#There's plenty of room in this rowboat

[108garys]

Evil

@kassiekolchek22 @mistmoose @delurkr @ivycross @tatjana-fantasy @blubary @oblivious-troll @lonnitamongus @ultrabananapudding I am again back to remind people that supermassive has so much potential in its mid-century(ish) era that covers the inpatient/until dawn's 1952 era, the man of Medan prologue and hoa's 1940s subplot, it also overlaps with James and anne(and anyone else their age) being in their late teens/early adulthood, I know people love my AUs and I'm hoping one day people will love this era just as much(I'll do it myself if I have to)

At any rate all that aside for this I've aimed a little earlier with a slightly younger Agnes Bradshaw with a look that I can only hope comes off cute and unsettling

[the-bjd-community-confess]

Expense, recast rant, grown-ass people behaving badly

‘Legit dolls are too expensive.’ I call BS, there are plenty of nice lower price dolls that everyone welcomes within this hobby. Most people also have a lot of respect and admiration for hobby skills and are happy to see cute dolls regardless of the cost of the base doll. Yes, it may take you a long damn time to save for a more expensive type or to have the collection of multiple dolls that you may crave but you can either wait and save or get a less expensive starter doll in the meantime and both are ok. Everyone plays at their level in life. I bought a house and a car that are reasonable for my income, I don’t make myself miserable always chasing something more because that’s a never-ending battle, there’s always something better, something more. I budget my extra money in a way that makes sense for my lifestyle, neither over-spending nor being a miser. I have established a reasonable savings and investment plan because I know unplanned expenses can be devastating and because it’s very satisfying to invest and watch my money earn more money. But all of that is just normal adulting stuff so my big point here is that it’s questionable that anyone but a younger teen wouldn’t have learned all of this too and behave accordingly - buying the legit dolls that are within their means also. So that’s why I’m really surprised to see grown-ass people acting crazy over insisting that they are entitled to these bootleg dolls and that others are big meanies for saying ‘Hey, don’t post those here, don’t bring those in - they aren’t part of our hobby.’ Do they also think they can bring their fake Gucci bag to the luxury handbag forum, their rowboat to the yacht club and their KIA to the BMW road trip meets? Usually not, they know better, right?.

Many people are always going to have more dolls, more expensive or rare dolls, more traveling time and money to attend doll events and meets, maybe more stuff for their dolls, possibly more room and a better camera too, the list goes on. But if they are buying within their budget, then that’s the right level of spending for them. Mine is going to be different, maybe a lot more than some people but probably always far less than others so comparisons aren't really even useful. If something doesn’t fit my budget or my life, I need to work around it. Not try to unfairly game the system (buying cheap recasts so my collection is bigger and seems better) or take unethical shortcuts (cheating doll artists out of their fair earnings because I want their thing but won’t actually pay them for it so I go pay for a cheap stolen copy). That’s just bad and wrong thinking. 

And yet here we are, still dealing with having to push back on people who buy recast dolls after all this time. It hasn’t blown over or gotten any better. The hobby at large needs to take a better ‘no bootlegs’ stance and actually condemn this behavior. There’s no real neutral, the jury is in, recasts are a blight on the hobby, they make legit prices go up, drive hobby artists out of business or into a mode of releasing in a more limited and controllable way. The issue itself creates division among the members so if you tolerate them, if you were one who thought you could remain neutral, you see how they have now bloomed up like weeds into a multi-million dollar business for just one recast company, right? That overshadows almost all of the legit companies but maybe Volks and probably tops over the income of all the solo western bjd artists combined. This will only become worse if we continue to tolerate the recasts, as the western economy heads into recession, as doll artists continue to quit, restrict their production, raise their prices. 

It’s also a giant social pain in the ass. Friend gets a recast? Either the friendship is now fucked if you stand your ground and actively uphold your pro-artist only values or now you are called on to compromise those values, become recast neutral and to not criticize their doll, to be tolerant of their bootleg choice, and that’s both in your friendship and also within your hobby space. And of course they will talk about it because you are doll friends, right? So now a recast shares time and takes up space within your shared hobby. And since it’s now fine to have one, your friend will probably collect more (you notice they rarely stop at one, right?) and now the friend may attract another friend or 2 who may also have a shared recast sculpt, you get the picture. But most people are ‘too nice to say no’, and so that’s how they end up sliding down into a group full of recast owners if they don’t take a real pro-artist stand. Even worse if you are an artist yourself and you keep silent, if you don’t speak up and advocate for your fellow artists. We’ve even seen other artists buying recasts now. What level of diseased thinking is that? Bad enough to have these little bands of thieves lurking in their bootleg groups but when another artist joins in, that’s some next level ish.

Ok, I’m done. If you are legit-only, what’s your response to your doll friend buying a recast. Has it happened to you? 

~Anonymous

[agentpeggycarterrogers]

Peggy nibbled on the cheese and the eclair. “You don’t have to apologize. We have plenty of time. Perhaps I’m just aching for more kissing and I want to see this beautiful park.” She smiled. “It was all so good. I’m glad we found this place. That was the best quiche I’ve ever had - although I’m sure you can make a quiche just as good if you tried.” 

Once outside, she nodded. “Yes, there are row boats,” she said. “Rowboats, a shade covered lake. It should be sweet.” Peggy laughed, and they settled in the back of the cab. “Oh no, darling. But it should give you an arm workout.” She ran her hand up to his bicep. “I’ll have you work off your lunch and dinner tonight in our hotel room, though.” She grinned at him. 

The cab sped across the city, across the Seine, and to the east border of the Bois de Boulogne. They paid the driver, and Peggy slipped her hand into his as they entered the park. “Shall we wander the gardens first or would you like to go right to the lake?”

@steven-g-rogers

Steve took a little longer to finish eating than Peggy did. Mostly because he needed to eat more than she did, but also there was just a lot to try. Still by the time Peggy was giving him the hurry up, he was feeling satiated and relaxed. Everything had been very delicious, and despite not having a huge sweet tooth he really enjoyed the dessert. Though his favorite thing was the camembert cheese on the cheese plate.

"You're right," he said, putting one more profiterole in his mouth and washing it down with his coffee. "Sorry. There was just so much. And it was so good."

He wiped his hands and mouth and waved for the check. When it was settled, the couple went back outside and flagged down a cab. "So there's row boats?" he asked. "Going to have me work off my lunch?"

@agentpeggycarterrogers

[baronneutron]

Incom Gig

Concept by me; some design influence from AdamKop; art by Colourbrand

I know the name is "Star Wars" so most ships focus on the "War" aspect and I get that; it's the coolest aspect.  However, sometimes I appreciate the utilitarian aspect of my fictional worlds that I enjoy.  Why?  Who knows, I just do.  

A gig is be a small, basic ship that would carry people and/or 1-2 containers of cargo between ships or from planet-to-moon-to space station. This is a small people mover: no hyperdrive, no weapons, no shields, no armor to speak of, only the most basic comm/sensor system; way WAY smaller than Lambda-class shuttle.  The best reason for the existence of gigs would be that while on a large ship you could fit Lambdas on the flight deck, on smaller ships there is less room but still a need to move people and cargo at times.  While I am focusing on its function as a ship's gig, consider a planet in a Galaxy Far, Far Away that has space stations and a habitable moon: you dont need a ship with a hyperdrive to go back and forth and back and forth, you just need something like a gig. It is not wide, not long: pilot & copilot, perhaps a loadmaster/crew chief, and then a modular system that you could pull out, rearrange, and move a system of chairs; some kind of plug-n-play lock system.  A Captain's Gig/Admiral's Gig/VIP Gig would have a few nice chairs and perhaps a table or desk, for max passengers you remove the nice chairs and install some bench jump seats, for cargo you remove all the chairs and slide in two 2m X 2m cargo containers, and for a mix you could have one 2m X 2m cargo container and then half the jump seats. 

There are any number of makes and models from any number of manufactures; this one is made by the Incom Corporation.  As you can see from the image the design is fairly boxy so it is easily stowed.  There are smaller gigs and larger gigs; the description I went with above is one that I thought would be small yet still practical to have on a frigate or light cruiser to meet a number of needs.  

If you need to apply it to the real world here is my best explanation.  The obvious inspiration are ship's gigs from the Age of Sail; just small wooden rowboats, but so useful.  For a common analogy, picture this as a version of a large van that has room for 6 or so passengers and then plenty of room in the back to haul whatever.  To apply it to airplanes, think of it like the US military's C-12.  There is nothing fancy about the C-12 (ignoring the sexier MC-12 and RC-12 versions), it is just a small cargo and passenger plane.  However, sometimes you just need to move around a few people or a little bit of cargo and using a C-130 or C-17 would just be overkill.  

For those with a mind toward using this in your SW RPG adventures, here are some thoughts toward game terms:  Dimensions: Length: 8m; Exterior height: 3m; Interior height: 2.5m; Exterior width: 3m; Interior width: 2.5m 

Layout: interior is all open, the crew stations are static, but the rest is designed to be modular.  Imagine, if you will, that if there is some kind of in-flight emergency the crew chief or co-pilot might have to have a passenger stand up, remove the seat, remove a deck or ceiling panel, and then try to get at the electrical problem (or whatever).  

Crew: Pilot, Co-Pilot, and Crew Chief; Passengers: based on configuration; Cargo: based on configuration, but max is two 2m X 2m cargo containers. Features: Micro-'Fresher; Top Hatch (like we saw on the Falcon in Empire); Air Lock, aft, the smallest possible, slightly extendable; Passenger/Cargo Door, port; Small storage locker, basic equipment, 1 week consumables; Systems: not fast, not maneuverable other than it is small; Hyperdrive: none; Weapons: none ; Armor: none; Shields: none; Comm/sensor system: basic, short range Function: Transport.  Secondary Function: *could* be used for short-term Search and Rescue if (ideally) all passengers and cargo are removed.  Also, *could* be used a lifeboat but hopefully all on board are carrying water and food because it doesn't have more than week of rations.

[flowerbloom-arts]

Welp, since two people asked (@xanzusx and @ratdaduniverse ) I suppose I have an excuse to do an unnecessarily deep dive into a character literally nobody cared about that much or bothers to draw before I came along with my thing for all too unpopular characters!

Let's start with a quick tl;dr :

Aunt Jane is (probably, this is more speculative than anything) a victim of capitalism and misogyny working together to create a damaged woman with anger issues and a toxic relationship with money.

How, you may ask? Well, let's take a close look at her titular, starring, and only episode of the 90s series;

episode 27: Aunt Jane

In the beginning of the episode, Moominpappa receives a letter from an aunt from his father's side and it's made immediately clear that he is not a fan of his aunt or the reason she sent the letter to him, it's also stated that Aunt Jane had no one else to turn to besides her nephew to "discuss money matters" as the episode puts it. Moominpappa says that he isn't really scared of Aunt Jane herself (though she is quite scary and a not-great person as MP himself describes, being bossy and not letting people have a moment of peace) but it's the money he's afraid of, he's afraid of having to discuss something he knows nothing about with someone he dislikes, so he takes it upon himself to leave before she arrives. (sidenote: this may tie into some fear Moominpappa has of looking dumb and ruining his ego, aswell as generally not being able to put up with people he finds unpleasant for very long)

Then Aunt Jane arrives on a rowboat down the Moomin Valley river with someone else rowing for her (cool detail: her boat actually matches her umbrella! We can assume she owns the boat based on this and the rower is either an employee or some guy she paid [his mustache is delightful by the way, I love the round little fella]) and she just has this... Very odd blank stare as our very first shot of her? It's an odd first impression for the viewer to be sure.

Jane gets off the boat and the rower simply continues down stream without her, Jane notices Snufkin fishing and asks for directions to Moominhouse, Snufkin gives her the tip and then Jane asks Snufkin if he could carry her suitcase of gold coins for her. Snufkin politely declines, saying he's busy, and then Jane attempts to bribe Snufkin by offering a "handsome reward" in a very confident manner, almost as if that trick has always worked before. Snufkin still declines, saying he just wants to fish. Aunt Jane is legitimately shocked at Snufkin not wanting money, now a first-time viewer might interpret this as Jane being vain with her wealth but it actually ties into how everyone in her life would simply be interested in her money (which is something that'll be elaborated further on) so Snufkin is perhaps the first person in a long while to not be interested.

Jane has little time to let that sink in as Sniff (the ultimate capitalist of the show) runs in, introduces himself as simply someone to help take her to Moominhouse and goes to help Jane carry her suitcase, to which Jane simply acts like a more poised individual and bimbles behind Sniff.

They arrive at Moominhouse right after Moominpappa had already left in the previous scene, Aunt Jane adjusts her glasses and says "A round house? How stupi- typical of my nephew." which establishes that Jane... doesn't like her nephew (and considers round shaped houses as being dumb [which I think a couple architects/engineers would agree but correct me if I'm wrong])

Jane gets welcomed by Moominmamma and after Moomintroll introduces himself Jane's attention immediately goes to Little My, assuming that My is a child of the family, she says that My's too small for a daughter (her expression says that she's bothered by it more than anything), then Moominmamma explains that Little My's not related but lives with them and My says she won't get any bigger, to which Jane simply squints at the small creature in a strange but I guess concerned manner? It's easy to assume that there were some strange beliefs about daughters that she was raised on.

Jane then asks where her "worthless nephew" is (again, she doesn't think highly of him), Moominmamma barely manages to not tell her the truth and Moomintroll saves her by saying Pappa's away to find inspiration for his work. Jane says "When has he ever worked? I'm here to see him!" (Score 3 for putting down her nephew) and Moomintroll suggests she should talk to him instead, Sniff butts in saying Moomintroll knows nothing about money and Aunt Jane simply says "In that case it's about high time he learned! As for his father, I may still disinherit him." (Score 4), Sniff says he's a member of the family and she can talk to him about money, Moomintroll says he's a great friend of his, and Jane adjusts her glasses then says "But hardly a member of the family" (we can see here she only really cares about relations more than anything when it comes to others taking care of her money, perhaps the money was passed down through generations and she wants to uphold that tradition, which is only one major reason she wants to get rid of it)

Snork and Snorkmaiden walk in, Snork introduces himself and explains how his sister is a "special friend" to Moomintroll and basically that they might get married someday, thus merging the Snork and Moomin family together, thus making them practically family already (Which I find just so utterly hilarious, he can be such a weasel I love him). Jane doesn't accept that as an argument (OBVIOUSLY) so Snork explains that he needs money to fund his flying ship project, and then Mr. Hemulen walks in with a very happy confidence (that chaotic metallic theme [you know the one if you pay attention to the soundtrack] cues but then stops shortly, I got so hyped and it just ended like that :( ) and he tells Aunt Jane about himself and asks her to fund his scientific research (assuming Sniff had already told her about it) and Sniff tries to save it by explaining that they could grow a greenhouse of orchids and roses and sell them to make money, he corrects himself by saying "I mean you'll make alot of money!" instead of "we'll" which he thinks might make her more lenient to the idea, but Jane shuts it down by saying she already has plenty of money (showing that she really isn't interested in hoarding wealth, she's satisfied with what she has especially since the whole point of going to the Valley was to shove her money-related issues onto her nephew)

The three guys try to talk over eachother trying to explain themselves, Jane is overwhelmed and confused so she stops them and asks Snork to clarify that he's Snorkmaiden and it goes downhill from there, Snork asks if he's explained his connection to the moomins well enough, Sniff says he's a friend of Moomin's, Mr. Hemulen asks Sniff if he could explain his research to her for him, and they all talk over eachother, Aunt Jane looks back in forth in a confused and overwhelmed manner and then gets angry, then she yells "BE QUIET EVERYONE!" with an overhead shot of Moominhouse (this sort of sets up Jane's anger issues which builds and builds until the climax of the episode)

Moominmamma escorts Jane to her room and tells her that she can call if she needs anything before leaving Jane alone, Jane more or less just observes her surroundings (it's clear she wasn't used to such a simple environment but she isn't opposed to it either) and then sits down on her bed with her eyes closed, looking peaceful for literally less than two seconds before Sniff knocks and she stands up instantly with her hands held in front of her like a "proper woman" sort of pose. Sniff stumbles in the room with the suitcase of gold and sets it on the floor, Jane thanks him and then Sniff stands there and looks around as if he's looking for something and goes "Ehem". Jane sees this and unenthusiastically asks "What is it? Want a reward?" (This is like the most telling scene of the episode and shows that this kind of thing is something that she's used to) Sniff lies at first but then admits it after a second thought, he hesitates and looks around if anyone would eavesdrop on them, Jane tells him to make up his mind and then Sniff gets close to her and whispers that he knows where Moominpappa is, Jane dismisses it saying she knows that he's on a trip (atleast she's willing to believe it? Doesn't revert any of her put-down points tho), Sniff corrects her by saying he's actually nearby and Jane is immediately interested and asks Sniff where he is, Sniff says Pappa said not to tell her where he is since it's a secret and after teasing it with her Sniff says he'll be taking a risk if he tells her so Jane asks "Oh, how much do you want?" knowing full well Sniff wanted to get paid for this without him even saying it, Sniff plays it safe and says she can decide how much she'll give him.

Sniff leads her on the beach, Snufkin notices this and runs to the cave to warn Moominpappa before she arrives (what a champ, that Snufkin) and then Sniff and Jane enter the cave with it's watery floor, Jane thanks him with a singular silver coin, Sniff asks if that's it and then Jane replies (with a very angry tone) that yes that's it until she actually sees her nephew, the two enter the cave with no Moominpappa in sight, Sniff is bewildered by this and Jane is very angrily disappointed that her "worthless nephew" (Score 5, though it's just a repeated insult, it still counts) isn't there, Sniff says "this is very strange!" while desperately looking for Moominpappa and Jane assumes Sniff had tricked her and takes away Sniff's one coin as punishment and simply leaves despite Sniff's desperate cries that he has to be there somewhere.

