#gerald nametag

[dendydaily]

What was she even doing here?

[dephlogis]

GERALD UPDATE

He has survived hiding in a cabinet for 1 week while corporate was in town.

From what little research I've done, uncarved pumpkins typically last 2-3 months when kept out of harsh weather.

He is currently on month 6.

He is still firm to the touch, no leaking, no mold. The store has now added him to the employee board, and is discussing getting him a nametag and a vest.

[froizetta]

WIP Wednesday: Brucie's guide to avoiding traffic jams

This week, here's something from the cutting room floor of my ongoing fic (Love) Triangles, presented with minimal context so as to avoid spoilers. This scene was meant to introduce Bruce's/Brucie's POV but it ended up not fitting, which is kinda sad because I liked how it turned out. So here it is, in case I don't manage to work it in somewhere after all!

It was a crisp autumn evening in central Metropolis. The rain that plagued Gotham had miraculously ceased almost the instant he’d crossed over into her sister city, which was both meteorologically improbable and completely unsurprising. Rather than hurrying along under dark coats and umbrellas, the citizens here seemed content to stroll casually along well-lit streets. There were areas of Metropolis that were more subdued, closer to what Bruce was used to. But here in the center of things, everything was bold and new and shiny even at night, gleaming art deco illuminated by sun-yellow streetlights. Glancing around, all Bruce could see was shining chrome and twinkling glass.

He suppressed the urge to grimace. Instead he scanned the sidewalk until he found what he was looking for and plastered on his most charming smile. “Hey there, Mr. Parking Valet? Could you come over here, please?” he called out.

Hearing a faint voice over the hum of background traffic, the man glanced around in confusion for several seconds before his eyes landed on Bruce, halfway out of his car and waving at him enthusiastically. The valet blinked and pointed to himself questioningly. Bruce nodded encouragingly and beckoned him over.

Warily, the valet approached. He was young, younger than Bruce, probably early to mid twenties with a neatly styled mop of mousy brown hair and a skillfully pressed uniform. Worn leather shoes carefully polished until they shone. He probably would struggle to afford a room at the hotel he worked at, but he took his job seriously. He wanted to impress.

He would do.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked politely.

Bruce beamed. “Why yes, you sure can, um…” He squinted at the man’s nametag. “Jeremy. Sorry for calling you over so rudely like that, I can’t exactly leave the car when it’s running. That would be terribly unsafe, you know.”

Jeremy glanced at the car. Bruce could spot the exact moment the guy twigged the make and model: a rapid blink, the slightest raising of his eyebrows. When he lifted his gaze, his eyes swept across Bruce’s watch and the expensive cut of his tux.

“Ah, yes, sir. I understand,” Jeremy said smoothly.

He’d decided to humor him. Perfect.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Bruce gushed. “I knew as soon as I saw you across the street that you’d be an understanding fellow.”

He tipped his head politely. “You’re too kind, sir.”

“What can I say? I call it like I see it, Gerald, that’s just how I am.”

Jeremy’s poker face was admirable – not so much as a twitch. He was going to go far in this business.

“But enough about that,” Bruce continued, smiling broadly. “As to the reason I called you here…well, I’m actually in something of a fix! You see, I’m supposed to be at an event at that building over there—” here, he indicated Lexcorp’s ostentatious façade with his right hand and frowned at the watch on his left “—oh, about an hour and a half ago, now. And there comes a point whereby I’m no longer fashionably late but rather I’ve very unfashionably missed all the fun – and, most importantly, the most palatable offerings from the champagne selection. You can relate, I’m sure.”

“Of course, sir,” Jeremy said, nodding soberly.

“Of course,” Bruce agreed, equally soberly. “But as you can see, this terrible traffic is just not budging! By the time I’m unstuck from this jam, the only sparkling wine left at the open bar will probably be prosecco. Prosecco! I mean, can you imagine?”

“No, sir,” Jeremy said.

“No indeed!” he cried. “So you see, I was wondering if you might park my car for me in the parking lot of your fine hotel and save me the aggravation of missing my party. I would of course compensate you for your time, but you’d truly be doing me a wonderful service.”

Jeremy’s expression turned politely apologetic. “Well, sir, I’m afraid the parking lot is reserved for those who have rooms in the hotel. As much as I’d love to help you, I wouldn’t like to get in trouble with my boss.”

