Once Upon a Time Season 1 thoughts
I’m rewatching OUAT and I wanted to share some of my opinions on each season!
Background: I first watched the show in middle school and I have only rewatched season 5b (for the Greg Germann content). I LOVE OUAT. It was my favourite show for a long time, I had merch and everything. It will always have a special place in my heart. Anyways, here are my thoughts;
- I like Snow but I can’t stand Mary Margret
- She is so annoying
- Regina has the best quips
- Again, I like Charming but David is annoying
- I forgot about the ENTIRE murder plot in season 1
- Literally WTF was that
- No wonder the show is tagged ‘soap opera/melodrama’ on Disney+
- Katherine deserved better
- Rip Graham, I could care less about you
- I kinda love August ngl
- Jefferson: kinda annoying, kinda slay
- I forgot how bad the cgi is at times
- Wonderland looked HORRIBLE
- So gummy and bad, like the cgi budget was 10 cents
- Regina walking in episode 1 lol
- Love Rumple, he is one of my all time faves
- He is literally so iconic and funny both as Rumplestiltskin and Mr Gold
- Same with Belle
- I NEED MORE RUMBELLE CONTENT!!!
- Rumbelle kinda has Chuck/Blair vibes imo
- Their backstory ep was my favourite ep this season
- Blue is so shady like hmm…
- Most iconic lines: “THE CURSE ITS HERE!” “I will always find you” “give them their best chance”
- Rip Daniel
- Cora made an okay first impression but she is a lot more interesting later
- Idk why but I hate “Dreamy” I don’t like nova/astrid AT ALL
- Red’s backstory ep was a blast from the past, I read Red’s Untold Tale when I was like 11
- Rumple calling his son ‘bae’ was very funny to me in 2016
- THERE IS A TOWN IN MAINE (me skipping the recaps)
How I feel about the characters this season
Love: Rumple, Belle
Like: Emma, Snow, Ruby, Archie, August, Charming, Henry sr, Grumpy, Ashley
Neutral: Regina, Henry, Katherine, Granny, the other dwarves, Jefferson
Dislike: Mary Margret, David, Cora, Dr Whale, Blue, Sidney, Graham
Hate: King George
Season rating: 8/10
It’s iconic because it’s the first one, the Storybrooke plot line was okay, the flashbacks were good, the finale was great. Needed more Rumbelle though.
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I do love the mental image you supplied of Price being out there with a broom trying to shoo the Mimic away, like-
Price: Get out of here, shoo!
Mimic: :((
Price: No! Go find another witch to snack on! *whacks*
Mimic: :(((((
You watch from your window as Price leaves your garden. The not-moose moves from one side of the wall towards Price. You aren't sure why that makes your stomach twist. You grip your chest, twisting your shirt in your hand, feeling that warm magic buzz at the tips of your finger again. Price can take care of himself, you're sure of it.
Price feels his tethers pull tight as the mimic walks towards him. The overgrown beast doesn't even have the common courtesy to pretend to be a regular animal. It stares right at him, it's eyes moving in different directions as it attempts to keep its focus on you as well as the new threat. Price cracks his knuckles, moves towards the mimic with the same predatory intent that it had been.
"Fuck off," Price advises the mimic, "kindly."
The mimic stops, shakes it's head. It's lips pull back in what Price is sure is supposed to be a terrifying display. He will admit that the noise it makes is downright unsettling, the sobbing wail that seems to broadcast from the mimic. It's face doesn't move at all, the sound just shakes out of it. Price raises a brow.
"You don't look starving."
Another wail from the mimic, the moose turns and butts its horns against the threshold. The twist of horn against your wards makes even Price grimace. It unhinges its jaw to press the full extent of its teeth against the garden's barrier. Price growls, leaning to reach over the wall to grab your watering can.
The iron burns.