Jane goes back to Moominhouse and enters the kitchen to ask Moominmamma where Moominpappa is hiding, Moominmamma gasps and tries to reiterate the lie Moomintroll said, but Jane says she wants to know the TRUTH, so Moominmamma stutters and Jane tells her to hurry up, Mamma sadly admits that Moominpappa is hiding in the cave but Jane says she's already been there and didn't find him. Mamma is suddenly hopeful and is like "Oh so he really must have gone on a trip!", Jane proceeds to ask why Moominpappa would want to hide from her anyway, Moominmamma "suggests" that maybe Moominpappa is afraid of her, and Jane gets legitimately surprised and furious over this and asks "But why!?", Mamma says that he's mostly afraid of money matters, Jane exclaims "Incredible!" and contemplates "Afraid of me because of money matters...?" and then storms out of the kitchen saying "He must be utterly mad!" (Score 6)

Jane sits down on the table in her room and talks to herself about how this family is so confusing and only Sniff seems to know anything about money, Little My enters smuggly and shits the behind her, saying she knows where Moominpappa is at that moment, Jane assumes Little My wants gold from her and My says she couldn't care less about her silly gold, Jane strangely enough seems to try and defend the thing by saying "My 'silly gold' indeed! With my 'silly gold' I can assure you you could do just about anything you want!" and My claps back with how it isn't helping her find Moominpappa, this arouses Jane and My continues saying she should forget about her money. Jane responds by turning around in her chair to look at Little My directly and says "Young lady, money isn't something you could just forget about! It needs constant looking after- that's why I must talk to Moominpappa at once! Now take me to that rascal nephew you of mine if you really know where he is, you hear me!?"

My and Jane walk down the dirt path and see Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden being all lovey-dovey with eachother on a tree stump, saying how they love eachother and such, Jane scoffs "Oh, how frivolous!" and My smugky responds with "Not really, if I could find a small enough boyfriend, I'd be frivolous just like them too!" and starts to walk away, Aunt Jane turns to her and says with a very strong sense of longing "Ah well, Fredrick and I were frivolous once..." (With an inexplicable voice change by the way) and My just teasingly says "Really? If you says so! Suppose I'll have to believe you!" while still walking away, and Jane gets so mad at this dismissal/mockery that she almost snaps her umbrella but stops herself and stomps forward to follow Little My. The marshmallow couple notices the two and follow them.

Little My interrupts a game of chess between Snufkin and Moominpappa in Snufkin's tent, she introduces them to Jane as a "special guest" and Snufkin is shocked by her presence, he says Moominpappa's name and he looks up to look at his very angry aunt, Moominpappa runs out of the tent and Jane chases him with her umbrella around a tree and stomps on the ground with enough force to make Moominpappa, Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden hop off the ground (OKAY I'M NOT GONNA GET INTO THIS PART SINCE IT DOESN'T REALLY TIE INTO THE THESIS THAT MUCH AND WOULD BE TOO SPECULATIVE BUT HOLY CRAP??? HOW??? WHY DOES SHE HAVE THAT KIND OF STRENGTH??? IS IT SUPERNATURAL??? HELP????), this causes Moominpappa to fall over on the ground and Snufkin intervenes by saying Moominpappa was just coming back from his trip and stopping by to play chess with him, Moominpappa tries to go along with this but Little My says it's no use since Moominmamma already told her the truth, Moominpappa gets all defeated and Jane asks him why he's afraid of her, Moominpappa says it's not that he's afraid of her, he's afraid of her money. Jane gets enraged by this and stomps of the ground again to send everyone hopping, she then tries to "reason" with Moominpappa on this by saying "It's perfectly good money and all in gold coins! Listen nephew, I'm depending on you as my only relative!" (For some reason her voice gradually gets higher pitched in this line? But anyway this just confirms Moominpappa is literally the only family she has left), Moominpappa echoes "Yes, yes, depend." and Jane continues with "When I get too old to do it, you must look after my gold for me! I'm relying on you!", Moominpappa gets spooked by this and desperately suggests they should just give it away to people who need it, Jane blurts out "HOW UNGRATEFUL!" and turns red from rage but then is subsides, the red fades away and Jane, probably after having a thought, breaks into actual sobbing and falls to the ground to cry even more, Moominpappa tries to comfort her and suggests that maybe they should put it in a bank, Jane retorts through her sobbing that her money would hate being in a bank and it's a terrible idea (which is the start of her talking about it like it's a person/entity which follows to the very end of the episode), Moominpappa reassures her by saying banks are so nice these days and Jane looks up asking "They are...?", Moominpappa continues by describing how they have "Flowers and shiny little piggy banks and paintings on the wall!" and Jane lifts herself up asking "Is that really true...?", then Moominpappa tells everyone they should go home and fix a welcoming party for Aunt Jane, the scene ends with a shot of a sad Aunt Jane looking around everyone, possibly confused or even sorry.

We cut to the dinner party when Mamma is putting the cake on the table saying it's her grandma's best recipe (I have to note that Aunt Jane's face here is just... So sad and guilty-looking), Moominpappa gets up and says to drink a toast to the only millionaire in their small circle and how he hopes she'll live a long and happy life. Everyone drinks except for Jane who simply looks around and then looks down at her glass to sigh, Moominmamma asks what's wrong and Jane says "Never in my life have I and my money felt ourselves so welcomed before, I'm so happy I could cry" (jeez woman that is actually sad to hear considering just earlier that day 3 complete strangers went to her asking for money and her nephew literally tried to hide from her before she even arrived, that must've been one heck of a welcoming party) and then she genuinely starts crying saying "And once you start crying- you just wanna go on and on-" and proceeds to sob a bit and says "Oh dear- oh deAr- Moominmamma-" and looks up "Moominpappa-?" Moominpappa answers and she says "I'll put some of my gold in a bag, but you must look after the rest when I'm too old!", Moominpappa hesitates and then Jane snaps into anger mode by asking "Why not?" and slamming her fists against the table, Moominpappa sheepishly describes how they'll take care of it and Jane says it's not what she had in mind though it does sound nice and sufficient, but then she says how the money will miss her. She decides then and there that she'll leave the suitcase of gold to Moominpappa so they can "get sorta used to eachother" and use it as they please, even complimenting the flying ship and botanical research funding as rather splendid. Everyone is happy except Sniff who laments he should've gotten a better idea than flowers, and the episode ends with Jane smiling and a pan out of the house as the narrator closes off the episode.

~

Alright so already we have quite alot to unpack here and it's all gonna get a bit rambly and jumbled if I don't segment it into specific parts so let's do that. We're gonna put allllll of that baggage into 5 parts

1. Moominpappa and the lack of a family

2. Money is not a good partner

3. A woman millionaire

4. A bitter, lonely maiden

5. Conclusion

~

1. Moominpappa and the lack of a family

It's been stated twice that Moominpappa is Aunt Jane's only relative, and it's said that they relate through Moominpappa's father.

(Side note: We'll be going by the 90s cartoon canon because Aunt Jane is a moomin comic strip character and in the comic strip Moominpappa wasn't left at an orphanage I don't think, so it's logical to assume they just met eachother because they're family. But we're talking about the 90s canon where Moominpappa WAS left at an orphanage like in Moominpappa's Memoirs/Exploits of Moominpappa)

It's really unclear on the backstory of their relationship. It's unclear how these two met, it's unclear when they've met, and it's unclear how they knew they were related. Moominpappa clearly met her atleast without anyone in his current family (esp. Moominmamma) and hasn't talked about her ever since (given how literally nobody INCLUDING MOOMINMAMMA knew who she was) which to me signifies that their encounter was both somewhat isolated and unpleasant given how he describes her as bossy and not letting people have a moment of peace (which only brings images of some kind of business setting when they met in my mind, and knowing how Moomin stories operate Moominpappa probably found himself as one of her employees somehow). Whatever happened between them has certainly put a sour taste in eachother's mouths, making Moominpappa believe Aunt Jane to be unpleasant enough to avoid at all cost (he probably also witnessed the horrors of wealth which is why he's scared of her money) and Jane believing Moominpappa to be incompetent, worthless and idiotic.

Pulling back from whatever encounter they had... Was Aunt Jane aware of her nephew's existence before then? We don't know the circumstances which lead to Moominpappa's parents leaving him at an orphanage in a paper grocery bag (if the person/people who left him ever WERE his parents), and since him and Aunt Jane are the last members of their family, it's easy assume something tragic most likely happened to the parents. And not only that, the rest of Jane's family would've been gone aswell, leaving Jane as the sole heir and possibly not knowing about her orphaned nephew. Can you imagine being in such a position? Your whole family is gone for whatever reason, you're the only one left to your knowledge, and you have all the money you could ever want in the early 20th century. You are responsible for millions of [money unit] in gold coins. Jane is responsible of that kind of money. And what is that to her?

2. Money is not a good partner

Aunt Jane's relationship with money is extremely weird but clearly somewhat toxic in a sense. We know she has it in the millions and she's not interested in making more of it (though we do have to ask if she runs a business or if all of it is inheritance and nothing more, does she turn in a profit? What business does she work in? How big is her paycheck? Does she work with employees? Why is it all in gold coins? Where does she even live? Nobody knows! It's all vague and unspecified and there really is no point in speculating something like this because there's literally no evidence to speculate about)

Anyway, money is 3 things to her: it's something people use to get what they want, it's a burden and it's something that needs to be taken great care of. It's both a commodity and a child to her, she doesn't particularly "like" having it yet she thinks it's in need of care by someone she knows she could trust, it's a pet she doesn't want since it attracts so many people who want to pet it. By the end of the episode she treats her money like it has feelings, it "hates being in a bank" (presumably because it's "uncomfortable" since Aunt Jane is swayed as Moominpappa describes how nice they are), it "has never felt so welcomed", it "will miss [Jane]" and it "needs to get used to Moominpappa", the thing is she hasn't treated it like an entity with feelings until her breakdown near the end of the episode. Moominpappa's "ungratefulness" broke her so much that she resorted to characterizing her money, and it's unclear if she ever has done this before in her life. It's odd to me, but her life does revolve around the thing, for all we know she's gone for extended periods of time talking to her money when she feels particularly unsafe/alone, but I digress.

Aunt Jane has presumably spent alot of her life taking care of her money and fears growing too old to do so anymore, so she turns to the only person she believes she could trust to continue that legacy. She has enough wealth to do whatever her heart desires, And what is her social reward for having such wealth to look after?

3. A woman millionaire

Misogyny exists. Yes, even in the moominverse, it sucks but it's true even if it isn't explicit sexism. Jane is presumably single, she had someone by the name of Fredrick who she was "frivolous" with but clearly that didn't work out as implied with the tone of her voice when she drops that information, Jane is alone in her wealth and that leaves her open to many people who believe they can get themselves some cash for whatever venture they want to pursue. It has happened plenty of times before in her life and it has happened within the episode when 3 males come up to her asking for funds, of course they didn't seem to care that she is a woman, not a word of it was even mentioned, but it's an issue that may be less present if she wasn't. Nobody is intimidated by her aside from Moominpappa who has met her, Snork and Sniff think they can weasel a family inheritance if they just do enough logical leaps, Mr. Hemulen just assumes she'd be interested from his botany credentials alone, and none of them really listen to her, they just talk over eachother trying to convince her to give them money until she bursts out yelling at them to shut up.

And she has to have some traditional feminity instilled in her, given the way she stands when Sniff knocks and gets in her room, how she arrived to Moomin Valley under a pink shade with curtains, having someone else carry her suitcase for her, being bothered at how small Little My is, her whole outfit among other small things, she seems to have been raised on traditional values, and those values, well, they don't lend well to someone of her status. She can be bossy and terrifying (and surprisingly powerful) but she's not respected by anyone that we know of, nobody's explicitly treated her kindly besides Moominmamma and maybe everyone at the welcome party if you count that, everyone only cares about her because of her money. Moominpappa is scared of her money and every other male only cares to get it from her for their own gain, she just can't win as a millionairess because any care directed towards her is actually care directed towards her money. And what does that treatment leave her as?

4. A bitter, lonely maiden

Jane is very, very alone. Nobody likes her as a person and the fact nobody likes her as a person only makes her more bitter and unlikable, it's a feedback loop. She doesn't seem to have anyone, and I mean, literally ANYONE. We have her rower but he's just a random guy she pays for all we know, she just sits there and stares blankly at the pink curtains until the guy rings the bell and she gets out, she just has no personal connection with anyone even by the end of the episode. Speaking of the end of the episode; she literally cries because she hasn't felt so welcomed by anyone IN HER LIFE (side note: I know I'm not supposed to bring up the comics but she actually cries when Moominpappa uses the word fond on her and it makes me so upset because she's treated even worse there too)

She's angry and alone because people use her for her money and don't care about her, everybody cares only about her money including herself, the only times she'd pay mind to her own self as a person is when she's flabbergasted at Moominpappa "BEING AFRAID OF HIS OWN AUNT!?" or when she feels disrespected by My teasing her about how she used to be frivolous with someone, Little My doesn't really care about her, she just takes her to Moominpappa to view the chaos that would ensue at such a meeting of two worlds. Moominpappa says she doesn't let people have a moment of peace yet it looks like she doesn't have a moment's peace herself, there's literally one moment and it's the one second she sits on her bed before Sniff knocks on the door.

Aunt Jane is both pitiful and somewhat sympathetic, she's an antagonist who's clearly not a good person but she has her own very understandable reasons as to why she's the way that she is. And what do we take from this?

5. Conclusion

I don't know if you know this but uhm, capitalism is bad, folks. It really just brings out the worst in people wether it's the scummy ways they gain money or the problems money causes for your mental health, and in Jane's case it's the latter. It's unclear how she got the money to begin with, I assume it's inherited but I could be wrong obviously, though I don't think that question could truly be answered. Aunt Jane is insistent on keeping her wealth and only giving her wealth away to her own family even if it's the root of her problems, but also Snork and Mr. Hemulen only ask for her money so they can continue with their hopes and dreams, Sniff is well, Sniff, but I'm pretty sure he's traumatized into believing he's only worth the wealth he has so that's another capitalistic problem.

Moominpappa is happy the way he is without the money, the Moomin family is decidedly non-capitalistic and Moominpappa knows nothing about how it works, so he chooses to simply not have it. They simply don't need it with the way things are.

And I suppose that was the appeal of the Moomins franchise that got people hooked into the fantasy of living there, it's pure freedom from an oppressive system that doesn't even give people what they're worth, it's being able to be yourself with a small, loving and accepting community.

But Aunt Jane never had that, which makes her feel out of place in this valley more than other outsider characters do in the show. And like the weirdly smooth and good animation that was clearly outsourced to a different studio for this one specific episode, being rich looks nice, but the cutthroat system of how it's made probably doesn't make it worth it.

[hacash]

Too Much Information

"I always imagined Big Folk’d be rather prudish about sex,” Pippin said. “After all, I imagined none of you do it very often, taking into account your obvious shortcomings.”

The Fellowship share. Rather too much. In which Gandalf is cagey, Merry and Pippin are shameless, and Boromir finds out more about the Fellowship's personal lives than he wanted to know.

[also available on Archive of our Own]

(based on this post; probably not to be taken too seriously)

-

“Posey Greenfields does not count.”

“Does so.”

“Does not.”

“How, may I ask, does she not count?”

“I saw you at that party, Pip, and you were soused off your face. Utterly crocked. I should say she took advantage of you, more than anything.”

“Took advantage? I was giving her the advantage, and very willingly too!”

Boromir eyed the bickering cousins with more trepidation than he might an orc’s nest. Trust me, Elrond had advised the day he’d arrived in Imlradris, you might hear them talking and think you wish to know the conversation. In these moments it is best to turn around and walk the other way.

Delicately he coughed, meeting Legolas’ eye. “Do I want to know?”

The elf grimaced. Owing to his renowned elvish hearing it seemed he had caught every word: but going by Legolas’ disturbed expression Boromir suspected this wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “No. No you don’t.”

Recklessly Boromir plunged on, approaching where Merry and Pippin were setting up their bedding for the night. “Gentlemen?”

Two twin beady gazes turned on him.

“Context, please?”

Ignoring Legolas’ muffled groan and face-palm Merry turned about cheerfully, eager for a new participant – or, as Boromir was beginning to suspect, victim. “Ah, yes! You see, to kill time Pippin and I were discussing some of our more pleasant encounters back home when life was simpler and remembering some of our most enjoyable companions – ”

“Sex stories,” Boromir repeated with dawning understanding, unable to keep the horror from his voice. “You were swapping sex stories.”

“Exactly! Only Pippin insisted on counting one time with Posey Greenfields when he’d gotten into his father’s best sherry – Michel Delving’s finest, it’ll turn you cross-eyed – and I was telling him that didn’t count because he was in no fit state to make a decent showing.”

Pippin was looking so proud of himself, it was almost indecent.

“But…I thought you were a child?” Boromir demanded.

“Excuse me? I’m a tweenager.”

“You’re a deviant is what you are, Pippin,” Merry said.

“I’m an unfettered adventurous soul, lacking in fear.”

“Lacking something is certainly the way Mrs Goodchild described you when she caught you and her Iris at it in the barn that time. Your breeches, for a start.”

“You’re not of age, is what I meant,” Boromir interrupted, before his brain started producing images his stomach couldn’t handle.

“Hobbits often start courting far before they’re of age, sir.” Taking pity on the unfortunate Man, Sam approached with cups of stewed nettle tea. “It’s common enough to start when you’re about sixteen, seventeen years old. Of course, it’s less common to wed before we’re of age – ”

“Thirty-three!” Boromir exclaimed proudly.

“Yes, sir, very well done,” Sam said in a soothing tone. “Which gives any courting couple a nice long while to get to know one another proper. Of course, there’s those as might not wish to wait that long – ” Merry did the universal sign for a swollen belly behind Sam’s back, “but to have your son or daughter wed afore they’ve passed twenty five – well, it’s considered a bit tacky, if you get my drift? Not allowing them a proper chance at life afore they settle down.”

“And by ‘proper chance of life’ we mean…”

“Studying a trade, spending time with friends, practicing how to keep house – ”

“Or in Merry’s case: learning how to do it in a rowboat without capsizing,” Pippin interjected.