Bruce nodded. “That’s understandable, Jermaine. I wouldn’t want for a nice man like yourself to get into any trouble. Although…are you sure we can’t come to some kind of arrangement?” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “I’m an extremely generous tipper, you see.”

Jeremy blinked. “Oh. How extremely generous, exactly, if I might ask?”

Bruce said nothing and smiled wider.

Jeremy glanced once more at the watch and swallowed. And then, after a brief moment of consideration, he said with a bright, professional smile, “Very well, sir! I’d be happy to help.”

Bruce gave his shoulder a jovial slap. “There’s a good man! I knew you’d come through for me.”

He pulled out a handful of bills from his wallet and handed them over, along with his car keys and a business card. Jeremy’s eyes went wide. “Take my card. If your bosses give you any trouble over this, just call this number. I’m confident my secretary can work something out with them.”

Jeremy’s eyebrows were at his hairline now. Bruce wasn’t sure whether it was because of the neat stack of hundreds he’d just been handed or the name on the card – but in the end, it didn’t really matter, did it? The end result was the same.

“I— Of course, sir! Thank you for your generosity.”

“No, Geoffrey,” Bruce said emphatically, taking the man by his shoulders and looking him dead in the eye. “Thank you.”

He left a grateful Jeremy with his still-running car and hurried the remaining block over to Lexcorp.

He’d wasted enough time already as it was.

[submarinevolcanoinhabitant]

those "im just a country girl in love with an emo boy🥀" type memes have been resurfacing the internet and whenever i see one i just think that its special limited edition cowboy darrell x turbo rad LOLLLL (also for context trad is crushing gerald nametag w his bare hand)

[silly-name-tourney]

Silly Name Tournament General Prelims #9

top 3 get in!

[parkersimmonsyall]

Why Gerald lives inside in Red's Hair?

He lives a lot of places, let’s be honest here

[sekreto-skrapo]

Red Action’s Baby / Gerald Nametag

[evilscheme]

yes? im gerald nametag.

[sergeantsporks]

Zoe Appreciation Week Day 2: Hedge Wizard

If Zoe had to watch one more kid pretend that a record was a frisbee, she was going to lose it.

They never actually threw any of them, just acted like they would.

But. It. Made. Her. Want. To. Scream.

“Psst. Zoe. Your magic is showing.”

Zoe glanced down to see her familiar, a rat named Gerald, at her feet. Her hands were, in fact, sparking with pink electricity that she dismissed. “Thanks.” She glanced around—no customers right now, and her manager wasn’t anywhere in sight, either. “What are you doing here? You know if anyone sees you they’ll chase you out with a broom, right?

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know.” Gerald jumped up on the counter next to her. “But I found something you might be interested in. A community—”

“No, Gerald. For the last time, I am NOT joining a coven, I am NOT going to run with a guild, and I am NOT going to find a master!” Zoe crossed her arms. “I do magic my way. And I’m not going to have it tied down to some organized rules.”

“It’s not like that,” Gerald insisted, “It’s just a group of hedge wizards, who work together to make money, but all of them have their own magic and do their own thing!”

“Hedge… wizards…?”

“Wizards that don’t have a master. They don’t have formal training, they don’t have a bunch of organized rules.” Gerald nudged her hand. “Sounds… nice, right? And, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra cash, would it? This job isn’t exactly lucrative. It’s called Hextech.”

Zoe shooed the rat off of the counter. “Alright, alright. I’ll think about it. Now get out of here, before someone sees you!”

No organized rules.

It wouldn’t hurt to look into would it?

Xxx

“Welcome to Hextech, how can I make your day magical?”

Zoe approached the wizard bar. Wizard bar. Hextech. They weren’t even trying to be subtle, were they? “I… I was hoping to apply.”

The girl at the counter leaned forward. “We only accept very… particular employees.” Her eyes flashed a different color.

Zoe grinned. “I’m a pretty particular person,” she responded. She wasn’t entirely certain how to make her eyes glow on command like that, so she held out a hand that was sparking with pink electricity. “I’m Zoe.”

The girl grinned back. “Delaney. C’mon, lemme take you to the back, and we’ll see what you’ve got.”

She put up a closed sign and opened a hidden door, walking Zoe inside. “Welcome to the real Hex Tech.”

Zoe gasped. Wizards with screwdriver wands were making tech float, answering magical orbs like phones.

And they were all doing it their own way.

