perhaps a bit too ambitious on this one

anonymous asked:

If you were to compare any soulsborne characters to historical figures, who would it be. I always imagined lady Maria to be like Florence nightingale, though I have no idea if she knows anything about medicine. Also,how would you draw them.


When I think of Laurence and Willem I often imagine them as Nikola Tesla and Thomas Edison. Tesla was the younger scientist with brilliant but perhaps too ambitious ideas (at least for his time) while Edison was the meticulous, stubborn one who played it safe. And the rivalry was real, or at least that’s what fictionalized history likes to make us believe.

Annalise reminds me a bit of Françoise-Athénaïs De Montespan, one of the lovers of King Louis XIV who became so influent that most people considered her the true Queen of France even if she was never officially crowned as such.  It was said that she used black magic to keep the king on a leash and the Catholic Church of Rome harshly criticized and opposed her to the point that she was the only woman to whom a particularly intransigent priest denied the ritual of communion on Easter day.

“My” Gehrman is inspired by various historical figures such as Italian painter Amedeo Modigliani and German composer, author, jurist (and caricaturist, and draftsman, and music critic and.. and… and… what couldn’t this man do? XD) E.T.A Hoffmann. Long story short, really talented dudes with a complicated relationship with the world at large.

Mmmmh can’t really say the same thing for other characters like Micolash and Maria because I would associate most of them with other fictional characters and not real people.

cs fic: have yourself a merry little christmas

Summary: Holiday AU! emma’s kind of a scrooge and it’s up to killian to show her the true meaning of holiday spirit

Author’s Note: fluff, fluff, fluffity fluff. Based on this post. This is essentially a Hallmark movie

He could remember precisely what she’d worn the day she moved in, even though it was snowing when he first noticed her, a shimmery figure obscured by swirls of white. She looked to be a tough lass, enshrouded in layers of dark leather. Through a space in his window, Killian had been able to see the precise mark of her scowl as she glanced over at his lawn decorations – he’d thought his wrought-iron reindeer set was actually rather tasteful – before lugging a cardboard box onto her porch.

Two weeks before Christmas and it would seem all the lass had to her name was a pick-up truck’s worth of belongings and a scowl that could curdle milk. He’d offered to help her move things in, but Emma – he’d essentially had to pry that information out of her – had insisted she was perfectly fine by herself. She’d gone on to say that she hoped his lights wouldn’t keep her up at night, to which Killian insisted she would never notice them – knowing deep down that his were the brightest on the block. Huffing, Emma had thanked him and walked inside, leaving him alone in the frigid Maine air.

Peculiarly striking green eyes, was the only thing Killian could recall about his meeting with her, that and the fact that she seemed trapped within a cloud of vulnerability and overcompensation. Most men would have taken Emma’s chilly silence as her overall personality, but Killian saw misery, and he hadn’t had company in ages.


A week or so before Christmas, it became strikingly clear that Emma Swan wasn’t particularly thrilled about his choice of decorations. Stomping across his yard as he’d been pulling groceries from the car, Emma had interrogated him about his lights – “I can’t seriously be the only one on the block who’s bothered by this!” to which he had responded by saying that she actually was. She’d continued to rant– “some people need sleep, you know, without a million mega-watts of electricity shining in their face!” – and had even kicked a gnome in her outrage when he’d responded to her complaints by calling her Lady Scrooge.

Albeit one of his less inspired insults, Killian still felt terrible and decided that Emma Swan needed her own healthy dash of Christmas cheer. Besides, he had an ample amount of decorations to spare.


The only reason Emma even noticed the box on her porch was because she tripped over the damn thing on her way to work. Flailing out of the snow and cursing every deity she could name, Emma very nearly ripped the box apart with her bare hands. Seething, she blew breath out of her nostrils furiously, ignorant to the fact that she looked absolutely ridiculous fuming in the snow.

Opening the box sucked the air from her lungs; she hadn’t received a present from anyone in years and although the sweater inside was hideously overwhelmed with snowflakes and reindeer, the simple act was enough to make her want to cry.

There was a note pinned to the sweater:

         Emma Swan,

I sincerely hope this finds you well and that the snow doesn’t conceal its location – Emma huffed in annoyance – but I’m hosting a party this Friday and I hope to see you there. The sweater is the theme – if you hadn’t already guessed. Looking forward to seeing you!

