#educational whatsits

[conniecorleone]

#this is why i hate when ppl legitimately shit on ashkenazi food#yes gefilte fish is not the tastiest#a lot of ashkenazi food doesn’t have a lot of spices#it’s pretty bland#bc they were living in poverty in places where they didn’t have access to spices#the reason sephardi and mizrahi and maghrebi foods have those spices is bc we lived in places where those grew out of the ground#cultural cuisine always tells a story#and ashkenazi cuisine is a story of resourcefulness and survival (x)

Goldie Finkelstein was just 13 when she was sent to Wiener Graben, a work camp that later became a concentration camp. The youngster lost her entire family in the war, and among the things she never learned from them was how to cook. She had no family recipes and, according to her son, when she married Sol Finkelstein, also a Holocaust survivor, she didn’t know how to boil water or cook an egg.

Eventually, other survivors taught Goldie the necessary skills, and she was a quick learner. She soon became known for the copious amounts of baked goods she would provide for any occasion. Her recipes, some of which are included in the “Honey Cake and Latkes: Recipes from the Old World by the Auschwitz-Birkenau Survivors” cookbook, include cake mixes and other ingredients that wouldn’t have been used in pre-Holocaust Eastern Europe. Her whiskey cake, for example, calls for both yellow cake mix and vanilla pudding mix.

Goldie’s experience illustrates the ways in which recipes, including those we think of as quintessentially Ashkenazi Jewish, have changed over the years. Survivors lost the ancestors who passed along oral recipes. Families’ personal artifacts, such as handwritten recipes, were abandoned when Jews were forced to flee. 

Most significantly, perhaps, after the war, survivors had access to different ingredients in their new homes. Sometimes that was due to seasonality, such as was the case for those who moved from Eastern Europe to Israel and had access to more fruits and vegetables year-round, including dates and pomegranates. Other times, it reflected changing tastes or newfound wealth  — liver soup, pates with liver and offal were classic Eastern European dishes in the early 1900s, when there was an intention to use every part of the animal, but became increasingly uncommon. In other cases, like Goldie’s, packaged goods replaced homemade. Another survivor whose recipes appear in “Honey Cake and Latkes,”Lea Roth, detailed making noodles for Passover from the starch leftover at the bottom of a bowl after grating potatoes before the war. After the war, most people added “noodles” to the grocery list.

“Some of these recipes changed because of New World versus Old World,” explains Jeffrey Yoskowitz, author of “The Gefilte Manifesto: New Recipes for Old World Jewish Foods.” Yoskowitz and his co-author Liz Alpern work not to replicate pre-war Ashkenazi Jewish recipes, but to reclaim and modernize them. To do that, they’ve had to examine the ways in which recipes have changed.

In the Old World, for instance, almost every recipe called for breadcrumbs. At Passover, the leftover crumbs from the matzah were used to make matzah balls, leaving nothing to waste. But when immigrants in the U.S. could use Manischewitz pre-made matzah meal, then recipes started calling for it to make matzah balls.Today’s recipes for kugels with cream cheese, cottage cheese and sour cream would not have been made in the Old World, where dairy products were expensive. Again, ubiquitous cows in the New World made that “celebration of dairy” possible, Yoskowitz says.

At first, recipes may not seem like the most essential thing to recover from Holocaust survivors, but they paint a picture of what life was like before the war. It is essential to see the Jewish experience as one that is not solely as victims, and learning what people ate and cooked is part of that.

“Bringing back recipes can help bring people back to life,” says Edna Friedberg, a historian and senior curator with the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. “In particular, it was women who were in the kitchen in this period, and so this is a way to make the lives of women very vivid and real for people.”

The idea is not to romanticize Eastern Europe, says Maria Zalewska, executive director of the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial Foundation, which published “Honey Cake and Latkes,” but to see the memories connected to togetherness, like picking fruit toward the end of the summer and using that fruit in a recipe, such as cold cherry soup with egg-white dumplings. 

In addition, examining recipes gives us a sense of what role cooking and food played in trauma processing, Zalewska says. “Remembering the foods and the food traditions of their lives before imprisonment were some of the ways that survivors coped with starvation,” Zalewska adds. These are things that survivors say they are not often asked about, but when asked they report remembering dreaming about food during incarceration. 

“We have quite a number of testimonies, where survivors talk about being in situations of starvation, and food deprivation and ghettos and camps and in hiding, and that dreaming about and remembering food from before gave them emotional sustenance,” explains Friedberg.

Exploring such memories have been meaningful for those survivors who were young when they lost their families.

New Orleans’ Chef Alon Shaya has been working for several years to recreate recipes from a book belonging to the family of Steven Fenves, a survivor and a volunteer for the museum. The book was rescued by the family cook, Maris, when the family was forced to flee their home on the Yugoslavia-Hungary border in 1944. The recipes are largely written without measurements, times or temperatures, and many of the ingredients are different from those used today. (Like the Fenves family, Goldie’s son, Joseph Finkelstein, says his mother wasn’t big on using measurements as we think of them in recipes today. She knew the quantity of an ingredient, for example, if it would fit in her palm.) Unlike Yoskowitz, who is looking to update recipes, Shaya has been working to replicate them as closely as possible  — and has come across a few surprises.