“Ah, discussing Salvia Chubb, I believe? As I recall you told your mother you’d caught a fish so large it had pulled you clean from the boat, and that was why you were soaked through and Salvia’s shimmy all tangled up in duckweed.”

Boromir nearly inhaled a mouthful of his wine at Frodo’s sudden appearance. He might have imagined that the last thing the two younger hobbits would want when discussing their depravity was the audience of their elder cousin, but Frodo just regarded the conversation with exasperated amusement.

“You shouldn’t listen to these two, Boromir,” the Ringbearer advised. “They’ll blister your ears off and then some with their sordid tales. My uncle Saradoc would have been at his wits’ end with Merry, save that half his tricks Merry likely learned from him.”

“Hey now!” cried Merry. “I won’t have such slander repeated before friends. There was a time when Frodo Baggins was considered quite the rascal of Buckland, Boromir, and don’t you forget it. If I have ever engaged in pranks, scandal, inebriation or debauchery, chances are I learned it from him!”

“Debauchery!”

“Downright,” Merry repeated, “debauchery.”

Frodo drew himself up to his full height and glared at his unrepentant cousin through narrowed eyes. “I admit to overindulging on Uncle Sara’s port or filching a basket of mushrooms on occasion, Meriadoc, but I object to the implication that I have ever debauched in my life.”

Sam and Pippin’s gazes flickered back and forth between the other two as if watching a game of chequers; Boromir’s cooling nettle tea was abandoned at his feet. Even Legolas was listening intently. Merry merely snorted, leaning back on his haunches as if to prepare for the master stroke. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

“Cousin, you remember when you left for Bag End I got your old room?”

“I do,” Frodo said stiffly, “and I fail to see the relevance.”

“Well, what you may not recall is you left plenty of odds and ends behind – mathoms mostly, old clothing and books and whathaveyou, and I found some rather interesting articles under your bed from your last years in Buckland. Some rather interesting journals, as it turns out.”

Seated beside Frodo, Legolas was lucky enough to get a good look at the Ringbearer’s face as the significance of this news dawned upon him. It was quite a spectacle, he had to admit. He’d never actually seen someone turn white before.

“You didn’t.”

Merry smirked. “It ended up proving quite an education when I was a tween, I must say.”

“…journals?” Boromir asked weakly.

“I forgot to mention: Melilot Brandybuck asked me to pass on her fondest and immense well wishes,” Merry continued wickedly, “for a couple of descriptive passages found in a particular entry – Wedmath, 1388, I believe? She was most appreciative, and I told her that the credit truly lay with you.”

Frodo’s face had bypassed white and was rapidly approaching green. “You didn’t.”

“Journals?” Pippin demanded. “What journals? Why haven’t I heard of any journals? You were courting Melilot at least ten years ago, why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Brandybuck?” Boromir asked. “But I thought Merry was – ”

“Third cousins,” Sam said wearily. “And if you let yourself get distracted by such matters, sir, you’ll never catch up.”

“And what descriptive passages could have Melilot Brandybuck still expressing her gratitude after ten years?”

“Oh, and Rory Goldworthy. Though I had to adapt some of the passages for Rory.”

“So what you’re saying is, half of Buckland knows Master Merry’s more – uh – adventurous activities can be put down to my master’s influence?” Sam said with a growing grin.

“And when were you planning on showing me these journals?”

“Meriadoc,” Frodo said slowly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you.”

“You should all know, our cousin Frodo is a most meticulous and,” Merry smirked, “inventive writer in all respects. I only hope he provides the additions to Bilbo’s book with the same attention to detail!”

Frodo’s reaction was not a happy one. With an uncharacteristically warlike yell he hurled himself at his cousin, fists flying. Although Merry was by far the sturdier of the two, Frodo’s height and indignation found the two evenly matched, and the pair were soon scuffling haplessly in Merry’s bedding. Sam rolled his eyes, and Pippin cheered.

“Well then, lads.” Gimli’s voice was gruff as he approached. He had been discussing their route south along the Misty Mountains with Gandalf and Aragorn, and now the three of them eyed the ensuing chaos with amusement. “What are we discussing?”

“Sex,” Pippin piped up cheerfully.

Legolas was pinching the bridge of his nose: the mumbled comments of ‘raspberry jam and the garden swing’ made Sam fairly certain he had picked up most of Merry and Pippin’s early conversation, and also fairly certain that he didn’t want to know more. Gimli gave a low chuckle, Aragorn raised an eyebrow, and Gandalf shook his head and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘smut-minded hole-dwellers’.

“You started this?” Gimli asked Boromir.

“I asked for context.”

“Well, it’s your own damn fault then.”

“I’m fully aware of that,” Boromir said. “I may never be able to look Merry and Pippin in the eye ever again.”

“He’s embarrassed,” Sam supplied helpfully.

Boromir raised an eyebrow. He was not embarrassed by sex – he was forty years old, thank you very much, and a soldier to boot: quite accustomed to bawdy humour. He knew all the words to ‘The Istari and the Ninety-Nine Virgins’ and had laughed himself sick over every variation of the one about the widow’s lodging house on many occasions. But the thought of these hobbits, small as children, and the Ringbearer by all accounts…

“That’s rather rude,” Merry grumbled when he told them this. “You don’t see us saying ‘urgh, imagine those Men going at it when they’re so freakishly big and ancient looking’, do you?”

“Thank you very much,” Aragorn remarked dryly.

Legolas rolled his eyes. “After spending many days in the company of soldiers from Dale I rather thought all Men to be rather fixated on the subject.”

“Really? I always imagined Big Folk’d be rather prudish about sex,” Pippin said. “After all, I imagined none of you do it very often, taking into account your obvious shortcomings.”

There came from Aragorn the sounds of spluttering and rapid smoke inhalation; it appeared he’d lit his pipe at an inopportune moment. “I…I beg your pardon?!”

“Well, look at the size of you. I can imagine you might not be – well, no offence, but not wholly up to scratch.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Frodo steepled his fingers thoughtfully and fixed both Aragorn and Boromir with a calculating gaze that seemed to them a bit too intrigued to be decent. “Well, be fair Pippin. I can imagine size might be beneficial.”

“Maybe a bit.”

“A bit?” chorused the two Men. Gimli snorted.

“But, well, you’re all so big and clumsy,” Pippin, oblivious in the face of rapidly approaching death, continued blithely. “No dexterity. No lightness of touch. No imagination. And just like in everything else, if you think only size matters you’re not going to put too much thought into it, are you?”

Aragorn had gone a distinctly red shade. From across the fire Sam was could see Gandalf’s shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Is Aragorn alright?” Merry asked.

“Ignore him,” Gimli said, “he’s just reconsidering certain aspects of his romantic life for the past seventy years.”

“Bugger off.”

“Well, we’re not prudish,” Boromir said hastily – Gondor might have needed no king, but abandoning Aragorn to this particular line of questioning seemed like a step too far. “We just don’t feel the need to talk about it all the time.”

“We don’t all the time,” Pippin said. “Just in general conversation.”

“Do the women in your homeland not consider such conversation uncouth?” Legolas asked in bewilderment.

Sam snorted. “You want uncouth, sir, you should see young Myrtle Twofoot when she’s got into the summer punch. Three glasses and she’s inviting any lad in sight to untie her bloomer lacings with her teeth, and that’s a fact.”

“Good heavens,” said Boromir, looking rather pale.

“Oh, she always has the lad clean their teeth first, so as to keep everything hygienic sir. Very conscientious is young Myrtle.”

“So, unlike the rest of civilised society,” Legolas concluded, “hobbits would think nothing of taking their afternoon tea, or whatever you strange creatures call it, while listening to Merry regale them all with tales of – ”

“Being snowed in at Bag End with the Goodbody twins, a sturdy settee and the last of Mister Bilbo’s Old Winyards,” Sam supplied helpfully. “I remember your mother raising hell for that one when word got out, Mister Merry.”

Merry somehow managed to smirk and blush at the same time.

“Oh, honestly.” Aragorn looked particularly unsettled. “We don’t all need to hear about Merry’s…proclivities.”

“Well, you’re just a prude,” Merry sniffed.

“No, I’m just not interested in hearing about it.”

“Merry, leave him alone,” Frodo said. “I was in the room next to yours on that particular night, you may remember, and I took as little joy from hearing it then as Aragorn is now.”

Merry pulled a face.

“And to answer your question, Legolas: Merry is, as usual, grossly misrepresenting the Shire in his smut and yes you may well blush, Meriadoc – it’s hardly the sort of thing we discuss over tea and cakes on every occasion. However, I wouldn’t exactly call the subject taboo.”

“Hobbits,” Gandalf chuckled, “as in all respects, enjoy the comforts of life most openly. Why, I could tell tales of Bullroarer Took that might make your hair turn on end!”

“Any tips to pass on?” Pippin asked.

“None for your ears, young hobbit.”

“I’m surprised you’re so bashful, Aragorn,” Merry said. “I’d have thought you very experienced in that regard.”

“What? Why would I be?” Aragorn asked, genuinely baffled.

“Have you seen you?”

“I suppose I had offers – a few – ” Behind his back Legolas snorted and then hastily turned it into a cough, “but there was only ever Arwen.”

“So you’re only interested in girls,” Pippin said.

“No, I’m only interested in Arwen.”

“But what if a really beautiful woman offered – ”

“She did. Her name was Arwen.”

“I think it’s romantic,” said Sam.

“I think it’s idiotic,” Merry argued. “All of that,” he gestured to the ranger, who began blushing from the appraising stares coming from the rest of the Fellowship, “going to waste on just one lass. It’s not natural.”

“Meriadoc Brandybuck!” Frodo barked suddenly. “Apologise, young hobbit. You’re being very disrespectful of other folks’ habits. We can’t all manage to be such tramps as you.”

“Maybe we should change the subject,” Gandalf said dryly. “This has all been gone into quite enough.”

“Like Melilot Brandybuck, apparently,” Pippin remarked.

“Peregrin!”

“And,” Boromir continued, suicidally avoiding the glare being levelled at him by Gandalf, “lads going with lads: that is not uncommon, in your home?”

“Why not?” Pippin asked, genuinely surprised. “I wouldn’t have known how to so much as kiss if it weren’t for good old Folco Boffin.”

“What of Gondor, Boromir?” Legolas asked.

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “It is not considered shameful. But neither is it wholly approved of, in the higher houses of Gondor, for one man to make a life pledge with another. The noble families consider their heritage to be of great worth, and to forgo the chance of heirs and carrying on the line simply for the sake of affection is not always smiled upon.”

“Giving up your chance of love with some nice lad just to carry on some family name?” Sam said sadly. “Well, that’s right sad, that is.”

“I suppose,” said Boromir. Having understood that he was expected to carry on the line of Stewards since he was a child, he had never thought about it until now. “Of course, in a family with many sons or male cousins, it is less of a scandal. And out in the country or in the garrisons, of course, no-one pays it much mind.”

“Much the same as in the North,” Aragorn, who had now recovered, added. “Though within the Rangers, of course, men with men is more common. Less women, you see.”

“Well, it’s common enough in the Shire,” Merry said carelessly. “Pippin had quite the crush on Aragorn when we first met him in Bree.”

“Hoy!”

“Seeing you and Arwen together must have been like hitting puberty all over again,” Merry said with a snort.

This time it was Pippin who launched himself at Merry; while Aragorn mutely examined himself with the very real concern that he was giving off some sort of wrong signal.

“Don’t worry, Aragorn,” Frodo said soothingly. “After you made us march ten miles in the pouring rain, I suspect Pippin’s ardour wore off some.”

Pippin resurfaced long enough to flash Aragorn a cheeky grin that did not particularly set his mind at ease. “Indeed. And unlike Merry, I don’t feel the need to be bossed around by any of my romantic partners – oof!”

“Well, there’s a revelation I did not particularly need to hear,” Gimli muttered as the two cousins began wrestling again.

“Goes all red whenever Estella Bolger shoots him a sharp word, he does – argh!”

“I still can’t believe how open hobbits are,” Boromir muttered.

“Some of us’ve got a bit more class than the young masters,” Sam said, “begging their pardons.”

“Some of us’re just too shy for their own good.” Pippin, panting, had resurfaced. “When we return to the Shire I’m going to lock you and the lovely Rosie into the cellars of Crickhollow and not let you out until the windows shatter.”

“Master Pippin!”

“Sam, please tell me you don’t go around debauching with all and sundry like the rest of these rakes,” Legolas said.

“Oh, Sam plays his cards close to the chest,” said Merry with an admiring smirk. “He might still be a virgin or might have serviced every lass in the greater Westfarthing area; we’d never know.”

“I have not serviced every lass in the Westfarthing, Mister Merry.”

“Every lad then.”

“Now why would I be doing that, Mr Merry? I don’t know every lad in the Westfarthing!”

“That’s something you take into consideration?”

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed. Merry just looked bemused.

“If Sam is more selective than you, Merry, that’s hardly something to mock,” Frodo said disapprovingly.

“Who said I was mocking? I admire you, Sam, but honestly you were too bloody blind by half to realise what it was like back home. Scores of tweenagers hanging around Bag End garden just waiting for the weather to warm so you’d so much as roll up your sleeves.”

While Pippin fell about laughing and the rest of the Fellowship chuckled, Sam turned a horrified shade of red. “That…that never happened!”

“Why do you think Frodo had so many cousins from Buckland and Tookborough come to stay? Not for his sparkling conversation, surely; there’s only so long you can feign an interest in elvish poetry.”

“Sam,” Frodo said patiently, “one summer we had half the Shire stopping in at Bag End asking you for gardening tips. Did you honestly think Milo Chubb was that interested in keeping the greenfly off his begonias?”

“You knew about this, sir?”

“Knew? I was considering selling tickets.”

Sam’s head fell into his hands.

“Your courtship rituals are certainly…unlike anything I have experienced,” Gimli chuckled drolly. “Whatever happened to a finely-wrought ring or a poem in honour of your loved one?”

“I’ve had good luck with a bottle of sherry and a broom cupboard,” Merry said.

“Typically affection is expressed in our culture with flowers, dancing, and fine manners,” Frodo smirked, “though Merry and Pippin have always seen fit to buck with tradition. Naughty limericks and drunk come-ons are not acceptable.”

“They’re not?” This was news to Merry.

“They were considered terrible flirts back home.”

“Ah yes,” Pippin reminisced dreamily, “I remember the day Diamond North-Took called me a depraved, unconscionable back-alley scoundrel without the morals of a tom-cat.”

“I know, because you do have the morals of a tom-cat.”

“And I told her that, but do you think she’d listen?”

“Folk are expected to calm down as they leave their tweens behind, but as long as no lass gets into trouble or no-one’s tumbling with someone thought to be courting someone else…” Frodo gave a nimble shrug, lips twitching with the fond memories of days long since past. The rest of the Fellowship almost felt like they were intruding. “I myself used to…but then, I don’t know, my interest rather waned over the years…”

“Lost your puff, more like,” Merry scoffed. Without looking up Frodo kicked him in the kneecaps.

“The desire faded,” he said firmly. “Lovely memories and a fine time in my life – but I don’t see anything lacking now it’s over, either.”

Boromir was fascinated. He’d never imagined that one could talk so frankly about desire – or, for that matter, shrug off the lack of it as nothing more than the disappearance of a well-loved but outgrown coat. “I never saw the appeal,” he remarked, “on any account. Good luck to you all if you so choose to take your pleasures in such a fashion, but – honestly, it seems quite the overblown fuss to me. I can think of half a dozen things I’d prefer doing to sex, just off the top of my head.”

“No tales of debauchery from you then?” Merry asked sadly.

“Unlike our esteemed Ringbearer,” Boromir bowed to the blushing Frodo, “I have never debauched. I’m not sure I’d know where to begin.”

The hobbits shrugged carelessly. “Oh, there’s plenty in our homeland who are much the same,” Pippin said. “Cousin Bilbo’s a hundred and twenty-nine if he’s a day, and I don’t think he’s thought on sex once in all that time.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, come off it. I’d have heard if Bilbo had some lost lady-love in the Shire, mark my words.”

“I said nothing about romance. I just said your assumptions that Bilbo was never interested in sex are inaccurate,” Frodo said, a rather haunted look on his face.

“What, and he told you that, did he?”

“I didn’t need to be told, Peregrin; the arrangements he had with the Widow Moley rather spoke for themselves.”

For a moment there was a distinct choking sound. Sam was very carefully examining the ground beneath his feet while Merry had stuffed his fist into his mouth, shaking with barely contained glee. The rest of the Fellowship exchanged glances. Pippin’s mouth had slowly fallen open: as Frodo continued to look pointedly at him he began to feel much the same way as one might when one bites into an apple and sees half a grub wriggling merrily away at him.

“Bilbo had companionship in his golden years?” Aragorn said in a somewhat strained voice. “That’s…that’s nice.”

“Every Sunday after tea,” Frodo said with the hollow tones more suited to an old soldier recounting the horrors of battles long since past, “and every Trewsday before luncheon; round to Bag End she’d come, regular as clockwork for nearly ten years. Why do you think I asked your mother for earmuffs every Yule?”

“But,” Boromir said, “I thought you told me you were only adopted by Bilbo when he was in his eighties?”

“That I did.”

Pippin finally made a sound, and that sound was: “Eeuargh…..”

“Well now, here we see again the difference in the races. For an elf to be in such a steady relationship at a mere eighty years of age would be considered rash indeed,” Legolas snickered, with the air of one stirring the pot with gleeful abandon.

“Cousin Bilbo is not an elf.”

“Quite,” Frodo said tartly. “Elves are beauteous creatures to behold, and walking in on him and the Widow Moley was not, repeat not, beauteous.”

Pippin made another strangled sound.

“Gimli,” Aragorn said hastily: the thought of old Bilbo, who he had long regarded as akin to a kindly old uncle, getting up to things was not sitting well, “care to add to the conversation?”