Price twitches, his jaw clenched as his head pulls to one side. The unnatural sting of metal against his skin is almost as unpleasant as the scream the mimic lets out upon seeing it. The glassy eyes of it roll to look at him, it slides its teeth off the threshold like dragging knives through molasses. It gives another wail, almost bargaining. Price weighs the sentiment against the iron in his grasp before swinging the can hard at the mimic.
The creature flinches, stumbling back away from him. It drops its head low, menacing. Price doesn't move except to raise his free hand and make a shoo-ing motion.
"If you're not going to leave on your own I have no qualms makin' you."
The mimics eyes roll between Price and the house. It's lips curl, tongue lolling out over its razor sharp teeth. The menacing posturing doesn't let up, in fact the mimic almost seems to be challenging that assertion.
"Price," it sobs in your voice. Price's eyes narrow, his grip on the iron watering can tightening. The burn of it bites into his flesh.
"Now you're tryin' to make me mad." He growls, the mimic takes a half step back, "I'm tryin' to be civil, bet you can't even remember that part of yourself."
A step forward, the mimic attempts another show of aggression only to be caught by the swing of cold iron. The metal scrapes fur and flesh from its muzzle, oily blood sloughing off it into the snow before it can pull its skin back together. It scrambles back away from Price, away from your property. The mimic tries another sobbing voice, aiming for sympathy over threats. Isn't it pathetic? Cursed with only might and the decaying sense it once had as a human. If it could just get enough magic...
"Then find another witch to snack on, this one's mine." Though Price imagines any witch it finds will yield the exact same results. Well, maybe not exactly the same. He can't think of a single other fae that would- That would be eager to help? Have the tethers to be called on? The conviction to grab Iron in defense of their- of a witch. God help him this is getting out of hand.
The mimic seems to ponder this for a moment. It's neck twisting its head one way then another, its horns scraping the snowy ground as it does. It lets out an agreeable is terrified scream, before turning and making its way back into the thicket of trees. Price watches it go for a moment before tossing the watering can back towards the fence with a pained swear.
He grips his wrist, staring at the consumed flesh, the sinew revealed by the acidic burn of the iron. His fingers clench and shake, the muscles pulled tight with pain. Behind him the house door opens and closes, the iron back gate creaks, the sound of rapid footsteps through snow reaches him. He turns in time for you to throw your arms around him.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," You squeeze your arms tightly around his shoulders. Price wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you more securely against his chest. You pull away too quickly to cup his face graciously, briefly, between your hands. He can feel his tethers singing for you as you leave his hold, eager to have you close again. His fingers still drag along your waist, reluctant to stop touching you as you turn to grab his injured hand.
Your fingers are so gentle as they graze the outer edges of the wound. Your expression pained, it makes him want to rip his hand from your hold. Instead he lets you finish your exam, his fingers tightening on your waist when you prod a little too hard. You mumble a quiet apology and release his hand, crouching to pick up a handful of snow.
"This might feel a little strange," You tell him, without actually telling him what exactly it is that's going to feel strange. You press the snow against his hand, careful to spread the ice down his fingers as well. Sort of weird that you'd think he'd never iced a burn before.
You lean over his hand, your face close to the snow, close enough he can feel the brush of your breath as you exhale. Then your lips move, and he feels it. The soft shift of the wind, the ringing in his ears, the lacing of his skin knitting back together under rapidly melting ice, the magic that races up his arm and circulates through his heart like a shot of ecstasy. Your grip on his wrist is far flung from the light touches it was, and he sees why now.
Your magic makes him want to jerk away, an involuntary reaction that he tries to steady as soon as it happens. It's hot and molten, it rustles past his ears like a sea breeze, and it is a foreign body invading his own. Price's pulse races, instinct keyed to the highest settings, and you are mouthwatering. All potential power and pretty packaging. He brushes your hair off your neck with his uninjured hand. You're so trusting. He can feel the itch in his teeth, and smell blood.
Price grips your shoulder hard enough to bruise, and leans down to press his teeth to your neck. He can feel your pulse rushing under his tongue, smell your scent under all those lovely herbs. You drop his hand and he's quick to thread it through your hair, to hold your neck long for his consumption. There's no pain, and the tethers between you are so brilliantly warm. No pain. Price blinks. The ringing is gone, the sea breeze gone, you're not holding his hand. You're finished.