“Back here, we charm the mortal’s electronics into shape,” Delaney continued, “and use the funds to fund our own mythical pursuits. Hextech is run ENTIRELY by underground hedge wizards.”

“Entirely? So… who’s in charge?”

“There are a couple of wizards who have been around longer than anyone else. Like me. We generally take care of the scheduling and budgeting, but mostly? Everyone does what they want.” Delaney opened another door to a room with a backdrop of a forest on one wall. “Let’s see what you’ve got, wizard.”

Zoe grinned, and charged up her hands. She discharged the lightning harmlessly, making she and Delaney’s hair stand up.

Delaney gave her an odd look. “Do you… think you could power up generators with that?”

“Probably. Why?”

Delaney grinned. “Just thinking that if we don’t have to spend money on an electric bill, we’ll have even more for magical expenses!” She grabbed Zoe’s hands, yelped at the extra electricity, dropped them, then grabbed them again. “So… what do you think? Wanna be part of the Hextech family?”

“Can I bring my familiar to work? He’s a rat.”

“Absolutely!”

Zoe grinned. “Then I’m in.”

Gerald was going to be insufferable. He was right, though, this DID seem like a good community. And, of course, it meant she’d have a little extra cash.

Delaney rustled around in some drawers and pulled out a contract. “Alright, okay, just a few last-minute questions. Any previous magical associations? Familiars are fine, but are you part of a coven?”

“No.”

“Wizard’s guild?”

“No.”

“You’re not a wizard’s apprentice, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” Zoe snatched the papers and signed before she could change her mind.

Delaney clapped her hands, and the contract flew back into a filing cabinet. A new uniform appeared, with a nametag that read ‘Zoe.’ “Welcome aboard… hedge wizard.”

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Could be ghosts or monsters

My fourth fill for @geraskeferbingo, the sequel to Don't know what's out there, is up!

Prompt: Magical accident

Rating: M

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Geralt/Yennefer; pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Geralt and Yennefer want nothing to do with Jaskier, the annoying college student who’s written a book based on their life story. But when Geralt finds himself trapped inside a cursed house, the magic-immune Jaskier might be the only one who can help get him out.

You can read the first few scenes below the cut or find the whole fic on AO3!

“We could kill him.”

Geralt looks across the booth at his partner in exasperation. “We’re not killing him.”

Yennefer stirs some cream into her tea, gazing into it with a faintly judgemental expression. “We could just kill him a bit.”

“And how would we do that?”

“You tell me. You’re the expert in killing things.”

The waitress at the University Diner, whose nametag reads Mabel walks up at just that moment. She blinks at Yennefer with heavily lined eyes. “Anything else I can get you folks?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Yennefer says. “We’re just waiting for a friend.”

Mabel looks relieved for the excuse to scurry away.

“He’s not a thing,” Geralt says. “He’s a college student.”

“He’s a pest.” She takes a sip of her tea and wrinkles her nose delicately. “There are upwards of ten thousand students in this city. No one’s going to miss one.”

“Yennefer.” Geralt takes a sip of his own coffee and pushes the mug away. He’d be better off eating the menu. “We promised him if he came to meet us, we wouldn’t hurt him.”

“You promised.”

“It’s going to be a lot harder for you to hurt him, since he’s immune to chaos.”

She makes a disgruntled noise.

As if on cue, the front door to the diner opens with a bang and Geralt twists around in his seat to see Jaskier, also known as J.A. Pankratz, bestselling author of Will of the Witcher come striding in. He’s wearing a violently yellow, flowered button-up shirt that’s had several buttons undone since they saw him at the book signing an hour before.

“Huh,” Yennefer says. “He actually came.”

Jaskier catches sight of them and waves, hurrying over to slide into the booth next to Geralt. Even though the booth is plenty large, his knee bumps against Geralt’s thigh. “Oh, good, you found the place! Have you had the coffee yet? It’s really good.”

The last bit of respect Geralt has for this man shrivels up and dies. “It’s two blocks from the bookstore. Wasn’t hard to find.”

Jaskier bobs his head in a nod, eyes flickering back and forth between Geralt and Yennefer. “So, how have you two been?”

“In the hour since you saw us at the bookstore?” Yennefer asks. “Or the two years since we saved your life and you repaid us by writing this drivel?”