Many of the desserts use a lot of walnuts, for example, which, of course, are also used in contemporary baking. But Shaya is using what he says are “copious amounts of walnuts” in various ways, such as grilled walnuts and toasted walnuts. The Fenves family walnut cream cake, which includes both walnuts ground in the batter and in a cream in-between the cake layers, has featured on the menu at one of Shaya’s restaurants, Safta, in Denver.

For all the recreation, and Shaya’s goal to bring the tastes of his youth back to Fenves, he says “it is impossible that a recipe in New Orleans would be the same as one in Bulgaria. The seasons are different, what animals are butchered are different, and the spices taste different.”

Indeed, place matters, Yoskowitz says. Ashkenazi food has a reputation of being terrible, he says. Take mushroom soup, for example. “There is no good mushroom soup in a deli. It is made with mushrooms that don’t have much flavor. But if you have it somewhere made with mushrooms grown in the forest, then that is going to be good soup.”

Many Holocaust survivors settled in new lands with new ingredients, and little memory of how things were made before the war. They knew they used to eat mushroom soup but didn’t specifically remember the forest-grown and harvested fungi. So, dishes morphed depending on what survivors had in their new home. In Eastern Europe, veal was plentiful, but in the U.S. and Israel, schnitzel began being made with chicken instead (a process Yoskowitz calls the “chickentization” of cuisine). And the beloved Jewish pastrami on rye? The pastrami would have traditionally been made with kosher goose or lamb. It wasn’t until Jews came to the U.S. that beef was easily accessible. 

The same is true of what is likely the most iconic Jewish American dish. “Bagel and lox are what we think of as the most Jewish food. But the only thing that came over was the cured and smoked fish,” Yoskowitz says. “Cream cheese was a New York state invention. Capers were Italians. It was a completely new creation, and it became a taste associated with Jewish people.”

One of the most poignant recipes in the “Honey Cake and Latkes” book is a chocolate sandwich, a basic concoction of black bread, butter and shaved dark chocolate. Survivor Eugene Ginter remembers his mother making it for him in Germany after the war, to fatten him up after years of starvation.

Adds Shaya: “We have to continue to adapt, and I think that that is part of the beauty of it.”

[ronmanmob]

The Scarlet Letter, The Secret Garden

Classical Literature Meme

The Scarlet Letter: Has your muse struggled to shape their identity apart from harmful societal labels? Did they ever choose to “go with the flow” and conform to these labels, or did they fight back?

The answer to this question really does depend on where, when and with whom you find Ron. There're times for example where he'll play up to the idea that he's some kind of rabid Pitbull of a man, made of violence and the lust for it and nothing else besides. Invariably this is in the company of rival gangsters when there's a point to be made and violence to be dispensed, but he'll lean into that label that's been put on him.

That said.

There're also times/places/spaces where he will try to shape himself apart from those labels. In more modern times for example, he'll fight to the death the notion that having a mental health condition like his - Ronnie's schizophrenic - makes him some kind of dangerous, unpredictable whatsit that'll turn violent at the drop of a hat. It isn't true, and in those verses where he's got the knowledge to be able to, he'll seek in his way to educate those who need educating as to the error of their prejudice. Those that're just rude though-- They'll pay what they owe.

The Secret Garden: Does your muse enjoy the outdoors? Do they experience a connection or fascination with nature?

Ron absolutely loves being outdoors - especially in the countryside. Growing up in London he had the parks an canals and all to roam around, but it's different when you're out in the rolling golden-green at sunrise or sunset with you pack of dogs and nothing but the fresh air and the scent of wild flowers to wander through. Nature in other forms fascinates him too. Storms are just...the best thing in the universe. The rain feels like it cleanses him when it lands on his skin - hence the regular sight of him with an arm out the window, shirt sleeve rolled up, when its tipping down.

It's a soothing sensation, almost synesthetic in how it translates - like sound-feeling almost; each cool droplet sounding like the echo of a singing bowl's resonance when it hits him.*

*there is an element of hallucination/delusion about this experience, but it's a benign thing; perhaps the only such expression of his schizophrenia that Ron experiences.

[enuui]

hhhhhgggggg,,,,, internships

[madamehearthwitch]

Alright fellow hearth witches.

A few weeks ago I posted about doing some self-care for ourselves (I wish I could find that post to link it, but alas).

Now it's time to look outward. I haven't kept much of the OBOD training. But one thing that I've really taken to heart is the prayer they use. The concept here forms the foundation for a lot of what I do.

Deep within the still center of my being, may I find peace. Silently within the quiet of the Grove, may I share peace. Gently and powerfully, within the greater circle of humankind, may I radiate peace.

