into GU with his grades, but if you’re really interested in his work...”

“You think I could get him an acceptance letter?”

“God no!” she blanched, “But I could probably get him to apply with a letter of recommendation from the owner of Wayne Enterprises. He’s smart, and a quick learner for sure, but after... the stuff in high school, he’s convinced himself his life is already over.”

“Hmm,” He’d have to do a little research on the brother, make sure her ‘extenuating circumstances’ checked out, but Bruce started to wonder if this was his lucky day. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll be back at the convention tomorrow, and I’ll drop by the booth around 10am. If your brother can give me a better demo than any other scientist here, I’ll write the letter.” He smiled, handing her one of his business cards, “and I promise that will be a low bar to pass.”

“Thank you, thank you so much Mr. Wayne!” Jazz grinned, taking the card and shaking his hand. “Danny will be here.”

...

“Hey Bruce!” Tim finally caught up with him outside the convention center. “So, what did you think of ‘SPOOC’? Bust any ghosts?”

Bruce smiled at him, shaking his head, “No, but I think I just found an intern for Lucius Fox.”

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

It's missing my father hours rn so imma just dump a bunch of pictures here and cry

( sorry i don't know the source of anything I just had them on my phone)

(also dont read the tags i just need to let it out lol)

[hanzajesthanza]

geralt is also a most real depiction of good quality fatherhood and great girldad representation because EVEN THOUGH witchers don’t even experience aging at the same rate as non-GMO humans, EVEN THOUGH it would be “biologically impossible,”

geralt having had been raising a pre-teen girl for maybe a few months to a year already “gave the impression of having aged,” his “face slashed by wrinkles.” the emotional toll on this man from raising she-devil ciri

and this is only the very beginning of the saga. BEFORE everything goes to shit. the wrinkles have set in