Jaskier’s eyes drop to the copy of Will of the Witcher sitting on the orange vinyl tabletop. “Drivel is a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“No, I think it might be an understatement,” Yennefer says. “Slander is another word. Or maybe just soulless, unimaginative nonsense.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “Well, Yennefer, tell me what you really think.” He turns to Geralt. “What about you? Give me your honest review. Three words or less.”

Geralt looks him dead in the eye. “It’s all bullshit.”

“Ah, well, thanks for your honesty, I suppose.”

Mabel approaches and Jaskier orders a coffee and a short stack of blueberry pancakes with a side of sausage, clearly relieved by the interruption. Yennefer and Geralt stick with their drinks.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Yennefer demands. “Writing a story based on our lives?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, it’s not really based on your lives, is it? I barely know either of you. The little bit I did know was a jumping off point for the characters of Gerald and Gwendolyn.”

“There are enough similarities.”

“Are there?” Instead of looking contrite, Jaskier visibly brightens. “Oh, good, then my read on the two of you was right. Tell me, was the djinn section even remotely accurate? Every source I could find on djinns told a completely different story, so I wasn’t sure.”

“Not particularly,” Geralt says, then wonders why he’s playing along. “Djinns don’t usually manifest a physical form.”

“Oh.” Jaskier deflates a bit.

Geralt takes pity on him and adds, “You got the homicidal rage right.”

Yennefer shoots him a dirty look from across the table.

Reminding himself why they’re here, Geralt taps the cover of Will of the Witcher. “This needs to go away.”

Jaskier blinks at him. “Go away?”

“People had practically forgotten that witchers existed, before you wrote this book,” Geralt tells him. “That’s what’s allowed me to live in relative peace for the last few centuries. Now, people are talking about us again. Nothing good ever comes of humans being interested in witchers.”

“But they still think you’re a myth,” Jaskier says. “Trust me, no one is reading this book and taking it as historical fact.”

“Still don’t like it.”

“I can’t make it go away, Geralt. The first run sold out in a matter of weeks and the second is flying off the shelves. It got a four star review in The Redanian Times, which would be a five star review anywhere else. There might be a movie. What do you want me to do, issue a retraction? Say that these fictional characters don’t actually exist and none of the things they go through happened?”

Yennefer leans across the table, gaze flinty. “We could make you go away.”

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at her. “I’m immune to chaos, remember?”

“You’re not immune to me making the ceiling collapse on you.”

Jaskier looks up at the fluorescent lights above them, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I came in peace, remember?”

At a look from Geralt, Yennefer sits back. “Why is Gerald the main character and not Gwendolyn?”

Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Oh, is that what you’re upset about?”

“I’m upset about many, many things, but the fact that Gwendolyn only appears in flashbacks is one of them. And she’s being replaced by a character who’s obviously supposed to be you.”

Jaskier puts a hand to his chest in clear offense. “Aria isn’t supposed to be me. I’m not a twenty-six year old Nilfgaardian grad student. Or a woman, for that matter. And she’s not replacing Gwendolyn. Gerald’s relationships with the two of them show the conflict between his attempts to hang onto his identity as a witcher and the push for him to assimilate into modern—”

“If you’re going to write about me, don’t sideline my character and then replace her with a cookie cutter love interest,” Yennefer says through gritted teeth.

“Aria is not a cookie cutter love interest, she’s— oh, thank you.” Jaskier smiles brilliantly at Mabel when she brings him his coffee, then promptly pours half the pitcher of cream into the mug, filling it to the brim. No wonder he likes the coffee here; he’s never actually tasted it.

“Anyway, Geralt’s easier to read than you are, and I met him twice,” Jaskier says, dumping three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. The cup overflows, coffee dribbling down the sides. “I wrote the first scene with the vampires in the nightclub after the last time we met. I’m hoping Gwendolyn will play a bigger role in the sequel. I just need some inspiration.”

“A sequel?” Geralt demands.

Jaskier bends his head to slurp up the excess coffee. “There’s going to be a trilogy. I’m working on the second book now, but I’ll admit, I’m a bit stuck.”

“A shame,” Yennefer deadpans.

“It is a shame, since the fans are clamoring for more,” Jaskier says. “I’ll admit, I never expected it to blow up like this. I wrote the book in a couple of months, showed it to one of my professors who knew a guy who knew a guy, and next thing I knew, I was on three bestseller lists.”