Gimli chuckled. “Alas, we are not quite as rambunctious as hobbits.” He leant back and puffed on his pipe. “In truth, romance is rare in my culture – admired well enough, but not prized highly, and many of my people never marry at all. Many do not desire it, being so engrossed in their crafts. There are dwarven songs of great loves and terrible loss that could put even an elvish lay to shame,” Legolas twitched, “but it is beauteous rare. What is romance compared to the joy of your work, the stonecraft and metalwork that outlasts the ages, the artistry of one’s hands?”

Pippin opened his mouth to say something about drilling, tunnelling and chisels, but was stopped when Sam, without any apparent change in his expression, took hold of his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Though Bilbo told me you were considered quite the catch in Erebor?” Frodo prompted.

Gimli shrugged off the complement modestly. “Dwarves who are so inclined towards affairs of the heart – and body – are rare, and so seen as something of a prize. And I flatter myself that I am no poor craftsman; no dwarf or dwarrowdam would scorn one who knows how to wield a hammer.”

“Pippin, shut up,” Boromir said hastily.

“So, you mean – women with women and men with – ”

“Dwarves with dwarves,” Gimli said firmly. He shrugged, and then gave a great booming laugh, smacking his hands down upon his knees. “Though we are a people of great enthusiasms in all respects. Those dwarves who do wed tend to have very successful – and very enjoyable – marriages. Dwarves may not have much interest in affairs of the bed, but when we do it we do it right.”

“Remind me to take a trip to the Blue Mountains when all this is over,” Merry muttered to Pippin with a lecherous grin.

“I don’t think you could handle it.”

“I could.”

“The size difference could be a problem.”

“I could cope with that.”

“The beards would itch.”

Merry paused, then nodded. “Fair point.”

Meanwhile Gimli was eyeing Legolas with wry amusement. “And I suppose your lot have their minds on higher things?”

Legolas scoffed. “Where do you think our children came from?”

“Be fair, sir,” said Sam. “After hearing all those great tales, you start to think elves are a little too dignified for matters such as that.”

“Thingol and Melian,” Frodo chipped in, “Beren and Luthien, Earendil and Elwing. Sam’s right, it’s difficult to imagine them all shagging.”

“Do you mind?” Aragorn asked, turning queasy. Most of these were his potential in-laws.

“Elves are always attracted to beauty,” Legolas’ brow raised, “of any and all kinds. But I can’t deny, compared to us mortals are more – ”

“Randy?” Pippin said.

“Horny?” Merry added.

“Lecherous goats?” Sam asked with a grin.

“Those weren’t quite the synonyms I was grasping for, but essentially yes.”

“Though to be fair,” Aragorn chipped in, “when you say beauty of any and all kinds, be careful not to misrepresent, Legolas. I recall you told me that your father had much to say when as a fauntling your admiration of the Lord Elrond grew a little too obvious to be overlooked.”

“Because he was a fellow?” Merry asked sympathetically.

“Because he is half-elven!” Legolas exclaimed. “Sweet Elbereth, I thought my father would never let it go.”

“Nice to know even elves have their hang-ups,” Sam said.

“But we remain more higher-minded about such things than mortals,” Legolas said.

“Not judging by some of those books of elven art in Lord Elrond’s library.”

“Books?” Merry perked up noticeably.

“Oh,” Gimli snorted, “if it’s art it doesn’t count.”

“I don’t care how many plinths and urns they include, I still use the term art advisedly.”

“What books? Why weren’t they shared?”

“Maybe Frodo’s journals would find a place there,” Legolas said with a smirk. Frodo groaned again.

“Well, this has been most informative,” Aragorn said. “If we get attacked by a marauding band of orcs in the middle of the night it’s pleasant to think we’ll at least have Frodo and Boromir to defend us, for it seems half this Fellowship will be too randy to even think of our defence. I think that clears up every culture represented here, does it not?”

They paused, mulling it over. Then Frodo said, in a particularly thoughtful tone: “Well, not quite every culture…”

As one – warily, and as if drawn by unspeakable horror – the Fellowship turned to look at Gandalf, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout this debate. He puffed contentedly on his pipe and simply looked back at them with eyebrow raised, daring them to ask.

Pippin opened his mouth eagerly, and then without preamble was punched right in the stomach by Merry.

Later, when they were all asleep and Legolas had taken the first watch, Pippin rolled onto his back and sighed thoughtfully. “I wish we hadn’t gone into all that now, you know? I feel hellishly homesick.”

His cousin patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll be home soon, Pip.”

“I hope so – I want to be back in the Shire. It’s a terrible thing to think of, never going back. Why, I might never have Diamond cast aspersions on my honour ever again!”

“I shouldn’t worry about it. I have no doubt she’ll be denying the very existence of your honour the minute we get back.”

Pippin perked up. “You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Merry tucked an arm behind his head. “Funny to think of, isn’t it, old Gandalf? Though I suppose he doesn’t go in much for romance - wizards probably have too much to think about, what with their great works and all.”

“And their staffs.”

“Yes Pip.”

“It must take a lot of maintaining, a mighty staff such as that.”

“Good night, Pippin.”

“And another thing – ”

“Pip?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t help but think you’re working your way up to a dirty joke about a wizard’s staff. I’d rather you didn’t, if it’s all the same to you.”

[lumiereswig]

What if plumette left the castle shortly before the curse, and then returned after everyone was cursed? (Yeah I saw you wanted to write that)

i did want to write it, ive wanted to write it for years, i’ve never had the balls to write it because it was such a fabulous concept to play with. but here what the hell, why not here it is:

it’s pre-curse times and plumette gets a message from her sister, peregrine, that she NEEDS to be the godmother of her baby and thus has to haul ass to the christening. this is awesome but also fuckkkkkk because her sister lives in Sweden like FUCK thats SO far away in eighteenth century times

so she hops on a plane—an eighteenth century style plane—so that’s a rowboat—and waves goodbye to lumiere and douche canoe prince and mrs. p and all the rest, and she bippity-bops her way up to scandinavia to snack on some lutefisk and hold her first little itty-bitty niece. This being Sweden everything takes ages, like first the baby has to be born and then they have to plan the baby shower and then they have to do all this other stuff, so it’s months and months, all of which Plumette spends sending letters to Lumiere and eagerly waiting to hear back from him.

“mon cherie today the prince spent the entire day taking portraits off the wall and throwing them across the room because the painting style was apparently too ‘swishy’! And now Cogsworth has banned me from every serving him sangria at three in the morning ever again. Please be back soon mon ange, my heart cannot beat without you. Lumiere”

“mon chou today there was a fuss in the village, the prince has raised taxes again, I know, quelle horror!,  Mrs. Potts says a person can’t even afford jam anymore if you haven’t got a steady job! but i really doubt that, I mean how much does a jar of jam even cost, ten dollars? please hurry back mon amour, my breath fades so I can’t hear it, waiting for you to come into the light. Lumiere”

“mon coeur we are holding such a ball tonight! every eligible princess and countess will be there—as well as Chapeau’s little sister, we’re slipping her in with a borrowed old dress of the Queen’s—the lights will glitter and every taper will shine, but none as bright as you. Are you coming home yet? I cannot stand the waiting—I shall go quite still without you to dance with. I wait, eternally yours. Lumiere”

And then silence. Silence for a long, long time.

She writes letters, first funny— “what has happened? has Cogsworth run away with you at last?”—then alarmed, then jealous, then furious. “Why so silent, mon amour? have your hands fallen off entirely, do I count so little to your heart?” But she doesn’t get a response, even though she waits, she waits in the same place for weeks just so the letter will not miss her. but a month passes, and no note. Not even Chapeau responds, nor Cogsworth. she throws her hands in the air and stays on longer, just to show him; if he can’t bother to write, what’s a year? What’s two years?

She doesn’t make it quite two years; her heart throbs with missing him, despite her anger, despite her hurt. she gets on the boat, waves goodbye to little Plume nestled safe in Peregrine’s arms, and arrives back in France so, so long after she left.

The ride to Villeneuve is long. She breathes in the heady air, enjoying France’s roses; she forgot how much she missed this sort of spring! she cannot wait to be home, and hug them all close again. she can make peace with lumiere at last. perhaps some other accident prevented him sending her letters.

villeneuve looks disused, when she hops off the carriage; the taxes must have gone up again, she thinks, but doesn’t worry all too much. She doesn’t like riding, so she walks through the woods, ordering for her luggage to be left at the tavern to be called for later. She’s surprised how overgrown the ordinary road to the palace is. She’s surprised how the people in Villeneuve looked at her.

She’s extremely surprised when she starts walking through snow.

Her little satin slippers are drenched by the time she gets to the palace, and her hair is slipping out of her little summer straw hat, and she’s clutching her arms to keep from freezing in the gray, deep snow. Her teeth chatter as she climbs up the steps. Her little hand can barely push open the door.

She sinks in, with relief, and leaps up again when she realizes the marble is covered in a thin, deadly mirror of ice. The tapers are not lit. Not a sound comes out of the silent hall, but faraway up the stairs she thinks she hears a low, long grumble, like someone pushing a heavy chair across a stone-paved floor.

“Hello?” she calls. “Hello?”

Have they all left? Is it the plague again? she wonders. She tip-toes in, calling, and picks up a candle on the table to light her way. Into the drawing room, into the music room. A new harpsichord in the corner. The dining room sits empty, cobwebs on the chairs.

“Is anyone here left for me?”

“Mon amour,” whispers a voice, too too close, and the candelabra burns scathing in her hand.

she leaps back, clutching her hand, the candle on the floor righting itself and dusting itself off and murmuring soothing nothings, like she stepped on its foot at a ball or accidentally stole a sip from its wine glass instead of hers. It is talking, quite ordinarily, and calling in other furniture, and a hulking harpsicord is coming in and a squeaking tea tray and a hatstand with hammers for hands, and they gather round Plumette to gape and stare and cut off her escape, they don’t stop from crowding toward her until she screams “Lumiere, help!” and then it’s very, very silent in the dining room.

“Mon ange? You do not recognize me?” says the candle from the floor, and she comes close to fainting and then she is, the last thing she sees before falling into the swoon being Lumiere’s face, too little and too close, blazing gold, with hard yellow eyes creased in concern.

she wakes to cold, her hands draped in water, somebody kind laying a cool, wet handkerchief across her face. she relaxes, for a moment, then remembers the nightmare. the yellow eyes, where blue should be. the voice in the last place she expected it.

“look at me slow, now, dearie,” says Mrs. Potts, just beyond where she can see her. Another cold compress is laid on her hands. “I turned away from mirrors plenty of times before I got used to it. Slow, now, and breathe in—in through the mouth and out through the nose, that’s the way I used to tell Chip to do it.”

She looks, slowly, and then realizes turning slowly only adds to the horror of it, and she looks quick and bites back the scream before Mrs. Potts can quite pretend she hasn’t heard it. They both recover, fast, and look away. Mrs. Potts busies herself pouring hot water into a dish, and nudging the dish to Plumette’s fingertips until she can smell the lavender wafting gently up.

“Soothing,” Mrs. Potts murmurs, but Plumette notices she doesn’t look at her again.

It takes a long time to explain it. They all do it, in stages—Mrs. Potts, and then Cogsworth, so funny with his little clock face staring up at her, Cuisinier with a rattle and bang and Chapeau with tidy words, sparse but clean, painting a picture of the hag’s hand stretching toward them, the spell hovering on her fingertips. But Lumiere does not come to explain. He does not want to frighten her. He does not want to cause the pain.

Only when she can look at them evenly does she let him come in. He comes slowly, shyly, and her heart breaks—her Lumiere, shy! Her Lumiere, heavy and slow, his golden feet dragging him along, his candles barely flickering. He’s hot and ashamed and brave, looking her up in the face, love pouring out of him as he whispers, “you have not changed a day.”

they are frightened to show her the Beast, but they have to; he knows she’s there, his was the deep and wounded growl she heard from the first, echoing down the halls from his hiding place behind the stairs. She thinks she will be terrified, but then she sees him and oh!

the prince is terrified of her—of seeing his face reflected in the eyes of someone who knew him in his pride. terrified of seeing that someone shriek and run away in fear.

She reaches out and strokes the matted fur. “Do you know,” she says to him, “you have blonde hairs here, right in the pattern of the sun blaze I used to paint on you for special occasions.”

“I tried to do it myself that night,” he rumbles, the sound coming from deep in his chest through what sounds like miles of hair and thorn and tusks and teeth. “I didn’t do as good a job as you do, though.”

She brushes the fur with her hand and smiles at him, the curls descending down her cheeks, her battered straw hat still trickling snow.

She stays with them for days before they mention anything about her choice. She busies herself with tidying, in attempting to bring order to the darkness—“If only one of you could fly, we could get that dust out of the topmost chandelier,” she complains—and spends time with Lumiere, tentatively finding him out again, catching herself laughing at his bizarre jokes. She almost thinks he’s really there when he comes into a room behind her, and she looks up to the wall and sees that human-sized shadow drawing up....and then the disappointment when she turns, and he’s only there in soul, so tiny behind her she has to crouch to catch his face.

But the days cannot wear on forever, and soon she notes the looks the servants give her, and one night as she climbs up to bed she hears the stark sounds of an argument ringing up from the kitchen below. The next day, they corner her—much as they did her first day, but now she knows the names to match the faces, even the new ones she never knew before, like kind Madame de Garderobe and finicky Mr. Cadenza.

“Why so serious?” she teases Cogsworth. His hands tic-tic gloomily across his face, and his eyes search the room, and her eyes follow. Lumiere isn’t here. Cadenza paces near the door.

“It’s just...well, we don’t know how long it’s been on the outside,” says Mrs. Potts. “But here inside the palace, we’ve kept careful track of the days, and it’s been like to ten years. Not quite, you understand, but it’s been ten years almost to the dot. And we’re not figuring she’s ever going to come.”

“Who?”

“In the curse, when she laid the curse, the witch mentioned true love for the Prince,” says Cogsworth. “Reckoning, I suppose, that a parade of eligible young ladies would come lining up to the palace every morning looking to play croquet with the unfortunate Master. Well, there hasn’t been a one. Not even enough to invite in for a glass of water and a game of piquet. And if it goes on much longer like this I don’t fancy we shan’t become antiques.”

“What do you mean, antiques?”

“Never mind about that now, dear.” Mrs. Potts nudges Cogsworth aside and went on. “What he’s trying to get at, I think, is that we’re worried there won’t be anyone for the Prince. No young ladies have really stopped by once it snowed.”

“And if it goes on like this,” moans Cadenza, “I will never see my wife again. The spell will be complete. I’ll go kaput, coda, to resting beat; the symphony ends, no one applauds. The rose sits in silence. The diva, likewise.”

“This is—what will happen to all of you?”

“We’ll fade,” says Chapeau. “We don’t know what that’s like, exactly; it’s not quite death, but it isn’t living.”

“And why are you telling me this? So I can go get help?”

“There isn’t time,” says Mrs. Potts, gently. “There’s only a few petals left on the rose. We need...we need you to do something else.”

And then Plumette realizes why Lumiere isn’t allowed in the room.

She lies in her bed that night, cradled in the spot in the mattress where he used to sleep—his slippers still sit right next to the bed, covered in cobwebs, the gold brocade barely blinking out from the dust. She stuck her foot in one of them when she first arrived, but took it out in a hurry; the webs felt cold on her toes.

I have to fall in love with the Beast. She could hear them telling it to her, over and over, and she’d retold herself the same story so many times she could hear it in each of their voices, whether or not they had truly said so. “If you don’t fall in love with him, dear, Chip will remain a cup forever. My dear, that is my son.” “You’re the only eligible young lady we’ve had, Plumette, though I doubt the Prince will care much for your rank; but we can scrape up a baronetcy for you, it shouldn’t be too difficult, and then add some ranks and qualifications once you’ve married—” “Plumette, I know it’s hard. But help isn’t coming anytime soon. You’re the only hope we have.”

Fall in love with the Beast. Fall in love with the Prince. Fall in love not to love him, but to save every friend that had ever counted for her, every person who had ever treated her as family. Fall in love, and not with Lumiere.

Fall in love, to save Lumiere.

[aion-rsa]

Mortal Kombat: An Ode to Johnny Cage and His $500 Sunglasses

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It might be the highest moment of tension in 1995’s Mortal Kombat. While the video game movie positions a wonderful, scenery-chewing Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa as its big bad, I doubt many feared how Robin Shou would handle him in the ring. But Johnny Cage fighting Goro? It’s B-movie actor Linden Ashby playing B-movie actor Johnny Cage, and both the performer and character are entering the arena with a six-limbed demon—a bellowing banshee who just murdered a dozen other token “good guys.” The beast even has the cojones to steal Johnny’s signature sunglasses before the bout and crush them in his hand. How scary is that?

Not very, as it turns out.

As soon as the bell rings, Johnny pulls an honest-to-Raiden split, just like he’s Jean-Claude Van Damme, and punches the stony monster directly in the loincloth. At least in ’95, director Paul W.S. Anderson understood the assignment when it came to adapting video games to live-action, and Ashby’s Johnny Cage rocked that interpretation with real movie star charm.

Twenty-six years later, we’re about to see a new Mortal Kombat reboot on HBO Max and in theaters, which is exciting. As much guilty fun as the original movie is, it’s not exactly one of the 1990s’ sacred cows. And the mythology that video game developers have built around what was once just an arcade beat ‘em up is dizzyingly complicated these days. So there’s plenty of new material to mine—as well as the chance to refreshingly put Asian voices and actors front and center. It’s likely for these reasons the character Johnny Cage is apparently not featured in Mortal Kombat (2021). Plus, where would there be room for him? Judging by the trailer alone, the modern filmmakers are going for a more somber, gritty aesthetic.

All of which is fine. Still, without seeing the movie, I can’t help but wonder if they might be losing something without Johnny Cage and those ridiculous shades. Goro certainly felt lost when, in the first movie’s best scene, he followed Johnny from the ring to a cliffside. It was there Cage shouted, “Those were $500 sunglasses, asshole” before kicking the monster ass-first into the sea.