He pull back, looks at how you've squeezed your eyes shut, lips thin with fear. That's not right. Fuck.
"Fuck," Price clears his throat, it feels like he hasn't had anything to drink in days, "I'm not gonna hurt you, that's-" He takes his hands off you, as a show of sincerity. Tension bleeds out of you as you open your eyes.
"I told you, it'll feel weird." You tell him, turning quickly to go and grab your watering can. Weird is not how he'd describe it, nor is that how he would've warned about it. But it's done now.
"That was real magic," Price swallows, flexes his fingers now miraculously, magically, healed. You don't miss a step in your quick pace back to your garden.
"It's all real magic," You call over your shoulder, "I just didn't use a buffer this time."
You only turn to look at him when you're closing your garden gate, your smile a little shy and your cheeks pink. You mouth a last 'thank you' and disappear into your house. It's strange. There should be a new tether between you, something solid, something the weight of unfiltered magical expertise, but there's nothing. Even done out of just the kindness of your heart he should have some evidence that you'd done him a service, nobody gives themselves that freely. Even those that do, a recipient would never accept such a gift without a debt; save maybe the few foolish enough to think they're in love.
Fuck.
Fuck.
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ok legends of tomorrow ended up touching on one of the most Fascinating things about constantine, which is the way he thinks about his magic, so i'm gonna ramble about that for a minute.
first and foremost, magic is a tool for survival in constantine's mind. that's it. it doesn't make him better than people, he just uses it better than most people. of course, he's arrogant about having it, and can be equal parts holier-than-thou and devil-on-your-shoulder about its usage, but it's still just part of the kit for him.
that's one of the reasons that so many other magic users hate his guts; it's why one of his monikers is "the magpie of magic". the artifacts and powers and rituals that are sacred to others, that are ways for people to commune with their faith, to extend the grace of their personal divinities upon the rest of the world - those are all just tools to constantine. divination is a pair of glasses. a binding spell is a wrench. an exorcism is a hammer. he picks up what works and leaves the rest.
the reason he took up magic to begin with was to survive. he started using magic trying to kill his abusive father, and then when he felt too bad to go through with it, to weaken him. he used magic to bolster his grifts when he was living on the streets, and he used it to set his friend chas free of his abusive mother and her familiar. eventually, he got too cocky with it, too full of himself and his talent for magic, and that's how newcastle happened, but after that he tempered himself, started looking at it as the kind of weapon that needs to never be left lying around loaded.
but because magic is what helped him to survive, he does think sometimes that it's the only thing that makes him worth living. he's tied a lot of himself up in his ability to help people after a long, long childhood of being told he ruins everything he touches. even when he fucks things up, or magical entities from his past fuck things up for him, he never blames the magic, he blames himself. magic is the only thing that makes him redeemable, in a way, for the life he's lived. for the people he's hurt.
he needs magic to stay alive these days, but he didn't always. newcastle shot him in the foot in a real big way: he was someone powerful enough to both summon a major demon and send a little girl's soul to hell. he was being yanked out of ravenscar to do magical favors for people as early as two years into his sentencing, he'd accidentally made a name for himself that could not be erased and it launched him into the viper pits of the magical world in a way that could never be undone. every job he did for people, every gun put to his head, meant more deals he had to make, more strings to pull, more people to piss off. he never had a fucking chance to get out of that world once he'd already fallen in it.
(which is why i think a hades-game hellblazer arc where he's constantly escaping hell only to get sucked back in would be thematically appropriate, because he keeps trying to leave and it keeps pulling him back.)
these days, if he were ever to lose his magic, he'd be a dead man walking. demons and angels and warlocks and magicians everywhere coming to take their pound of flesh. he owes his life to his quick and clever thinking, but he keeps his life because of magic, and that's why he'll never be able to give it up. ever.
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