Mabel brings Jaskier his pancakes. Instead of eating them with a fork and a knife, he dumps most of the container of maple syrup over them and rolls the sausage up inside a pancake like a burrito and shoves half of it into his mouth. It’s almost fascinating to witness.

“Look,” he says, licking a drop of maple syrup off his wrist. “I can emphasize the wholly fictitious nature of witchers and mages in my next few interviews. But I’m not going to stop writing this series.”

“Aren’t you?” Yennefer asks in a dangerously sweet voice.

“Would you?” Jaskier smiles at her, either not noticing the ice beneath her pleasant veneer, or choosing to ignore it. Both are mistakes. “You know, if I got to know the two of you better, maybe I could make sure it’s less obvious that Gerald and Gwendolyn are based on the two of you. Add some character details that are nothing like you two. I could make Gerald chattier or give Gwendolyn a love of bright colors—”

“Careful,” Geralt warns, watching Yennefer’s nostrils flare.

“I’m just saying, we could make this mutually beneficial,” Jaskier says, dragging his pancake and sausage concoction through the puddle of syrup on his plate. “The writer’s block has been hitting me hard ever since I came back to school. I could use the inspiration. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel as far as stories about witchers go. There’s an interesting one about a witcher adopting the last princess of Cintra through the Law of Surprise, but that almost sounds too wild for real life, right?”

Geralt goes still, his eyes meeting Yennefer’s across the table. Of course Jaskier would have dug up the stories of him and Ciri. Eight hundred years has obscured the details and their names are lost to time, but if Jaskier ends up deciding that the story of the witcher who claimed the Law of Surprise and ended up bound to a princess by destiny is sequel-fodder, that might change. Geralt can see the same realization in Yennefer’s eyes: it’s one thing for Jaskier to be writing about them, but Ciri? They can’t let that happen.

Yennefer fixes Jaskier with an icy expression. “You’re not going to publish that sequel.”

“We already covered this—”

“You may be immune to chaos, but you’re not immune to an air conditioner dropping from a window right as you walk under it. You’re not immune to me finding out where you live and burning your home down around your ears. You’re not immune to blades or bludgeons.”

There’s a tense silence. Next to Geralt, the scent of Jaskier’s fear spikes. Geralt shoots Yennefer a sharp look across the table. Jasker might be an idiot and a pest, but he’s only twenty-one. Geralt has no intention of hurting him and he knows that Yennefer doesn’t either. But it doesn’t feel good to scare him either. Geralt reminds himself of Eskel, Lambert, Aiden, Coën, Vesemir, Ciri. All the people whose lives could be completely upended if people start talking about witchers too much and happen to notice their neighbors with the slit-pupiled eyes and too-sharp teeth.

“I think it’s time for us to go.” He rises to his feet. There’s nothing else to say to Jaskier and he wants to get away from the sour stench of fear as soon as possible.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Yennefer says. “Let’s hope we don’t have to have this talk again, Jaskier.”

The boy says nothing as they leave, sitting there with his plate filled with maple syrup and mug of too-creamy coffee and watching them go with wide blue eyes.

***

“You’re back late,” Priscilla says as Jaskier lets himself into their apartment. “More books to sign than you expected?”

“I stopped by the diner with my agent afterwards,” Jaskier says with brightness that he doesn’t feel, busying himself with hanging up his jacket so she doesn’t see his expression.

He’s spent two years imagining running into Geralt and Yennefer again. His fantasies were always considerably sexier than what just happened. He thought they’d be flattered to learn that he had written a book about them. He certainly wasn’t expecting Yennefer’s fury or her threats.

“And you didn’t bring me pancakes?” Priscilla demands, outraged.

Jaskier grimaces. “Want to go there for brunch in the morning? I’ll buy you all the pancakes you want.”

“That would work,” Priscilla says.

He finally looks over at her to see her sitting on the ground, leaning against the couch they picked up off a curb last spring, laptop balanced on her knees and binders and textbooks fanned out on the floor around her. For such a small person, she takes up an extraordinary amount of space; their eight hundred square foot apartment hardly seems to contain her. It’s a new place, a vast upgrade over the shithole they shared with Shani during their sophomore and junior years. Jaskier tries not to think about Yennefer’s threat to burn it down.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks. “Your publishers on your back again about the sequel?”