I can personally attest that back in the mid-‘90s, there wasn’t an eight-year-old who didn’t think that this was cinema at its finest.

In the original Mortal Kombat movie, Cage technically isn’t the main hero, nor should he be. Cage is essentially the plucky comic relief, with the film belonging to Liu Kang (Shou), the descendant of a long line of warriors who each generation must fight in the Mortal Kombat tournament to save Earth from being absorbed by the evil dimension of Outworld. If the plot of the games and movies are a goofy rip-off of Enter the Dragon, then Liu Kang is our Bruce Lee. He must be the stoic hero who saves us all.

And yet, given the fighting game source material, filmmakers Anderson and his screenwriter Kevin Droney needed to build a whole ensemble of likable heroes and evil sorcerers. The film handles these requirements serviceably well on the whole, minus the complete sidelining of Bridgette Wilson’s Sonya Blade to damsel in distress status during the third act. Otherwise, Mortal Kombat ‘95 strikes gold by taking the Johnny Cage character from the game—a martial arts movie star who hilariously enters a life and death tournament to prove he doesn’t use stuntmen or trick photography—and turning him into a scene-stealing quip-delivery system.

Ironically, it’s a role that would’ve been perfect for Jean-Claude Van Damme, a star of Hollywood cheesefests who really could do those oh, so impressive splits but got lumped into the company of Steven Seagal and Chuck Norris. And unfortunately for him, Van Damme had already starred in a video game movie, with Capcom convincing Universal Pictures to cast the Belgian with a thick accent as their all-American Army hero, Col. Guile, in Street Fighter (1994). Maybe something got lost in translation during those boardroom meetings?

In any event, it worked out in Mortal Kombat’s favor where instead of casting a star of bad ‘90s martial arts movies, they hired someone who inadvertently could satirize them. Technically, as a Kung Fu flick, Mortal Kombat is damnably guilty of the criticism Johnny Cage is trying to avoid: It relies quite a bit on stunt doubles and tight editing for many of its fight scenes. While Robin Shou indeed kicks ass in his own stunts as Liu Kang, let’s just say that quick insert shots don’t make it any more believable that Ashby did his own split in front of Goro. Nor does The Immortals’ awesome “Mortal Kombat” techno mix hide how choreographed Wilson’s clothesline punch might be.

Yet it should be noted both were game, with Wilson doing all of her own stunts, and Ashby doing so much of his own in the Scorpion bout that an unexpected axe kick to the kidneys left him peeing blood for a week.

Luckily, his Johnny Cage is so damn delightful through all of it that none of those backstage traumas mattered on screen—especially for the film’s target audience of teenagers and elementary schoolers. Full of mid-‘90s arrogance and cockiness, Johnny could easily come off as a dated cad, and maybe does when he cracks to Sonya that “it’s a man thing” about why he and Liu feel the need to insert themselves like the Scooby Gang into her investigation of Shang Tsung’s island.

But his energy is ultimately irresistible in a movie this wacky. Indeed, it’s a tricky proposition to put on a straight face while selling lore about lightning gods and ninjas descended from dinosaurs (Google “Mortal Kombat” and “Reptile”). The 2021 approach is admirably ambitious, but at least for 25 years ago, leaning into Johnny’s sideways smirk was more than the right impulse; it let the movie get away with almost anything. It also gave permission to the audience to bask in the film’s otherwise wonderfully over-the-top set design.

Read more

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Interestingly, much of this winsome humor was either improvised or written on the spot by Ashby and Christopher Lambert, the latter of whom played Lord Raiden. According to Ashby in a 20th anniversary interview with THR, it was even during these late-in-the-game brainstorming sessions he came up with the line, “Those were $500 sunglasses.”

“We worked hard on it” Ashby said, “We didn’t write Hamlet or anything, but we had a lot of fun with it.”

And through that fun, Johnny becomes both superhero and Greek choir. He’s the guy who even after hearing the fate of the entire planet rests on his martial arts skills can still be more concerned about getting his luggage into the ancient rowboat than working on his Karate chops; he also lets the nonsense of this movie roll off the viewers like so many popcorn kernels. As the character insists, “We’re standing, they’re not. What more do you want?”

Other than that awesome techno beat, not a whole lot. Johnny is the safety valve for Mortal Kombat’s lethal levels of absurdity, which inexplicably makes him as compelling a hero as any of them. When he walks into the ring with a giant hexapod ready to stomp on his eyewear, he’s been told he’s the most egotistical, self-deluded person we’ve ever met.

“Yeah, well you forgot good-looking,” he shoots back. After seeing him kick Goro off a mountaintop, you believe him.

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[katedrakeohd]

Nothing Like the Present (Part Two)

[Part 9 of A Very Valtorian Christmas ] (Masterlist)

TRH gang are still opening christmas presents...

Warnings: A little angst, mostly fluff.

..__________________________________..

Drake admires the amber color of the whiskey in the bottle that Nicholas gave him, wishing he could pour himself some but it's too early in the day.

Leaning against the sofa is a fishing rod that Drake received from Hana. Next to Drake, Kate is wearing a silver locket that he gifted to her. On her lap is a gift box containing red and black silky lingerie.

Kate had blushed when she opened it, while Maxwell had wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ooh, now you both have sexy jammies.”

Drake grumbles, “Next year I think we’ll open our gifts privately, after the guests leave.”

Hana smiles, “Oh but next year there will be baby presents to open too.”

Nicholas turns the pages on the leather-bound journal that Hana had given him. “I suppose in the Spring we’ll be throwing a baby shower.”

Maxwell gathers up the last few gifts and hands them out. Drake gets two envelopes, Kate gets an envelope and a large jar with a ribbon tied around the lid. She notices that both gifts are from Hana. In the jar are layers of ingredients, including marshmallows.

Kate smiles, “Let me guess, your famous hot chocolate recipe.”

Hana nods, “Of course, I know how much you like it.”

Kate lifts the tab on the envelope with a grin, “This is a pretty large set of instructions on how to prepare hot chocolate. What could this possibly be?”

Hana and Nicholas exchange a knowing glance, while Maxwell plays tug of war with one of the corgis on the floor. Drake sets his two envelopes aside, assuming they're Christmas cards, and watches Kate pull a folded document out of hers.

“What are these?” Kate asks as she flips through the pages.

Hana smiles, when realization dawns on Kate’s face.

“It's a copy of my Cordonian citizenship papers. Nicholas helped me make them official. Remember how my parents were pushing me to move back home when they came to visit during the lantern festival? Now I can live here permanently.”

Kate hugs her, “Oh Hana this is so wonderful. Now you can move in.”

Drake’s mouth drops open, “Wait what?”

Nicholas tries to explain as he can see the growing look of panic on Drake’s face.

“With the social season over, and where I’m no longer actively searching for a Queen to supply my heir, it would not be right for Hana to remain living at the Palace.”

Drake’s expression goes from panic to a frown, “So you’re just kicking her out? She’s your friend, and a Guardian of the Realm. Would it really be that scandalous to allow her to stay as your guest?”

Nicholas is surprised by Drake’s reaction, suddenly finding himself on the defensive.  “Well...no, that's not what I meant. Kate invited her to live here, and once Hana finished her cultural studies to earn her citizenship, she told me she was eager to make her move. We weren’t quite sure how you’d feel about her moving in, considering your family is already growing.”

Everyone turns to look at Drake expectantly for his answer. He zeros in on Kate and her guilty expression as her eyes shift away, and then move back to him.  The way Hana is holding Kate’s hand, and how they're leaning on each other causes an ache in the pit of Drake’s stomach. No dammit, I’m not giving in to selfish jealousy. I need to handle this like a mature adult.

Drake shrugs, giving Kate and Hana an uneasy smile. “Of course Hana can live here, she’s our friend, practically family.”

Kate breathes a sigh of relief, reaching out to touch his hand. “Thanks so much honey.”

Hana looks between Kate and Drake, trying to dispel the sudden awkwardness, “I don’t need to move in right away. I can wait until after the baby is born.”

Maxwell smiles, “Just in time to help out if you need it. I’m jealous of Auntie Hana already.”

Nicholas looks to his friend, and notices Drake’s jaw working, the clenching of his teeth setting his lips into a grim line. His hand keeps bunching and releasing the blanket on the couch next to him. When Drake catches the sympathetic look on the King’s face, he relaxes a little.

“So are we finished opening gifts now?” Drake asks hopefully.

Maxwell sees the two envelopes next to Drake on the sofa, “You haven't opened your christmas cards yet, might be something special in there.”

Hana opens up a package from Kate, revealing a silk scarf with an elegant jungle and tiger pattern, “Oh wow Kate, this is beautiful.”

Kate smiles, “I wanted to give you a scarf with a phoenix on it, as a welcome to Valtoria, but couldn't find one that was quite right.”

“No worries Kate, I love tigers. And the fiery colors are so pretty.”

Kate gives her a hug around the shoulders, grinning “I’m so glad you like it dear, plus now I can borrow it.”

Hana laughs as she holds the gift box out of Kate’s reach. “We’ll see.”

Drake tears into the first envelope, a photo of a green rowboat falls out of the Christmas card as he opens it, he turns it over to read the details written on the back, “What’s this?”

“Surprise!” Maxwell says, “Bertrand and I got you a boat. Hey you’ve finally got your own house on a lake, so we figured you could use a boat too.”

Drake smiles, “Thanks Max, I appreciate it.”

Maxwell looks off in the distance, holding his hands out to frame the view of the lake outside the window. “Picture it, rowing out onto the water with Kate and your little one, catching fish or just enjoying the quiet sounds of nature.”

Looking over at Kate, Drake could imagine it. He thought back to that night in Portavira when Kate had agreed to go fishing with him. He wondered how long it would be before they had the chance to do such a thing again. Maybe next summer Auntie Hana could babysit? Having her around might be a good thing after all.

Maxwell is still talking, “...I wanted to get you a bigger boat with a motor, but Bertrand insisted it wasn't in the budget. Then we haggled back and forth over wood or fiberglass, and the colour..”

Drake snaps out of his daydream of being on the lake with Kate on a sunny day, imagining her in a bathing suit.

“It's ok Max, this boat will do just fine. I see that it comes with it's own trailer, but I don't think the Manor’s SUV has a trailer hitch.” He shrugs, “But we’ll find a way to get the boat to the water.”

Maxwell and Kate share a knowing glance, and Kate encourages Drake to open the other envelope. “That Christmas card might help.”

Drake raises his eyebrow, mumbling as he opens the envelope, “I don’t see how, but ok…”

He pulls out a card that has a Papa bear sitting in an overstuffed chair with his bear cub in his lap, the juvenile text on the outside says “Have a Beary Merry Christmas Papa.”

Drake’s vision goes blurry as he tears up, and his breath catches in his throat. My first daddy Christmas card.

Maxwell covers his mouth with his hands, gasping with surprise, “Oh my God, Kate. We made Drake cry.”

Drake wipes his eye with the heel of his hand, trying to hide his embarrassment with a sniff and chuckle, “No..no you didn't. Besides, what do you mean we? I'm not your Daddy.”

“Open it, open it, open it!” Maxwell insists, bouncing with excitement.

Inside the Christmas card is a folded up vehicle listing from a local car dealership. When Drake unfolds the paper he sees that it has a picture of a blue pickup truck on it.

“You can't be serious?!” He exclaims, choking on the words, “You got me a truck?”

Kate nods, smiling and pointing out the truck's special features on the paper, “Yes, yes we did. Max helped me pick it out for you. It's a 2019 GMC Sierra, blue, with four doors, four wheel drive, heated seats, backup camera, V8 engine, trailer package, all the bells and whistles, everything a new Daddy could ever want in a vehicle, with plenty of room in the backseat for a child safety seat.”

Drake just stares at Kate, dumbstruck, his mouth hanging open. He'd never owned anything larger than a television in his life. And now he had his own truck.

As Kate goes on to describe the other vehicles that she and Max had looked at, and her conversation with the salesman, Drake tunes her out and just gazes at her with an expression of love and wonder. He was thinking about road trips with her sitting on the seat beside him and them both singing along to the music on the radio. He could already feel the excitement of having so much horsepower under his control and hear the hum of the tires on the pavement.

“…and he agreed to wave his commission and other fees if we do a promotional photo when we go in to sign the papers.”

Drake leans in to kiss her mouth to stop her from talking. When she giggles, he mumbles against her lips, punctuating each word with another kiss. “You're the best..wife..ever.”

Kate cups his face in her hands, loving his happy expression and his goofy grin, “So you don't mind posing for photos?”

Drake shakes his head, focusing on her lips, “..photos? What photos?”

“The guy at the dealership said that it would be a great way to boost sales if he could say that the Duke and Duchess bought one of his vehicles.”

“Ok sure, I’ll pose for photos. When do we go pick up the truck?”

“Monday.”

“Oh can I come along?” Max asks.

“No,” Drake answers.

Maxwell pouts, “But I helped pick it out. Kate wanted to get an SUV, but I convinced her that you'd rather have a big manly bruiser of a truck instead of a soccer Mom family car.”

Kate shrugs, “He’s not lying. I really had my heart set on the red Terrain instead.”

Drake sighs, “Ok fine, but you travel home with Preston in the SUV.”

..__________________________________..

tagging:

@jovialyouthmusic @sirbeepsalot @emceesynonymroll @emichelle @mskaneko @speedyoperarascalparty @dcbbw @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @pedudley @kingliam2019 @kimmiedoo5 @gardeningourmet @drakesensworld @mfackenthal @thequeenchoices @debramcg1106 @fluffy-marshmallow-heart @wickedgypsymoon @griselda1121 @indiacater @texaskitten30 @nikkis1983 @lynne1993 @bobasheebaby @drakesfiance @ravenpuff02 @moonlightgem7

..__________________________________..

[completelyredacted]

MOTW May 19: A scary moment

So my players agreed there were a lot of scary moments from the “Bodyswap episode” of our game. Loki forced them into each other’s bodies and then sent them to a moment of crisis in their lives. I’ve drawn a few scenes from that.

1. Lex in Ashes’ body went back to when she was 10 at “Summer Camp” (really more like a kids only work trip.) Lex’s first time through the crisis, they misinterpreted the vision Ashes had and ended up having to watch Ashes’ sister Shiloh (age 7) and Honest’s sister Rose of Sharon (age 6) burn to death on a rowboat. (Note: Honest in the picture is trying futilely to put out the fire.)

2. Toril (a 9 yr old boy) in Pip’s body went to a time Pip faced off against their half-sister, Artemis. Pip entered the face-off blindly, not aware they were doing anything wrong. Toril entered the face-off EXTREMELY confused and terrified and basically spent the whole time begging her not to kill them. It didn’t work. Toril is still traumatized because he DIED.

3. Honest in Lydia’s body ran into Lydia’s league of evil exes - which consists of a werewolf who wants to kill her, twin unseelie fae who want to torture her, and a vampire and a siren who want to enthrall her and bind her to them.  The twins weren’t my favorite part, but they were definitely the scariest.

4. Lydia in Lex’s body found herself midway through the ritual that bound the mind control ring to Lex. Lydia doesn’t know everything about Lex, but she sure knew plenty to know she didn’t want to be there. She used a combination of Lex’s increased strength, adrenaline, and the fact that she had a sword (Lex had of course been disarmed before the ritual in actual history) to escape, including clawing open the solid stone door that was meant to only be opened with magic.

5. Eulalie in Risha’s body found herself alone in a small (and getting smaller) room. Well, alone except for Risha’s “Friends”. She found them less than friendly because they knew she wasn’t Risha. Eulalie was able to use her battlefield awareness to get out of the room, but to do so she had to convince the Friends to do what she said - a thing they only did after she promised to help them get vengeance. 

[the-faultofdaedalus]

stevetony pirate au with the feared vigilante robber of the high seas, captain rogers, and duke-turned-captain-rogers’-gun-wielding-concubine anthony stark.

The nice thing about running a small ship, Steve thought, surveying his crew from the bridge as they scurried over the larger merchant’s ship, moving cargo and captives to-and-fro, was that no one, absolutely no one, ever expected the most feared pirate on these seas to be sailing something more suited for a civilian on a day-trip.

And no one expected their armed and armoured and much, much bigger ship to be taken by a clipper with only two canons to its name.

Hell, no one ever expected the crew of a ship as small as the Banshee to even think about trying to take a ship at all, much less the Crown-sanctioned merchant frigates that were always bristling with weapons and paranoid, pomped-up ego.

Steve surveyed the other ship, holes blown in the hull and long gashes along the sides, slowly, slowly sinking.

“—You bastards,” Steve heard, the voice carrying over even the general din, and couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Let GO OF ME, don’t you know who I am, you can’t—“

The man’s voice was abruptly cut off when Steve’s gunner, Clint Barton, stuffed a rag into his mouth, to the jeers of the rest of Steve’s crew, and to the growing alarm of the captured shiphands.

Anthony Stark, heir to the crown and the kingdom’s most valuable asset, was unceremoniously tossed across the gap between the two ships, twisting and struggling against his bound hands and feet, caught by Bucky on the deck of the Banshee, muffled, angry shouts still audible through the makeshift gag.

“Where do you want him, Cap?” Bucky called up, easily holding the other man despite his struggles and attempts to kick him, and Steve tipped his head in consideration, mostly for the effect it’d have on the remaining crew.

“Throw him in my quarters,” Steve finally shouted back, making sure to give the prince a slow once-over, “I want to talk to him myself before we treat him to the brig.”

Stark started yelling again at the same time that Steve’s small crew cheered, and without preamble, Bucky shrugged, kicked open the door to the small room that Steve got to claim as his own, and tossed Stark in like a sack of potatoes.

It didn’t take long from there for the Banshee to be detached from the larger ship, holes punched in the hull to scuttle it.