                                Killian Jones

Of course her stupidly handsome neighbor would do something like host Christmas parties – if his lawn décor was any indication of his fervor for the holiday she didn’t know what was. Ever since she’d casually mentioned that she didn’t really see the point of Christmas – mostly to thwart his offer to help her move in – he seemed to have made it his personal mission to shower her with “holiday cheer”.

Her fridge was currently stocked with yule logs and eggnog and cranberries; Emma knew she would never consume any of it (unless she invited Killian over for dinner – which she most decidedly did not want to do) but had been unable to turn any of it away whenever he stopped by. The man practically was the human embodiment of a puppy: thrilled to see her, impossible to shake when she least expected to run into him.

It had only been a week since she’d moved in and only a week left until Christmas (a fact Killian seemed to mention every single time he saw her). Normally, Emma would have clocked someone in the face for being so damn persistent, when she’d made it fairly evident she wished to be left alone (her incident outside of his house still made her cringe to remember it). But for some reason, Killian’s dogged determination was endearing to her and she couldn’t help but find him charming, even likeable.

She refused to date anyone – the catastrophe with Neal had driven her out of the state; what would she do if she dated her neighbor? – and this policy had served her well.

If only she could stop thinking about Killian’s smile, and the fact that the man had bothered to buy her a sweater for a party he knew she probably wouldn’t go to.


Emma’s absence from his party was acutely felt. Killian supposed his idea of killing off Emma’s Scrooge-y attitude toward Christmas had been a bit too ambitious – and perhaps entirely unnesseccary. Maybe she really did want to be alone, but how could that be, especially after their encounter at the market, Emma purchasing what seemed to be a Christmas dinner for one, eyes shrouded in disappointment. She was made up of stubbornness, seemed to be born out of the stuff, unwilling to acknowledge any vulnerability.

Glancing out of the window, Killian startled, noticing Emma out in the snow, hanging the ornaments he’d given her on one of her trees. Perhaps she sensed his eyes on her, for she turned sharply. Their gaze locked; he smiled broadly despite himself, seeing that she was wearing the sweater he’d packaged up for her. She smiled too, shyly, and waved at him before returning to the trees.

Perhaps giving up on her wasn’t an option after all.


The next day, Emma awoke to a light knocking at her door. She’d fallen asleep on her couch, for the warmth from the fireplace gave off far better heat than anything else in the house. Her mind entertained a brief and sleepy notion of better ways to keep warm, an idea which accompanied her to the door, only to find Killian shuffling outside in the snow.

Blushing furiously, Emma ran a hand through her hair hurriedly, knowing it was all for naught.

“Killian! Don’t you know it’s – ”

“Noon?” he offered, smirking in that way of his that did peculiar things to her insides.

“Oh.” She said softly, the argument having left her. “Right. Well, I was still sleeping, so you better have something good.”

“I brought you some lights to rival mine, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yours do keep me up at night,” she laughed, taking the strands from him. Emma glanced down at his left arm and noticed – for the first time – its end at the wrist. Killian followed her gaze and a sharp twinge of pain flashed in his face when he heard Emma’s small gasp. He turned to go, suddenly and angrily, murmuring something about checking on a roast, leaving Emma alone on her porch, lights dangling uselessly from her hands.

She’d never felt so despicable in all her life – she’d simply never noticed before and it wasn’t as though it mattered, because of course it didn’t and it certainly didn’t bother her; this was Killian and she’d like him no matter what. God, she’d hurt him without even meaning to – her damn surprise at her own lack of observation being the reason she’d been stunned to see it. Emma realized that she actually quite liked Killian and the prospect of not seeing him for the remainder of her stay in Maine was crushing. She even liked his ridiculous lawn ornaments and the fact that he kept his home so well lit her own lawn resembled what it looked like during the day.

You’re not meant for friends, Swan, Emma thought as she trudged back into the house, unceremoniously dragging the lights in behind her. Especially not for people as good as Killian.


Later that evening, as Killian was trying to determine whether or not he was going to remain hurt by the event earlier, he heard a knock at his door. Opening it revealed none other than Emma Swan herself, red-rimmed eyes and wild hair an indication that she’d spent some time thinking about the situation herself.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as though she hadn’t expected him to answer. “Hi.”

Her voice bordered on shy, but the words were still rough around the edges, as though she were concealing her apprehension through diction. Killian couldn’t help but smile.

“Hullo, Emma. Like to come in?”