“They sure are.” Jaskier grimaces. His agent is getting increasingly worried about the lack of a first draft, which he’s supposed to be sending to her by the beginning of the year, in less than three months. Will of the Witcher may have been a critical and commercial success, but he’s still a first-time author. If he doesn’t produce a first draft, there’s no guarantee that his publisher won’t drop him.

The problem is, the words that came so easily to Jaskier when he wrote the first book in only a couple of months seem to have entirely dried up. Every time he sits down to write, he ends up just staring at his computer screen, wondering how he ever managed to write the first book. Maybe he was possessed by a particularly creative demon. Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe his naysayers are right and he’s a fraud.

“It will happen,” Priscilla says. “You just need to give yourself time.”

“Time isn’t the problem, Pris. Inspiration is.”

“Then go out to the bar, find a beautiful person, make some bad life choices, and find some inspiration.”

Jaskier snorts. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It always works for me.”

“Well, we all know in ten year’s time, your voice is going to be on every radio station on the Continent, and I’ll just be that guy who wrote a book once.”

Priscilla gives him a dark look. “Don’t be self-deprecating. Modesty doesn’t suit you.”

Jaskier salutes her and crosses to the tiny kitchen to get a beer out of the fridge. “Only arrogance from here on out, I promise. Now, what are you working on?”

Later, he dreams of the night Anders tried to kill him. It’s a dream he used to have all the time, though the nightmare has become less frequent with time. He dreams about being tied down, pleading uselessly as Anders advances on him with the knife. He dreams about the cold press of the blade at his throat, the knowledge that he’s about to die and there’s nothing he can do to save himself. He dreams about Geralt and Yennefer appearing like avenging angels.

But instead of burying Anders alive and saving him, Yennefer looks down at Jaskier with a cold expression. Jaskier can only scream as the ground surges up to swallow him, just like it swallowed Anders. He sinks down into the darkness, roots wrapping around him and soil pressing into his face, choking him.

He awakes with a jolt of blind panic in the dark, shaking and sweating. It takes a long time for him to fall back asleep.

***

“Yenn, where’s my phone?”

Sitting on the back porch with her morning tea and a book, Yennefer sighs. “When’s the last time you used it?”

“Think I used the flashlight app in an endrega nest a few days ago.”

“If you’ve left another phone in a monster nest, our provider is probably going to start asking questions. You know, for a man who can spot drowner tracks from fifty paces, you lose your phone a lot.”

“Those things have nothing to do with each other.”

Yennefer puts down her book and pads into the kitchen to find her partner checking the cabinets. “Use your witcher senses, darling.”

He scowls at her over his shoulder. “Feel like you’re mocking me.”

“You only feel like I’m mocking you? You’re not certain? My, I’m losing my touch.”

Grumbling, Geralt turns back to search for his phone.

“Do you have another contract already?” Yennefer asks, taking in the gear on the kitchen table. Geralt just cleared out an endrega nest outside of Gors Velen three days ago; he doesn’t normally get jobs this close together. No one knows about witchers anymore, but Geralt has built a reputation as a special investigator, the person you call when your loved one is missing or killed in a bizarre fashion and the police are stumped (as they often are, even when monsters aren’t involved.) Still, he averages only a job a month.

Geralt nods. “Four missing kids outside Rinde. Went to a party that got busted by cops and they ran into the woods to get away. Haven’t been seen since. It’s the third group of people to vanish in the area recently. There was a young couple whose car broke down on the side of the road last week. When the tow truck showed up, they were gone. A pair of hunters went missing too. But no one has seen or heard anything.”

Yennefer doesn’t like the sound of that. The less Geralt knows about a contract, the more likely something will go wrong. “Should I come with you?”

“You hate coming with me on contracts.”

“But you don’t know what you’re facing.”

“I didn’t know what I was facing half the time in the old days.” He smiles wryly. “Anywhere, aren’t you meeting Sabrina today?”

“That was the plan. We’re going to have lunch in Ard Carraigh.”

“Go meet Sabrina. I’ll be fine.” Geralt opens the fridge. “There it is!”

“What is your phone doing in the fridge?”

“Must have been holding it when I got the milk out earlier.”

Yennefer sighs at the back of his head, both exasperated and hopelessly fond. “Come here.”

Geralt turns to her, lips curled into a soft smile, and she pulls him into a kiss. “Guess I really am getting old,” he murmurs.

“Well, we knew that.”

He kisses her again. “See, I’ll have my phone with me. I’ll be fine.”