Steve wasn’t worried about the crew they’d left on the boat — it was resting on a sandbank and the deck wouldn’t flood, and their people should find them soon enough — and soon enough, the Banshee was hauling around, heading for new waters, and Steve couldn’t resist one last parting shot. “Tell your king,” He shouted, voice carrying easily over the water, “That we’ve got your golden goose! Again!”

With that, and the Banshee’s sails pushing her across the water, Steve left the tiller to Natasha and took the steps down from the bridge two at a time, couldn’t stop his lips from curling into a smile.

It was time to pay his guest a visit.

By the time Steve closed the door behind himself, Tony had slipped his bonds, had stripped down to the more practical underclothes as opposed to the stuffy coats and pants he usually wore and was stretched out on Steve’s bed, a wide smile spreading across his face when he caught sight of Steve.

The gag that had been in his mouth flew at Steve, and he caught it with a grin before it could hit him in the face. “Would it kill Barton to use something clean?” He asked, though his eyes were bright, and Steve laughed before he tossed it aside and took the half-stride he needed to get to the bed, let Tony pull him down.

“Yes, your highness,” Steve rolled his eyes, looked down at Tony, “Next time we’ll make sure to use the finest silk we can find.” He poked Tony’s nose, felt fond beyond belief when Tony’s eyes went slightly cross-eyed to track it, “The theatrics were your idea, Tony.”

“It tasted like pickled eggs, and the theatrics are necessary,” Tony groused, and the air whooshed out of Steve’s lungs when he wrapped his arms around Steve and pulled him down on top of him, clearly wanting more contact than Steve being propped up on him gave, pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck and exhaled. “Do you people eat anything but pickled eggs?”

Steve wiggled, got comfortable, making sure he wasn’t jabbing Tony anywhere, and brought an arm around to hold Tony back, felt how Tony relaxed. “Now that we’ve raided your ship’s food stores, we will,” He said, “I know the theatrics are necessary, you’re good at it, but one of these days you’re going to fall into the drink and then where will we be, huh?”

“Your people are good at what they do,” Tony muttered, “Barnes isn’t going to drop me.”

“If you kick him he might,” Steve shot back, rolled to the side so he could rest his head on Tony’s chest, wrap his arm over Tony’s stomach. “I don’t want you to get hurt, alright? And I know the knots are slips, but—” Steve cut himself off, didn’t want to continue that sentence, didn’t want to paint the possibility of Tony falling into the sea, the knots waterlogged and impossible to slip, didn’t want to think about Tony drowning because of him.

Tony rolled his eyes, but pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head. “You’re not going to let me get hurt.” He told Steve, “Even though you are, technically, kidnapping me on a semi-regular basis.”

“Oh, poor you,” Steve said, “The innocent prince—”

Tony snorted.

“-Kidnapped by the scary, mean, pirates. Whatever will you do?”

Tony’s eyes went half-lidded, and he licked his lips. “Oh,” He said, pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in a fake swoon, “Whatever will I do, Captain? I’m so helpless, you could do anything you wanted,” Tony continued, as if he hadn’t managed to get the hinges off the cell he’d been put in the first time Steve and his crew had grabbed him, snuck up to the deck and was halfway into a rowboat until Sam had actually caught him, at which Tony had threatened him with a sword until Natasha had disarmed him. “Woe is me—”

Steve cut him off by kissing him, soft and sweet and slow, a kiss that Tony returned eagerly even as he melted into it. When Steve broke away, Tony was smiling softly up at Steve. “Hey,” He said.

“Hey yourself,” Steve replied, knew that his answering smile was sappy and soft and not caring in the least. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too, honey.” Tony answered, “And speaking of mist—”

“-It worked great,” Steve cut him off, wasn’t lying in the slightest. The bags of powder Tony and Bruce had concocted, when thrown against the sea, made a wall of mist 10 feet high, thick as anything natural, and all in all was better than waiting for the right conditions to catch a ship, “We’ve got a week until we make port, you’ll have plenty of time to talk shop with the others, for now—”

Tony’s eyes softened. “I’ll stay. Of course.” He said, pulled Steve back down on top of him. “Picked one hell of a week to grab me, though. I was sailing to meet Pepper.”

Steve blanched. “Oh gods.” He said, and Tony started cackling.

[rarestereocats]

The hag teleports us and we're whisked away to an island vacation suited to our needs with piles of gold and booze a plenty.  At least,  that's what we were wishing for.  Instead,  we're treated to the sight of shelves of books on dark magic and a bubbling cauldron full of god knows what.  Tending to the stew is the hag we traveled all this way for.  Amelia's mother,  Myrtle.  Wait,  what was that?  Looks like we got the wrong hag as this is her sister,  Lydia,  and now we're stuck in this dark,  damp room with her until the rest of the coven arrives.  Lydia's shocked by our lack of fear in this situation,  eventually going from an intimidating sight to a surprisingly hospitable host.  Until we get on her nerves anyways and she shoos us from the room.

We're left to wander at our leisure,  so of course we're going to take this opportunity to invade their privacy.  They're a coven of powerful beings,  so surely they have treasure hidden somewhere.  Down the stairs we go into a room that's partially flooded with murky water.  It's full of trinkets and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling,  but beyond that,  there isn't much of interest.  Our esteemed guests,  aka the prisoners the hags originally wanted;  manage to get a shuriken from Brutus.  The halfling goes to make his escape,  only for his human friend to stop him before he makes the mistake of pissing us off.  Spoiler for the very near future,  they should've fucking ran while they had the chance.  Unfortunately for them,  we all carry on into a cavern littered with quills and bones.  I'm able to piece together that this place is home to a bandersnatch and given that they're highly dangerous,  we decide to backtrack.

The next path we turn down leads us to an ogre,  Grok,  who's been tasked with looking over the prison.  He's hostile for all of two seconds before we explain that we've been left to explore the place and he allows us inside.  The prisoners currently locked up are far more interesting than the assholes we picked up earlier.  There's a handsome aasimar with wings made of light and his dwarven companion,  who happens to a cleric devoted to a trickster god.  They introduce themselves as Niktos and Darcy,  telling us that they know the human and halfling as the used to work together.  When the hags captured Niktos and Darcy,  the other two abandoned them and fled.  We don't take too kindly to cowards on this crew,  so me and TT decide that it's best to swap them out.  We bring the human and halfling in and as Niktos tears them a new one,  they realize their days are numbered.

TT frees our new,  cooler companions and I shove the others inside to be locked up.  They're not thrilled about the current predicament and while that's understandable,  we don't care to listen to their pleas.  We head back to Lydia's room and the rest of the coven has finally arrived.  We tell them we sought them out to make a deal and Myrtle shoves her sisters aside,  ushering the rest of us into her bedroom to talk business.  On the way,  she talks of how she has many daughters,  the majority of them twisted princesses and queens.  Except for Charlotte,  who is the family disappointment for being too benevolent.  Somehow the conversation manages to rope me into more personal stakes and my feelings for Amelia slip out like butter,  leaving all of us shocked,  though Myrtle is pleasantly surprised.  She now has more to hold over my head,  but I'm not going down alone.

The deal is this:  she brings Amelia back right at this very moment and all that she asks for in return is a rakshasa's eye.  It's a powerful component for spells,  though she isn't inclined to get into the details.  Sure,  we'll get you a goddamn eyeball,  but wait;  there's more!  If we fail to complete this task within a few days,  my soul will be eternally bound to her.  We manage to convince her to give us a month and I convince her to take all our souls upon failure because like I said,  if I go down,  everybody's going down with me.  TT slips out of the deal because she hates Amelia and Brutus is freed from it because he wants to go on an adventure with Grok.  They're to find Myrtle a stronger bodyguard,  so off they go,  leaving the rest of us to wrap this up.  Amelia's revived in another room so that the hags can attempt to take control of her.  The spell fails and instead,  all they get is a lot of sass.  She's returned to us and when we all lovingly shower her in a chorus of "Pukehead",  she puts in the contract that we're no longer allowed to call her that.

I can't let that happen.  If we keep that tidbit out of the contract,  I assure Myrtle that we'll get her a pair of rakshasa eyes rather than just one.  Nobody's happy about that,  but the deal is sealed the moment we step into the binding circle.  With no way of knowing where a rakshasa is,  our chances of completing this task within a month is very low.  We head back to the ship,  only stopping so Amelia can do another one of her creepy rituals to raise Griffith from the dead once more.  She takes an offering of my blood this time and we watch in horror as Griffith climbs to the top of the pile...only to be knocked down by a new skeleton.  His bones are charred and two horns curl from his head.  Our new baby boy,  Lothric,  is welcomed to the world,  though he's not greeted with any smiling faces.  Once we arrive to the shore,  our rowboat is gone,  leaving us stranded thanks to Brutus.

[sheliesshattered]

Fic meme

I was tagged by @primarybufferpanel​ -- thank you darling, this was a ton of fun to do!

This got a bit long, so I’ll put the people I’m tagging here at the top:  @claraaoswald​, @ambitious-witch​, @someillplanetreigns​, and @junoinferno​, if you feel like playing!

My AO3, my old non-updating fanfiction.net

Fandoms I’ve made fanworks for: Oh lord. I’m only going to count fanfiction that has actually been posted, but if I tried to count up every fandom that I’d started writing for and left unfinished fragments languishing on various harddrives and googledocs over the years, it’d be at least double this list. I have two pseuds on AO3, with the fics roughly organized by fandoms that I post about on this Tumblr account (sheliesshattered) and fandoms that pre-date my time on Tumblr that I don’t post about very much (glasscannon). Putting all the fandoms together in one alphabetized list:

Black Sails - 5 Doctor Who - 8 Firefly/Serenity - 1 Game of Thrones - 1 The Hobbit - 1 The Hunger Games - 1 Iron Man - 2 Law & Order: Criminal Intent - 1 Mad Max - 2 Once Upon A Time - 1 Poldark - 3 Star Wars - 3 Twilight - 7 The West Wing - 1

Number of fics: 38, including a big unfinished epic that I never moved over from ff.n, and don’t plan to unless I finish it someday.

Fics I spent more time on: I’m not even quite sure how to measure this. I’m a slow writer, and a single story can easily hold my attention for years at a time, or be something I return to when there isn’t a newer fandom temporarily consuming me. I don’t tend to keep track of how many hours I put into a fanfic, though. The unfinished epic I mentioned is probably near the top of that list, and was a huge part of my life from 2009 to 2013. Other contenders would be the All Hands series (written with PBP!), and Truth Universally Acknowledged, particularly if you include all the massive world-building that went into that one. 

But really probably the one I’ve poured the most hours into, between research and writing, is a Doctor Who epic that hasn’t yet seen the light of day, called Home The Long Way ‘Round. Because I have such a habit of starting long stories and then not finishing them, I’m making myself get that one completely done before I post any of it to AO3, so I don’t have anything to show for it yet, but I’ve put a ton of time into it over the last five years or so. Hopefully someday I’ll actually get to share it. :)

Fics I spent less time on: Like I said, I’m a very slow writer, so any time I can turn out a story in a matter of days I’m just absolutely shocked. I wrote The Message over the course of about 24 hours, which is probably the fastest I’ve ever finished anything in my life ever, lol.

Longest fic: The All Hands series is sitting at 126,800 words, and PBP and I have more finished for it that we’re hoping to post soon-ish. The unfinished epic made it to almost 119,000 words before I ran out of steam. Truth Universally Acknowledged racked up about 54,000 words before my co-writer and I took a break from it, and probably triple that in world-building bibles and timelines, etc. On the works-in-progress side of things, Home The Long Way ‘Round is sitting at about 40,000 words currently and only about a third of the way done, and the For As Long As We Get series is at 21,000 words between what I’ve posted and what I’m still working on, and will definitely continue to grow.

Shortest story: 10 Seconds, at 208 words. Also one of the very first fanfics I ever finished and posted online.

Most hits: Truth Universally Acknowledged, by like a factor of 20 vs anything else I have on AO3. It’s the only time I’ve written for the main pairing in an active fandom (tho my purview in the co-writing was more on the secondary pairing), and that translated to a stupidly large number of hits. Fanfiction.net doesn’t count hits the same way, but the unfinished epic is sitting at about 3500 favs.

Most kudos: Setting The Stuns’ls, the first in the All Hands series -- which is SHOCKING considering that’s a tiny rowboat of a fandom, for a non-canon background pairing that has literally about 30 seconds of shared screentime, and the two romantic leads don’t so much as kiss over the course of 94,000 words (longing looks, significant hand-touches, mutual pining, definitely, but kissing, not so much).

Most bookmarks: Truth Universally Acknowledged, by a long shot.

Fic you want to rewrite or expand: I don’t tend to edit a story once it’s been posted, beyond correcting a typo or adding a missed word. Once it’s published, it’s finished and I don’t change it significantly. I do have quite a few (so, so many) unfinished stories that I would love to finish up at some point.

Total words combined: Counting only published fics, including the unfinished epic (and a companion piece for it) that lives only on ff.n, I’m currently at 376,542 words total.

Fav fic you wrote: How can you make me choose between my children like this, honestly?? Siiiigh. I’m with PBP, whatever I’m working on currently is usually my favorite. I’m having a ton of fun with For As Long As We Get, and can’t wait to publish the next part of that, hopefully sometime this month. I’m incredibly proud of All Hands, and that occupied such a specific time in my life that I’ll always think of it fondly. I’m exceptionally happy with the character voices and use of language in both Breathe Again and Upon This Rock Will I Break Myself, Until It Shows Me Your Beloved Face, and tend to feel like they don’t get enough love vs how much I love them. But my one true favorite is and will always be Home The Long Way ‘Round, and hopefully I’ll actually be able to finish it and post it someday.

Share a bit of your WIP or idea if you have anything planned: Again, how can I possibly choose just one?? Even just within the Doctor Who fandom, I currently have more than half a dozen stories actively in progress. But since I’ve talked it up so much without being able to link to it at all, and just declared it my all-time fav, I’m going to break one of my own rules and post the whole first chapter (eek!) of Home The Long Way ‘Round behind a read more:

Chapter 1: Orange Dreams

The sound of the wind is whispering in your head Can you feel it coming back? Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running ‘til we’re there. We're coming home now, we’re coming home now. —Home, Dotan

 The winds shrieked and howled around her. Clara had never been in a tornado, but she imagined it would feel like this to stand in the eye of one. She could see gusts lifting the tops off the sand dunes in shimmering ribbons, gold against the orange sky. The waves of airborne sand dissipated a few feet from her, leaving only a jagged grittiness in the air.

A woman with long blonde hair was yelling at her, her words ripped away by the wind.

“Tell me again!” Clara called back to her. “Tell me how to find home!”

“It’s just physics!” the other woman shouted, taking a step closer; they were nearly the same height. “No information can ever be lost! Start from zero, and run the math! We’ll be waiting on the other end of that equation!”

There was something Clara desperately wanted to tell this woman who looked at her with kindness behind the steel of her eyes, but in that moment, the words wouldn’t come.

“Look!” someone yelled behind Clara, and though she didn’t want to take her eyes off her, she instinctively looked up, following the line of the other person’s arm up into the gathering storm-whipped dusk. There, silhouetted against the last of the light, was the unmistakable blue boxy shape of the Doctor’s TARDIS, spinning quickly as it flew away—

Clara jerked awake, her heart hammering against her ribs, already sitting up and pulling off her sleep mask before she realised what had woken her was the sound of the TARDIS materialising in the sitting room of her flat. She took a moment to catch her breath, trying to hold onto the details of the dream. In the other room, the TARDIS’s familiar wheezing and groaning came to a stop with a soft thud, followed by the squeak of the door.

“Doctor?” Clara called, not bothering to hide the sleep nor the annoyance in her voice.

He poked his head around her bedroom doorframe, grey hair awry and his most innocent expression plastered on — which meant he knew he was waking her and felt at least marginally bad about it. “Hello, Clara. It’s Wednesday,” he said pleasantly, by way of explanation.

“Is it?” she asked, deadpan.

“Technically.”

“You do know that I have to work today, don’t you?”

“Not for another six hours. So come on, up-and-at-‘em, plenty of time to go out and save the universe and still be back in time for your morning coffee. I’ve an adventure that simply won’t keep, so come on!”

His excitement was infectious, as he must have known it would be, but Clara clung to her annoyance a little longer, mostly for show. “You have a time machine: everything can keep,” she replied, but waved him off before he could launch into a lecture on all the ways that statement was false, at least from a temporal physics standpoint. He lectured anyway, hovering outside her bedroom door as she dressed, though Clara expected it was mostly to keep himself from pacing in anticipation. She followed more than half of it, and worried a bit over how often she let him babble on about the minutiae of time travel these days.

By the time the universe had been set to rights — or at least one small blue world, home to a race of sentient seahorses, that had been facing imminent extinction in the form of a rogue exoplanet — she had nearly forgotten her unsettling, vivid dream.

--

Given the recent events on Skaro, Clara was unsurprised when bits of her experiences there began to filter into her dreams. Truthfully, she had expected to dream of it more often than she did, but in the weeks that followed, more nights than not her sleeping mind instead conjured up the strange orange landscape. She revisited that screaming sandstorm so often it became almost comforting, and before long, other dreams joined it. 

Clara was leaned against a railing on a high balcony, overlooking a large city coming alight as dusk crept on, a rusty sunset that stretched the width of the horizon bathing the world in amber. The woman with the serious eyes and long, straight blonde hair stood beside her, in the middle of a conversation, as happened so frequently in dreams.

“Alright, but what about the last stage?” Clara asked, elbows resting next to hers on the railing. “That bit depends on us actively doing something, and you know we can’t rely on my knowledge. I can’t take any of the engineering or navigation with me, so it’ll be down to him.”

“And he loves a good puzzle,” the other woman said confidently, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a twitch of her head. “He’ll want to find us. He’ll figure it out.”

“Before I die of old age? Are you sure? My mother was one of his professors at the Academy, I’ve seen his test scores. I think we need a fail-safe.”

“He did graduate,” she pointed out reasonably.