Emma’s breath was a muggy cloud in front of her face. “Yes, please.”

Words tumbled out of her mouth before she’d even had the chance to sit down; she simply began pacing in front of his fireplace, roughly wringing her hands as though she were trying to rub off the skin.

“I’m so sorry, Killian, I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable, or for you to think that I was uncomfortable – because I am definitely not – and I wanted you to know that I was being an ass, an absolute ass for responding that way, and I’d just never noticed before, is all, and that’s why I reacted, because I’m such an idiot with people – ”

“Hang on, lass, hang on! You’ll give yourself an attack!” Killian was sure she’d never said so many words to him in their entire acquaintance.

Emma stopped, took a breath and gave him such a tremulous smile Killian felt as though his heart cracked. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Emma, really. I shouldn’t have taken off like that.”

“You know I don’t care, right? I mean I do care about you, of course, but I don’t think less of you or anything – God, I’m terrible at this – and I just felt so awful when you left that I had to make it right.”

“Miss me, eh?”

He hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking that made him see Emma flush, so he settled on it being the firelight.

“Well, someone has to decorate my house,” she said, laughing.


“So what happened?” she asked later, settling in to the cushions of his armchair, cup of cocoa nestled snugly in her hands. She’d become significantly more comfortable and at ease in the last hour, her earlier apprehension and embarrassment forgotten.

“Lost it in a boating accident. Some mates and I were sailing off the coast and it was choppy waters that day. It got caught between some rigging. Damn things crushed all of the tendons and the bones and the doctor said it’d be best if it came off.”

Emma was staring intently at him, her eyes a malachite green. She was truly beautiful, the most lovely woman he’d ever seen, her hair and skin glowing with the flames of the fire. Kissing her didn’t seem to be an option – hell, he’d known the woman for barely a week and a half – but he couldn’t help but notice that her eyes drifted down to his mouth as well.

Abruptly, Emma said, “I’m sorry I kicked your gnome.”

Killian snorted in surprise and perhaps the noise set Emma off as well, for both of them started laughing uncontrollably, only stopping periodically to recount the memory of it in their own ways.

Before she left, Emma leaned against the door jamb and smiled at the tree in the parlor. “Your decorations aren’t all bad, Jones.” Departing with a smile that outshone even the lights on the block, Killian closed the door behind her with a sigh, leaning his forehead on the wood. Damn, was he in trouble.


Not fully understanding why she needed to do it, but maintaining that she must, Emma Swan found herself amidst a flurry of flour and sugar without knowing quite sure how she’d got there. It was Christmas Eve and she hadn’t heard from Killian since that night in front of the fire – she couldn’t have been the only one dying to snog the living daylights out of the other – and she needed an arsenal of baked goods by her side when she went over there again, just in case her plan to ask him out ended in crushing defeat.

In the past few days, Emma had decided that not dating anyone wasn’t particularly helpful to anyone – especially when what she really needed was a mere twenty feet from her doorstep. So she’d constructed a plan to make Killian some gingerbread cookies, show up on his porch wearing that stupid sweater of his, and tell him he’d officially made her enjoy Christmas.

However, the plan was foiled, for he showed up at her house, minutes before she was about to change and make herself presentable – she was fairly positive that dark streak in her hair was molasses and her clothes would forever be stained white with flour.

“Cooking, are we, Swan?”

He stood in the doorway of her kitchen, smirking – damn him! – and looking so utterly adorable with his arms folded across his chest, smiling at her like she owned the damn moon or something. So instead of smacking him across the face for ruining her element of surprise, she walked over and grabbed him by the lapels of his pea-coat, crashing her mouth onto his. He uttered a soft sigh and molded against her, running his hand up and down her back, dragging her closer to him.

“I take it those are for me?” he murmured against her neck and she pulled away to make sure he could see her smiling.

“They’re your Christmas present,” she said by way of explanation, and Killian grinned, laughing at the state of her hair and clothes.

“You went all out, I see.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her again.

“It was either this or a hook,” Emma teased before she dashed up the stairs, Killian hot on her heels, the pair of them laughing like lunatics while they leaned against the wood of her bedroom door.

Gently pressing his forehead to hers, Killian said softly, tenderly, “Happy Christmas, Emma Swan.”

And indeed it was.


End Notes: Oh my God, was this not the fluffiest thing you’ve ever read? My teeth hurt from all this sugary goodness.