“And I’ll keep mine with me. Call me if you need anything.”

“After all these years, you still worry about me, Yenn?”

“Someone has to.” She pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Just be careful.”

“Of course,” Geralt says. “Always am, aren’t I?”

***

Read the rest on AO3!

[dendydaily]

[tranquil-slaughterhouse]

I found it very amusing right now that Ian JQ said Parker Simmons was responsible for giving a minor character in OK KO the name Gerald Nametag because Mao Mao's sword is named Geraldine.

[wolfvalkyrie-blog]

parker simmons voiced gerald nametag that’s why y’all love Mao Mao’s voice so much

[scrawlingskribbles]

“Is this the end of Gerald Nametag~? *wink*”

Me, through a mouthful of cheerios: lol nice Parker-Simmons-Leaving-The-Crew joke

[teejaydeetrip]

Keep Newtown Weird and Safe

So I woke up on Sunday with a compounded headache. I’ve been drinking for days. Again. It was about 1.30 in the afternoon when I finally dragged myself out of bed, unsure of my ability to stand, but sure I needed to do it. Keep Newtown Weird And Safe is on in 2 and a half hours. I need to coordinate with Newtown Police, who are sending 15 officers out to escort what could be anywhere between 200 and 1000 punks, ravers, clubbers, crossdressers, and family unit’s down the busiest street in the inner western suburbs. I burp and I taste stale beer and nearly throw up. I message Alex, who has forgotten about the event today, and tell him to meet me at Railway Square. Only ramen can make this right. He takes forever to respond and during this time I keep hearing my phone ring, but when I walk to the bedside table to check it, there is no sound, there is no light, there is no notification.

I meet Alex at 3. One hour till showtime. We eat our ramen and it’s fake tonkotsu, thin, and the pickled ginger I pile into the bowl dyes it slightly red. Fake tonkotsu fucking sucks, but I slurp it down and feel somewhat rejuvenated anyhow. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep seeing something that looks like flailing tentacles in the kitchen, but I know it’s probably just cooking chopsticks and exhaustion combining in my brain to fuck with me. 

Alex is talking about how depressing it is to begin to accept that he will not have enough money to go to FujiRock in Japan and I am agreeing. Aphex Twin, Bjork, Queens Of The Stone Age, Major Lazer, Lorde, and The XX are all co-headlining and holy shit am I sad I am responsible enough to accept that I can’t afford it. Even if I could, I’d be shooting myself in the foot as far as leaving the country for good at the end of the year goes. 

We finish our bowls around 3.30 and start walking down to the park. We stop at Broadway Cellars, because of course we do, and I intend on skulling down a quick, cheap mini of whisky. Instead, I find a cold drip coffee infused IPA from Rogue. It costs $16 but there’s no way I’m not trying that, and I am still waist-deep in the throes of a hangover that’s been building like a bad dream since last Wednesday. We sit on a step across the road from the park and I drink a 16 dollar beer in 8 minutes then spot the police arriving in the park across the road. 

Time to head. Alex veers off to chat with crew, as he is holding a 1.5 litre bottle of high alcohol cider. I find Vicki and we trudge over to the police.

I ask where Tony is, my contact for today, and an officer with skulls tattooed on his arms and a big smile points over at a big bald officer with a fancy hat. His nametag says Anthony and he extends his hands to shake and says  “Tony, nice to meet you” and I nearly burp but hold it in and say  “TJ. Not Anthony then?” and motion at his name tag, completely forgetting that Tony is absolutely short for Anthony. He gives me a forced grin. I get the vibe that Tony and the 4 officers flanking him think I just have a lame sense of humour. “Nope. Just Tony” he says. Good good. I run him through our exit plan, then rush off to join the others and notify the stages. Then I realise that our exit plan won’t work. So I grab Kieran,  who is wearing an amazing silver reflective jacket, and we walk a new route, then notify the police, then notify the stages. The only speedbump is the Weird stage, who’s psytrance sound system gets cut off a number of times and they spend the last 3 minutes before the march kick off freaking out and trying to get their generator running.

So from Victoria Park, we march. Keep Newtown Weird and Safe is a party run by Reclaim The Streets and what we are, is a disorganised but effective collective of young and old, anti-establishmentarianists. RTS started in the UK in the 80′s as an anti-gentrification protest. London, I think. There are a few around the world. Austin, Berlin, Quebec, Manilla. Chapters spring up every few years, some lasting, others not. 