“He passed his exams with a fifty-one percent on his second attempt! No, we can’t assume he’ll have all the baseline information to even consider such a solution, much less actually accomplish the maths. We have to find some way to hide it with me,” Clara said. “Or in his TARDIS.”

The woman was silent for a long moment, her mouth set in a thoughtful line. On the distant horizon, the sun had finished its slow descent, but below them the city was coming to life, the light not so much fading as changing sources, becoming ever so slightly more golden.

“By that point in the timeline,” the blonde woman said, speaking slowly, still thinking it through, “you’ll have been exposed to his timestream and to the crack in the universe, so some of your memories will probably start leaking through. If we structure the extraction the right way, we might be able to embed a particular thought or moment into your consciousness before you go into the Schism.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Clara asked, turning her head to look at her.

“This conversation?” she suggested, laughing, her broad smile transforming her face. “No, a phrase would be cleaner, I think.”

“‘Run the math, you idiot boy’?” Clara suggested, also giggling.

“Oh yes, that’d go over well! No, if you want him to do something, call him clever. Works every time!” she laughed, leaning her shoulder into Clara’s.

“The horrid thing is that I know the temporal physics for this is part of my mother’s coursework,” Clara groaned. “If he hadn’t slept through so many of her classes, this would be a non-issue!”

“Ah, but a Doctor who was always responsible? What a boring universe that would be!”

Above them, the stars were beginning to come out, though the glare of the city obscured them. Through the haze of the dream, Clara couldn’t find any constellations she recognised. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I was the one who helped him steal that box in the first place.”

“And if he could take half a moment to remember that,” the blonde woman said seriously, “he might realise the role of his TARDIS in all of this, and start to think of the solution that way.”

“‘Run the math, you—”

“Clever.”

“—boy, and remember when you met me’?”

The other woman nodded, considering. “That could do it. Your chronodeterminate conjugation won’t work until you come into contact with at least a little regeneration energy. Assuming you choose regeneration on Trenzalore, it might start kicking in then, in plenty of time for the last stage.”

“Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me,” Clara whispered up to the distant stars, cradling her chin on her arms against the railing.

The woman mimicked her position, the golden light of the city and the silver light of the stars catching in her long pale hair. “It’s just physics,” she murmured back. “Start from zero and run the math. I’ll be waiting at the other end of that equation. We’ll all be waiting.”

--

As unsettling as they were, at least the orange-tinged dreams were better than nightmares of Daleks, of being locked in the Dalek casing, unable to convince the Doctor that it was her, it was her, she wasn’t a Dalek, she wasn’t a Dalek! Dreams of the Doctor peering at her down an eyestock, this face or the last, or any of the others buried deep in her subconscious, hearing her but not knowing her, seeing her but not saving her.

Clara grasped for that orange sky, let it carry her away in bronze sandstorms, golden cities slowly coming to life, and starlight caught in tawny hair.

--

Monday morning third period found her Year 10 students taking an essay exam while Clara doodled on a scrap piece of paper, trying to pull images and phrases out of the orange haze that had taken up residence in her slumbering hours since Skaro. There were bits that tugged at her memory, like a song she couldn’t quite place but whose tune was intensely familiar.

She’d written Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me across the top of the page, and her eyes strayed to it every few seconds. The phrase had stayed with her after she woke, and had been on the tip of her tongue ever since, as though it was a message she was meant to deliver. Below it she’d rewritten the phrase, but crossed out six words: Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me.

It was too close for comfort to the phrase that had, in retrospect, changed her life, sent her on her current course. The Maitlands’ mnemonic for their wifi password, which she’d said out loud during that first phone conversation with the Doctor, had caught his attention somehow, and it wasn’t until she jumped into his timestream that she understood. It was the last thing she’d said to him before sacrificing herself to save him. Every fragment of her scattered through his timestream had said it to him at some point as well, the words reverberating endlessly up and down his timeline.

Why her dreams would dredge it up now, and in such a strange context, Clara had no idea. They didn’t feel like random images, but more like memory-dreams, like the bits of echo lives that filtered through to her sleeping mind from time to time. It had to mean something.

Half way down the scrap paper she’d written: It’s just physics. Start from zero and run the math. Below this was the very helpful ??? and Clara idly traced over the question marks again. Physics was still a foreign language to her, despite how much the Doctor prattled on about it at times. She could bring this to him, she mused, but what was it, really? Her subconscious doing backflips in the wake of Skaro, that was all. No grand mystery to solve, no universe-altering secret code, just her. She wouldn’t bother the Doctor with this quite yet.

Besides, she was certain she could tease this apart on her own, follow the clues to their logical conclusion without his assistance. The dreams were insistent, and felt familiar, but Clara was sure she’d never dreamed of the blonde woman and the orange sky prior to Skaro. That was the next clue, then, and she jotted it down on her scrap paper. Something had changed after Skaro, something that caused her subconscious mind to dredge up these particular buried memories. 

She needed more information. Dreams about her echo lives were always stronger when she was aboard the TARDIS travelling in the Vortex, sharper and easier to remember. Maybe these orange dreams would be, too. And maybe the TARDIS itself would have some answers for her.

--

Of course, she didn’t sleep aboard the TARDIS very often, with her insistence on returning home for a week of Real Life in between their Wednesday trips. But the Doctor was never adverse to her sticking around longer than she’d planned, and in the end it didn’t take much to convince him: 

“I’ve a staff meeting at work that I’m dreading,” Clara told him on that next Wednesday, when they returned to the TARDIS after their latest outing. “So what do you say I have a little kip and then we squeeze in another adventure before you take me back to face my workday?”

She thought for a moment that the Doctor might question the change in their routine, but he seemed thrilled about the idea. When he announced that he had some tinkering with the engines he’d been putting off that should keep him occupied while she slept, Clara made an excuse to linger in the console room — “just going to finish reading this chapter, then off to bed” — until after he’d gone. Once he’d disappeared down the corridor and around a corner, she quietly set aside her book, then slipped out of her armchair and down the stairs towards the console. The rotors hummed overhead, and somehow Clara knew the TARDIS was aware of her, and was curious to see what she would do.

Carefully clearing her thoughts, she made her way over to the telepathic circuits, pushed up her sleeves, and slid her hands into the strange interface. Focus was the key, she knew, and she was nothing if not focused. She closed her eyes and held two very specific thoughts in her mind: the sand-whipped orange sky in her dreams, and the clear question, Where, please?

She hoped the please would help.

It was a long quiet moment with the circuits warmly cradling Clara’s fingers, and then something on the console beeped. Her eyes flew open and she carefully extracted her hands from the telepathic interface before pulling the monitor down to eye level.

Gallifrey the screen read in English, below an image of a startlingly red-orange planet. Immediately prior to the Time Lock.

Clara felt her heart thud painfully against her ribs as she read the brief text again. She’d been dreaming of Gallifrey? She knew she’d had an echo life on Gallifrey, but she remembered that interaction with the Doctor, and it happened indoors. She had never before dreamt of the Gallifreyan sky. Had it been buried somewhere in her subconscious with the rest of her memories of that life? Why surface now?

More confused than ever, she clicked the screen back to the desktop, unreadable Circular Gallifreyan floating idly across the display. Perhaps she should bring this up with the Doctor — it was his home world, after all. But the whole point of this had been to dream while they were in the Vortex, and if she didn’t get a move on, he’d be ready for their next adventure before she’d even managed to fall asleep. She could talk with him about it later. 

And if things worked tonight as she hoped they would, maybe she would even have a bit more information to bring to him when she did.

--

“Fire suppressant in Pod Four!” 

The frantic call was quickly overwhelmed by the sound of the requested suppressant dispensing from the ceiling. When it ended, the speaker, dressed in the dark red uniform of a technician, brushed soot and foam off his shirt. 

“It hates me, that one,” he said, nodding at the unassuming gray cylinder in the open pod in front of him. It was devoid of features, even its doors invisible now in the wake of the fire, two meters tall and one meter in diameter, just like all the other patients in the workshop. But somehow it did seem to be glowering at him.

“And it always will, stop wasting your time,” his coworker said flippantly. He was perched in front of a console on the other side of the room, deep in his own repairs. “Just get the Impossible Girl to do it, she’ll have it eating out of her hand by lunchtime.”

Their conversation occurred in the time it took Clara to enter the large oblong workshop and make her way to the far end where the two were working. “I heard that,” she said seriously, earning a guilty-looking jump from the man who had spoken most recently. She continued over to Pod Four and leaned against the outer casing, arms folded over her uniformed chest, one booted ankle crossed over the other. “What did you do now?” she demanded of the first technician.

He looked at her with wide eyes, more out of genuine fear than mock innocence, in her estimation. “I just told it—”

“You what?” she snapped, in a tone she usually reserved for misbehaving students.

He wilted a little but started again “…I told it to—”

“Told it?”

“…to give me access to the logs,” he mumbled, dropping her gaze.

“Told it to give you access to the logs?” she asked, voice harsh. “Well first off, Number Four here prefers male pronouns, respecting that might put you on better footing. And secondly, as with all TARDISes, you’ll get a lot further if you ask rather than tell.”

Behind her, the other tech scoffed. “They’re machines, we shouldn’t have to baby them like that. An access request is an access request.”

Clara turned her head to pin him with an icy glare. “Some days I cannot believe I let you work here,” she told him bluntly. “They aren’t just machines, as you very well know. Yes, there’s hardware we need to be able to work with, but that’s nothing more than a radio, at some level — only instead of radio waves, we’re using oswin waves to talk to pan-dimensional beings so large, they can’t have a physical form in this dimension. Who, with a little extra energy, can take us and an infinite amount of folded space to nearly any point in spacetime. Just think about the massive intelligences that speak to us through each of those machines!

“But more to the point,” she said, turning back to the tech still covered in soot, “you have to understand their viewpoint of the universe, and their understanding of time. A Time Lord telling a TARDIS what to do is akin to creating a fixed point in spacetime. It’s in their nature to want to avoid fixed points. Ask instead, let him find his own way ‘round to it.”

Before the beleaguered technician could reply, there came a polite knocking from the far end of the room, and Clara turned to see a soldier standing in the doorway of the workshop, looking a little out of his depth. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a message for—” he paused to glance down at the datapad in his hand, “for the Oswin. From the Lady President. Top priority.”

Clara was moving towards him before he’d finished speaking, curious and concerned, her attention focused on the message in his hands. But the dream faded out before she reached him, her mind moving on to something more abstract, more difficult to hold on to.

When she woke in her bed aboard the TARDIS, she stared at the ceiling with fond frustration. “If that was your attempt at help,” she whispered to the ship, “then I do not understand the message.”

--

It still wasn’t enough to bring to the Doctor, she decided later that day, watching him spin around the console room in the afterglow of a successful adventure, people saved, the universe bettered. So she was dreaming of Gallifrey, what of it? Many of the details in that last dream matched up with what she remembered of her interaction with the Doctor in that life. And while he occasionally enjoyed comparing memories of all the times her echoes had met him, she’d found he wasn’t especially keen on discussing the one in which she’d helped him steal the TARDIS and leave Gallifrey. Susan continued to be a point of pain for the Doctor, all these centuries later, and Clara understood him well enough to know better than to pick at that particular scab.

Still. That phrase was on a loop in her head: run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me. The emphasis on their meeting hadn’t been part of the original phrase, and now she was dreaming of the life in which they’d met face to face for the first time, from the Doctor’s perspective. Clearly they would have to discuss it at some point. 

Eventually, but not yet.

[the-dancing-ghost]

Left a Light On

Elijah unwound the line to the mainsail, closing it until the push from the wind was merely enough to gently tug the boat through the water rather than heeling along at full speed. With one hand, blinking saltwater spray out of his eyes, he reached over to grasp the tiller, guiding his small craft to coast along, starboard to land. He’d follow the shoreline until he reached the mouth of the White River, where he’d dock and transfer his goods to his rowboat to head back to Spirit’s Cross.

The breeze was chilly and sharp with the tang of brine as it caught tendrils of his long hair and trailed them along his brow, and Elijah paused to tuck them behind his ears, squinting into the wind. Following the shore could be dangerous if the wind was too strong; one could quickly lose control in a storm and be dashed against the rocks, but at the moment the water was calm and he expected to reach the river before nightfall. 

It hadn’t been an especially lucrative trip, considering he usually traded mostly in furs, food, and rare potionry ingredients, but he had stumbled on a small moonstone quarry just west of Dawnstar that he’d managed to chip out at least the cost to cover his supplies from. And he did have a couple of deer hides, plus a sizable basket of foraged mushrooms. None of which were edible, unfortunately, but they’d please Micah, particularly the imp stools.

The sound of waves lapping at the hull of his craft wasn’t quite up to the task of distracting Elijah from his growling stomach, and he sat down on the deck with a sigh, giving the tiller another careful turn. When he went to sea, he packed about half of the food he would need for the time he would be gone, because most of the time, he would find abundant food during the journey; plenty to both feed himself and have enough left over to sell or trade upon returning home.

The lightened load also made his boat swifter as he set course and left more room for storing goods for the return trip; but something about the recent storm combined with the changing of the seasons seemed to have taken its toll on the animals and fish that called the shoreline home. Elijah wasn’t many days out of a meal thankfully — he’d only been hungry since the night before, and Divines knew he’d gone much longer without food in the past — but the several years he’d spent in the care of the cozy town he called home meant he was very unused to his belly being empty for longer than a few hours. 

Another irritable grumble pinched his stomach and Elijah rubbed a hand over it as he reached for one of the small barrels of fish he’d packed for the trip. There wasn’t much — a salmon fillet he’d cooked and packed with salt and few clams he’d dug up early that morning, trusting that the bitter cold would keep them fresh enough to eat. Now, as he dug them out of the salt, he hesitated. He usually did his best to eat seafood within a few hours of gathering it, and it was rather late in the evening already. 

But he was getting hungry enough that the gnawing sensation was immensely distracting, and he still had an arduous trip up the river in his rowboat to think about before he could rest. So, pushing away the cautionary voice in the back of his mind, he went for his canteen of fresh water and nibbled through the fillet and few bites of clam. They settled in his belly and gave him a sense of relief from the hunger pangs, small as they were, and he’d eat a better meal once he got into town.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon by the time he reached the mouth of the river, and he tied up his craft with half-frozen fingers, lifting a hand to scrape ice from his beard every so often. Just a half day’s journey upstream, Spirit’s Cross enjoyed warm middays and afternoons; even the morning chills melted away by the time the sun rose. But where he stood on the dock he’d built himself, across the river from the imposing city of Windhelm, the ice and snow were relentless.

Elijah packed the deer hides in the bottom of the rowboat where he could tuck his feet underneath them to keep warm, and nestled his basket of mushrooms under one of the wood-hewn seats in the back. He balanced the blocks of moonstone he’d carefully mined in the middle of the boat to keep the heavy weight centered, then wrapped his fur cloak a bit tighter, grabbed his oars, and shoved off from the bank. The current at the mouth of the river was the hardest to row against. Once he got upstream a ways, he wouldn’t have to throw so much of his weight into escaping the water’s pull.

The strenuous exercise warmed him up though, and by the time Elijah was rowing more leisurely, he’d dropped his fur cloak around his waist and taken the time to push the frozen strands of hair out of his eyes. It was getting dark, and he’d get back to Spirit’s Cross late enough that most folk would be in bed, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Micah were up waiting for him. He just hoped his best friend had been taking it easy on the mead and sweets. Micah had a habit of drinking and eating himself sick with worry if Elijah returned much later than he planned.

Elijah gripped one oar and dug it into the current at an angle to steer the rowboat around a large rock in the river, then gasped as a hot pain rippled through his belly with the movement. Gritting his teeth, he paddled the boat into a shallow, sandy region so he could run it partially aground to hold his position, then pressed a hand protectively to his middle, rubbing at the sudden ache with a grimace. A spot throbbed just above his navel and he muffled an abrupt belch into his shoulder. Something was rather severely disagreeing with him, and he sighed regretfully, remembering the iffy clams from before. He felt a small pang of fear; if he grew too sick out here on his own, he’d be easy prey for bandits or wild animals.

But the thought was only aggravating the churning in his belly, so Elijah pushed his imaginings away and settled lower in the boat, stretching out just a bit and bringing both his hands to his middle to try to soothe himself. Fortunately, as he sat and rubbed his stomach, kneading carefully at the tender soreness and covering small burps and grumbles of indigestion, he didn’t feel he was getting any worse. He’d likely be out of sorts for a day or so once he got back to town, and it wouldn’t be comfortable rowing the rest of the way with an upset stomach, but he doubted he was in serious danger. He was probably lucky he’d only had a few morsels to eat to begin with.

So once he’d rubbed away, at least momentarily, the worst of the ache in his middle, Elijah took his oars in hand again with a groan and forced the boat back into deeper water. It was slower going than usual and he paused more than once to cradle his belly and rub a little, but he made it back to the familiar dock outside of town well before the sun rose.

He was truly miserable by that point, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and curl up around his stomach, but he faithfully tethered his boat, tucked his goods in a pack he slung over his shoulder, and stopped by the inn porch for a brief moment to peer in the window and check for Micah’s cloak on the pegs by the door. The hooks were empty, so Micah must have stayed home.

Elijah moved away from the window before Ryder could display his uncanny ability to always know when something was wrong and come striding outside, worriedly demanding why Elijah looked so unwell. Ryder’s fussing wouldn’t be unwelcome, Elijah thought, as he raised a hand to hold his belly on the walk back to his cabin, but it was the middle of the night and he’d rather not wake up his mentor over gut-rot that probably only needed a good night’s sleep to cure it. Maybe he even still had one of those tonics that Micah had given him the last time he’d had a little too much to drink at the inn…

Elijah had stumbled through his front door, let his pack slide to the ground, and begun shedding his outer cloak and coat before he realized there was a low fire burning in his hearth. A quick peek around confirmed that a familiar someone had come in at some point in the night, built a fire, warmed a meal, and retreated to bed not long later. And sure enough, when Elijah headed for his bedroom, he saw Micah’s face, framed by his unkempt curls, just peeking out from the thick furs on one side of the bed. 