Sydney’s chapter has been the most active in recent years, holding at least two rallies per year.  We take over public spaces usually reserved for cars and create a temporary autonomous zone populated by bright colours and happy people dancing to improvised sound systems. Usually we take a street as our final destination after 30-60 minutes of marching and we dance in defiance for as long as we can. 

The march goes well this year. I ran into tons of people I haven’t seen in years and I say my hellos and I promise to have a drink with them at the end point and I rush off to go live on Facebook or post some pictures of the crowd to Instagram with all the usual hashtags or check with the cops that everything is still going well or tell a sound system to slow down or speed up a little. Jack tells me to relax at one point and I tell him that the moment I relax is the moment where my body will remind me it is falling apart.

We have 5 stages rolling down King st, flanked by partygoers, girls on roller skates, people twirling LED poi or blowing bubbles. Under police escort. People are hanging out of windows taking photos and I’m sipping Deans Soju and screaming at them to come join us and taking more photos for the Instagram. At some point, a light from the Umami stage drops off it and clocks Blake, the guy who built the stage in the head. He has blood pouring down the side of his face but a huge smile anyway. 

At the end point, we roll into the park and find spots for the stages and I shake hands with Tony and he says he is handing us off to Redfern Police, who never show. On a run to the bottle shop with Alex, I run into Jess, an old flame from back in the day who I haven’t spoken to in years. She’s wearing a silver leather jacket and a silver skirt with a skeleton design on it, like a space age x-ray around her crotch. We promise to catch up later and I don’t think it will happen, but lo and behold, she approaches as we watch the fashion show that Vicki has organised. 

A guy in a lobster suit, a couple in matching floral print, a transgender woman named Joe and a Victorian era steam punk lady are marching up and down the catwalk and I’m catching up with Jess about where we’ve been and what we’ve seen since we stopped talking like 5 years ago.

When I get distracted, she talks to Alex and I hope he realises that I’m drunk enough to kind of have the hots for Jess and she’s offering me work for her media company and I think there’s something going on. Me, being the guy helping run this gig though, I keep getting distracted. I take Jess and Alex along with me to help shut the gig down after Jack and I decide which stages get shut down and which ones we are gonna just let keep playing. We shut everyone down and Jack, Vicki, Caitlin, Alex and I walk all our gear to a friend of theirs on Lord St. Jess follows. Back at the park, everyone is in packdown except for the Umami stage, who have rolled their rig deeper into the park. We go sit down and enjoy the music. I doubt the police are going to show. I realise I am way too drunk too drink in a park and message Jack to see where he and the crew went.

Townie. But by the time we get there, it’s Oporto that they are at and he is considering going into the city to 77. I message Matty to ask if I can get in for free and he says only if I hurry and I don’t ask about Alex or Jess, who are behind me talking about skateboarding. At Oporto it’s just Caitlin and Jack, and Caitlin is going home. So Jack, Jess, Alex and I all pile into a cab and Jess pays for it. Jack and I get Jess and Alex in for free and A Guy Called Gerald (that is his performer name) is playing a live techno set that I never see because I’m too busy drinking for free on the cool kids side of the club. 

I catch up with K, who gives me a bump of K and we talk long and hard about everything music and I realise I haven’t actually seen K in like 3 years. It’s been a day of catch up’s with old friends, even if I have been shamelessly flirting with one of them and ignoring most of my friends apart from her.

I ask Marina if I can go behind the bar and make some cocktails for my friends and she says yes but only this once. -60ml Scotch -15ml Licor 43 -15ml Passionfruit pulp -30ml Lemon -30ml Egg white

I don’t remember much else except that I got ridiculously drunk, smoked in the bathroom a bit, made out in the bathroom a bit, went home with Jess and didn’t go to sleep until 6 in the morning. 

All of my days seem to start and end with good cocktails. The sex was definitely a plus.

[chasing-colors]

Awww he's doing impressions of Rad Rad's friends seem nice Hoops with bowling balls??? That seems so dangerous omg Awwww does Rad have a thing for Strawberry girl?? Ummm he left his car "Gerald Nametag" Rad... this identity theft gag is killing me I'm Enid throughout this whole thing Omg her DJ gear is soooooooo cute I wanna wear it This rap is catchy K.O. is really cute, my son Awwwww