Elijah bit back a groan, pressed the heel of his hand against a throbbing cramp in his stomach, and wondered what to do. He was exhausted and he felt awful, and while having Micah’s comfort would be a relief, he just didn’t want to cause him trouble in the middle of the night...

An angry gurgle forced another burp up his throat and Elijah surrendered with a soft moan, circling the bed so he could slump down onto the soft furs without crushing his best friend, and when Micah rolled over, groggily opening his eyes to blink at him, Elijah squirmed a little closer.

“M’sick.” He grunted when Micah sat bolt upright with concern. Elijah closed his eyes as the alchemist hurriedly began checking him over, swearing underneath his breath. “Nothing serious, just...” his belly rumbled and he groaned. “Stomachache.”

“Damn it, what’d you eat?” Micah growled, his chiding tone and gentle hands comforting Elijah like nothing else could. He pried Elijah’s hold from his sore stomach and began feeling with his fingertips over the clenching muscles. The awful churning eased just a little under his touch.

“Clams.” Elijah whimpered faintly with relief when Micah’s hand brushed the sweat from his brow. “They weren’t very fresh but I had run out of food...”

“That doesn’t usually happen.” Micah muttered and rubbed Elijah’s shoulder before climbing to his feet. “Try to get comfy, El, I’m going to get you some water and a tonic.”

Elijah swallowed thickly and nodded, gingerly stretching out as much as he could while he listened to the sound of Micah sifting through the cupboards the next room over. His best friend came back holding a cup and a flask, which he set on the nightstand before sliding into bed next to Elijah again and patting his back. “Come on, you behemoth. Let’s get you feeling better.”

Elijah propped himself up on one shoulder enough to take the potion and drink it down, shuddering with relief as the cool liquid slid down his throat and immediately soothed the miserable ache in his belly. Micah had him sip on the water next, which quieted the last tendrils of slight nausea, and by the time he’d emptied the mug, he could barely keep his head up. He let Micah guide him to lay down again with a heavy sigh, humming thankfully when his best friend curled up tightly next to him and wrapped him in a huge hug. He tucked his own arm over Micah and squirmed a little under the hand his friend laid over his stomach.

“I’m so glad to see you safe, El.” Micah murmured, rubbing warm circles over what little soreness remained, massaging with his fingertips against the muscles that were still trying to relax. “Well, mostly at least. You know if your dumb ass had gotten much sicker out in the middle of nowhere, you could have been in real trouble.” He scolded.

“I know.” Elijah stifled a yawn. “M’sorry. Didn’t start feeling sick until halfway up the river...”

“Only you would keep rowing with a bellyache that bad.” Micah huffed, fondly stern.

Elijah grimaced at the thought of the last leg of the journey, hunkered down in the rowboat, clutching at his stomach, restless with pain, and wishing he’d just settled with being hungry earlier. “I didn’t want to make you worry.”

“You’re a fuckface.” Micah rolled his eyes, rubbing a tight place along Elijah’s side and easing a lingering twinge. “I’m gonna tell Ryder on you.”

“No.” Elijah groaned in protest, pressing up into Micah’s hand a little more. The ache was beginning to fade into the comfort that his best friend was rubbing into his middle. “I don’t want him to worry either.”

“Well it’s not really like you have any other explanation for why you got back in the middle of the night.” Micah pointed out dryly.

Elijah couldn’t muster the energy to argue. His eyes were already closed and he was drifting off, then he felt Micah press a kiss to his forehead and he huffed a little, gratefully. “Thank you for taking care of me, Micah...”

“You’re welcome, El.” Micah’s voice was full of love and he squeezed him softly again. “Anytime. You should get some sleep.”

Elijah definitely didn’t need to be told that twice. He slipped away, warm, and comfortable, and held by caring arms.

[doyelikehaggis]

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Hope Mikaelson x Ethan Fell (Legacies)

Requested by anonymous

"Thanks for volunteering to help me out," Ethan says as they hang up bags of sweets to the top of the prize stand. 

Hope smiles over at him and shrugs. "It's no problem. I have..." her eyebrows furrow, "pretty much nothing else going on, actually."

They both laugh, and Ethan nods like he gets it. She supposes with his arm being out of commission for those few weeks he probably does get it. Mystic Falls High will want proof that he is in perfect condition again before they'll even consider letting him continue on with the team, which means no practice, no tryouts. No anything. 

There's a little twinge of guilt in her chest but she buries it back down, knowing there was nothing she could have done. Something just went wrong. It doesn't matter that she has no doubt that magic was somehow involved in his arm getting hurt -- at the Salvatore School, nothing is ever just a coincidence. When something bad happens, something supernatural is involved, it's just how it goes. 

"And," Hope says, rolling her eyes, "honestly, I felt kinda bad for you. You just looked so stressed, with an armful of cotton candy."

Ethan laughs again, evidently unable to help himself. Hope swears a flush creeps up his neck. 

"Thanks," he says, with a drop of sarcasm, then adds, "You're not wrong. Without practice, my summer schedule was empty, and I... somehow got roped into helping with this funfair thing? I - I don't know how either, honestly, I think Maya signed me up as a joke before she left."

"That sounds like something she'd do," Hope agrees, grinning.

Ethan just hums his agreement. He turns back to the bag in his hand, mindlessly reaching up and hooking it up. His expression has changed though, his smile almost fading entirely without Hope's full attention on him. But she still notices, and she frowns. It's obvious he's missing his mom and Maya. They only left two weeks ago.

Hope plays with the plastic-tie that's wound around the top of one of the bags, keeping it sealed. The sky is still light, and there's barely a cloud in sight. With the funfair opening in a half hour, there will still be plenty of daylight afterwards for at least a few hours. 

She stretches up, trying not to wobble as she does, reaching to hook up her last bag of mint chocolate pretzels. She can't quite reach far enough, and she is definitely wobbling from what she can gather. Her free hand quickly catches the top of the ladders to steady herself. 

"Oh, hey. Here" --Ethan hurries to climb down his own ladders-- "I can get that."

Hope tries to protest. "It's fine, I can get it. It's just" --she tries to stretch back up again but she's just a few inches off, and a muscle in the back of her legs is threatening to bring her back down if she goes up any further-- "Yeah, you know what? You can do it. I'm good."

She climbs down and hands the bag over to him. Ethan's up and hanging it on the hook then climbing back down in seconds. When he rejoins her on the ground, standing in front of her, she smiles at him.

"Thanks," she says. 

"No problem," Ethan says. "Couldn't risk you getting hurt; you're the only good quarterback Mystic Falls High has left now."

Hope scoffs, then laughs, her eyes widening as he grins at her. Clearly, he's teasing. They're both well aware that her skills on the field are sub-par at best and astounding at worst. 

"You're funny!" she jokes back, nodding with mock enthusiasm then says, "But there is no way I am joining that team unless you're the quarterback." When Ethan raises his eyebrows, she answers with the obvious, "Well, I need someone whispering what all of the terms mean and when I should go long."

"All right, you know what?" Ethan places his hands on her shoulders, holding her gaze with a sparkling smile. It makes her heartbeat jump and heat spreads out above, across her chest, but she keeps her cool on the outside. "I am teaching you all of the basics. I know you could do it! You just... need some help."

"Hm. Like you with painting?" she replies, arching an eyebrow at him. 

Ethan falters. Hope nods with a telling smile.

"Yeah," she confirms. "I was in that class with you. And, honestly, I'm a little scared to know what kind of birds you've been seeing if that's what you think an owl looks like."

Dropping his hands from her shoulders -- and inadvertantly giving Hope the ability to breathe a little easier again -- Ethan fumbles to defend himself. "It - it was... owl-ish."

Hope stares at him, unblinking, and flat in tone when she says, "It had three wings."

"That was its beak."

"And no eyes."

"It had eyes! They just... happened to look exactly like its markings."

"Mhm." Hope just nods, not breaking her stare. 

Ethan rolls his eyes, but his mouth is twitching up at the corners. "All right, there is definitely room for my artistic abilities to improve."

Hope smiles back now, smugly. "It's okay. I can teach you the basics."

Perking up, Ethan actually looks thrilled at that idea. "Really?"

She nods, and he is downright delighted. It secretly brings Hope a little bit of joy seeing him this way. At least he's not dwelling on things. And neither is she, she supposes. If they're both distracted, then they don't have time to think about the bad things going on in the back of their minds. 

"It would be a waste of a perfectly good summer if neither of us had any plans," Hope tells him, to which he agrees. They get back to work with the fair, setting up the prizes and making sure everything else is in order before people actually start arriving.

They're technically the first two there aside from the rest of the planning and decorating committee and the crew who brought and set up the heavy machinery. Deciding to start their summer of distraction, they stick around for a bit, playing some of the games. Winning the prizes is surprisingly a lot easier when you helped set up the game.

Hope doesn't know how to feel when Ethan wins another prize -- a medium-sized, fluffy teddy bear -- and gives it to her with this look in his eyes and this smile that she can't not smile back at. But she knows she holds onto that bear the entire way around the fair, and when she finally leaves him to go back to the house, she sets it on her bed before going downstairs to join Jeremy for something to eat. 

She ignores his questions about it. She ignores his questions about the boy who walked her to the path and lingered for five minutes saying goodbye. When she eventually goes to bed to try and get some sleep in preperation for whatever monster is inevitably going to rear its head at them tomorrow, the soft fur of the bear is surprisingly comforting.

It actually makes it easier to drift off for once without her mind being completely occupied by thoughts of everything that could go wrong. Instead falling asleep wondering where she could try and help Ethan with his painting, and dreaming up scenarios of him trying to help her learn the ways of a quarterback. 

[desperate-entwives]

spark

memori engagement week day five: eternity/something borrowed The nightblood is a practicality. They almost forget about it after a while, even though he is careful to hold her hand when it is injected, careful to distract her from dark memories. It’s soon normal to see a trickle of black from a scraped knee, from an accidental nick with a kitchen knife. Lives are lived in moments, and somehow, their moments stop being measured in blood. They live, and they grow old, and they die. After he dies, Murphy wakes up. 

sixty years later Technically he was already in his hundreds when he arrived on this planet. So technically, now, he is somewhere in the realm of his second century. This body is only his second, and it’s shriveling like a prune, soggy with age, and fuck is he sick of it. Believe it or not, Murphy didn’t want this, not in the end. He’d promised Emori he wouldn’t come back, or try to bring her back. That dream had been chalked up to temporary insanity, to bad decisions with nearly catastrophic consequences. “A lot of people believe there’s something after you die,” she told him, once. “Yeah, hell,” he’d said. And she shook her head. They knew, by that point, that his vision had been influenced by the anomaly. “I don’t believe that.” “Yeah, okay.” And then she’d grinned. They were around forty (or a hundred and… something) at that point, and the age was starting to etch itself on her face in delicate ways. The stories of smiles and frowns and laughter, still light, but there if he searched for them. So when she grinned, her face crinkled, just a bit, and his heart warmed in a way he still found embarrassing, even after all the years they’d spent together. “Heaven or hell,” she said, “you don’t think we could handle it together?” And he knew what she was asking, and it was the same thing he’d asked her on bended knee when they were young. To keep their forevers mutual. And okay, fine. He was game. But then that shit Josephine had figured out a way to download his brain posthumously, presumably to torture him for a while. He woke up without Emori, a year after she died of old age, apparently, and he’d isolated himself in their private section of New Sanctum ever since.   He should have assumed, but the loneliness is kind of a bitch. His remaining friends were all pretty elderly when he woke up, even Madi. So now, decades later, he approaches his second death, and everyone from his first life is gone. The day he dies is much like any other. He paints, which Clarke taught him to do once, long ago, and he cooks, which he taught himself to do back in Becca’s mansion with Emori peering over his shoulder. A couple of the kids (Murphy thinks of them as kids, even though they aren’t) come by: Bellamy and Echo’s great-grandson, Raven’s great-granddaughter. The latter is, unsurprisingly, a scientist and engineer, and she’s excited today. “Hey, old jackass,” Vena calls, letting herself into the apartment without knocking (Raven and her daughter had started calling him jackass as a term of endearment: the granddaughter opted for a variation and taught it to her kid). “News from Old Sanctum.” “Don’t care,” he grumbles. It’s his favorite part of the afternoon: the part where he just sits. Figures that he finally learned how to appreciate stillness when he no longer had the person he’d like most to share it with. “They figured out a way to reverse the process,” she says. “You know the process.” She points at his head. “Don’t think this guy wants his body back at this stage.” “No, but isn’t it interesting? The Primes can give someone back, or they can hop from body to body without ruining someone’s entire life.” “I’m glad they have options,” he says dryly. She is quiet, tapping her fingernails on the kitchen table where they’re sitting, and then, looking down, she says, “are you sure you don’t want to…?” “I’ve spent long enough without her,” he says, and that’s that. She tries to talk to him and he says nothing else. There’s a sickness in him, he knows. A sickness in his body, eating away at it, and it’s only a matter of time. Apparently he collapses in his chair, because the next thing he knows, he’s in the medical area of their colony. Echo and Bellamy’s grandson is almost as old as he is and he’s there, snoring in a chair beside him, and the great-grandkids are leaning against the wall talking in low voices. Vena is nowhere to be seen. Until she walks in with another woman, someone he hasn’t seen before. From Sanctum, probably. The stranger looks at him with a complicated expression, shock and warmth entwined together. “John,” she says as she steps closer, and it’s like lightning to his eighty-year-old body, and he sits up as quickly as it allows, ignores the way his eyes fill and the room blurs. “Those sons of bitches, what did they do?” he growls out. “You didn’t want to come back. You didn’t want to—“ “It’s okay,” the woman says, and lays a hand on his arm. Her skin is too soft to be hers, her hands too symmetrical and her eyes too light but it’s her and he wants to sing and he wants to scream. “It’s okay.” Vena looks at the floor. “Josephine kept a mind drive of her, too,” she says, quietly. “Thankfully, Josephine died before she got to use it. I thought… I thought you’d want to see her now. You’re not… you don’t have much time left.” “After you go, they’re taking me out of this body,” Emori explains. He blinks back the tears to look at her: faint freckles on her cheeks, short hair. Her skin is still golden, but not the same rich brown. But the way she’s looking at him, the depth in her eyes. He didn’t know if he’d ever see that again. “I’m only in here for a few hours. It was… it was a shock, to wake up,” she says, and he nods and glares over at Vena. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he says lowly. “She didn’t want this.” Emori puts her hand on his wrinkled cheek, makes him look at her. “This is a gift,” she says, firmly. “I get to be with you at the end. And then they’ll destroy this mind drive, and we’ll be together. Forever. If our original selves aren’t already,” she adds, and he remembers that she hadn’t been convinced that the copies on the mind drives were anything more than that: copies. He leans into her touch and lifts his hand to cover hers. “This isn’t right,” he jokes feebly, tapping her knuckles. It’s her left hand. She laughs, her eyes damp. “I miss it too,” she says. She leans her forehead into his and he moves his legs so she can sit with him on the bed. For a moment he closes his eyes and just breathes, shakily and slowly. It’s her. A hand grips his heart and he doesn’t know what to make of it, all these emotions flooding through this old body.  “Scram,” he says to everyone else. “I’m still mad at you,” he says to Vena as she leaves. She pauses, and searches his eyes for something. “You’re welcome,” she says finally, and makes her exit. “She told me they named her after Raven,” Emori says, stretching out on the bed and gently placing her head on his shoulder, afraid to mess up the wires attached to his forearm. “Smart girl.” “Nosy pain in the ass,” Murphy says. His other arm is shaking as he wraps it around her. This must look so wrong, given the ages of the bodies they’re in, but he doesn’t care. “Emori,” he says. “If this—“ he taps her temple— “woman is okay with it, why don’t you…?” “No,” she says firmly. “You deserve so much more than I was ever able to give you.” “We had everything we needed. Everything,” she says sternly. “And neither of us were saints.” He laughs at that, and she grins, as though she’s recognizing something in him. Then he sighs. “You know that stillness thing? That thing you always wanted from me? I finally figured it out.” “I don’t believe it,” she says, still grinning, and he’s eighteen again, sitting on an upside down rowboat, watching a woman sailing to a dark beach with a smile like the sun. “It’s true,” he says. “I’ve learned to enjoy doing absolutely nothing.” “And that’s not, say, old age?” she teases. “Definitely not.” Her smile fades, and she strokes the skin of his cheek. The body he’s in had a rounder face, the skin less stretched over cheekbones and nose, but it’s probably gaunt by now. He doesn’t check out the mirror too often. “I’m sorry she did this to you,” she says. “Like they did to Gabriel. It wasn’t right.” “It wasn’t,” he agrees, “but I dealt with it. Maybe it was my hell,” he muses. “Surrounded by friends and family, on a beautiful planet…” “Without you.” He looks at her. His eyes in this body are brown. Hers are a kind of light gold-green. “John?” she whispers. “Yeah?” He’s here. Barely, and sick as all hell, but he’s here.  “That stillness thing,” she says, and closes her eyes, tracing small patterns on his hand, where the skin is paper-thin. “Yeah.” And he strokes her hair a little, even though it isn’t really hers, and spends his last hours like this. Quietly. — “Are you sure you don’t want to host-jump for a while?” Vena asks her after. “There are plenty of volunteers.” Emori smiles. Maybe she’s still remembering the look in John’s eyes before he closed them. “Your mom did a good job with you,” she says, instead of answering. “And hers before her, and hers…” “Nan was your best friend, right?” “She’s one of the people I’m most looking forward to seeing. Besides him.” “I understand,” the young woman says. “I’m sorry I brought you back.” “It was for John. I forgive you.” Emori closes her eyes, sitting back on the chair they’d readied for the procedure. “You know what to do. Promise me.” Now, a day later, the young woman has her body back, and Vena has two small objects in her hands, and a computer in front of her. It is difficult, but she deletes the programs, and does something to the drives to make them disassemble. Together, the empty machines spark until they no longer do. “Goodbye,” she whispers as they fade.