So, we've sought peace within ourselves. Now let's find it in our Grove. To me, that can be interpreted two ways. Your Grove could be your household, or your community. I've looked at it both ways, kinda depending on my situation at the time.

For myself, right now, I'm looking at it as the community. And therein lies the challenge I put to us all this week (and maybe for a few weeks)...

Do something to share peace within your community.

Some ideas:

🌸 Buy the coffee/takeout order for the person behind you in line at the drive through

🌸 Sign up to be a "zoom visitor" at your local long term care home

🌸 Find your local buy-nothing group and donate some items you are ready to pass on so they can serve someone else

🌸 Donate to the food bank (no, not the expired thing, or the whatsit that you bought and disliked... GOOD STUFF)

🌸 Spend some time picking up trash along the sidewalks or in your local parks

🌸 Find out when your next local election is, make sure you're registered to vote. Encourage and help other people get registered. Educate yourself on your local issues.

I really believe, that when we do these things at the community level, it transforms to the third section of the prayer. That peace begins to radiate out from where we are into the greater scope of all humankind. And for me, that encapsulates wonderfully what it means to be a hearth witch in the modern era. It doesn't have to be all aesthetics, and baking, and domestic, and old-school hobbies.

It's about first finding peace and contentment ourselves, then looking around at our community for ways we can bring that to others, and through healing our community, we radiate out globally. If that's not magic, I don't know what is.

[detectivewoof-a]

There are... certainly a lot of words and things happening that made Manny wish he had a better understanding of what the hell was out there. Probably also an actual education that stemmed beyond stolen National Geographic's and some pre-primary schoolbooks Nana Luiza still had from when she had been a teacher in the 1920s. 

Just basic things that probably would’ve had him staring less like an idiot and able to actually nod and pretend he even knew what the hell the girl was going on about. 

“I uh... huh.” 

Well, that at least lessened the concern he had about one of the more violent happy weirdos that were still on the streets or the rumor that the shitty sun gang were back in town. A quick shake of the head, maybe a bit of refocus, Manny had to remember she asked him something. 

Or try to, anyways. 

“Uh--yeah, just back that way.” He thumbed again behind himself. “Big colorful crayon vomit lookin’ building. And glitter vomit. And rainbow vomit. Pretty sure there’s a fucking... whatsit... army of plastic flamingos still on the front lawn...” 

There’s another pause of consideration. He probably should be going back to work anyways, lunch was only so long, and after the last time there was someone living on Kris’s property-- 

“I gotta get back t’ work anyways so if you wanna tag along, you’re welcome to. Also, seeing you with me might put the mortician at ease if they spot you.” A beat to think about the best way to phrase it. “They aah... they’re a bit skittish about anyone new around. And near their grass.” 

ㅤㅤOh, she hadn't thought about street crime or drugs at all. Sounds pretty chill to her, practically like a vacations. Stumble onto too many realities on their last leg of survive, you end up appreciating the quieter ones. That & the basic definition of quiet alters along the way.

ㅤㅤA low chuckle sounds as her pure yellow eyes almost sparkle at the older dude, not that he's all that much older. Probably. "Must be a nice highlight to your day." Not sure if it's his division but hearing about it alone would send her into sneakers on a weekly basis, maybe even make the day more eventful depending on how quiet the town is.

ㅤㅤTJ's face shifts into one of glee at the praise, non-verbal or not, she ends up bouncing on her heals. She has a long way to go with her recovery still, but hearing that is still nice. Her reflexes surpass a regular humans, but it's still nice.

ㅤㅤCourse her look of glee slowly just into a quick sigh & a large frown. Oh, definitely like the Red Queen then. Off with their heads & off chatting with her executioners at the bar to brag about her ignorance. That should make this world exciting. She's just not sure which type of exciting yet.

ㅤㅤTurning her side back she starts going through it. It's always nice to have a survival bag around for the ride with different odds & ends, but she's not actually looking for anything. She's convincing as she rummages through it. "I do. Last time I left I told my dad I'd give him a ring when I was in his dimension. Kinda hard to figure out if I'm in the right place without signal." It's not fool proof. But it can narrow it down a great deal.

ㅤㅤFlipping open her watch inside of her back she hits a few buttons before snapping it closed again once it comes to life. Time to blend.

ㅤㅤShifting her back behind her she grins at the officer & gestures behind him. "You said to look for the morgue back that way, right?"

[professortennant]

Please write some more ted/rebecca domestic fluff. 😍😍😍

i hope you like ted/rebecca/henry moments

i.

It's Henry's first time visiting when she and Ted are something and it feels like a test of some sort, though Ted would never say that nor put that pressure on her. She loves children, has held Nora in her arms and rubbed the tip of her infant nose with the pad of her finger and promised to protect her, to love her always.

It's the broken promises that haunt her.

She doesn't want to let Henry down, doesn't want to let Ted down.

So she runs to the toy shop at the top of the high street, buys out their selection of dinosaur figurines, a handful of wind-up robots and little techno figures that light up, and a build-your-own robot kit intended to be more educational, she thinks, than functional.

The toys are set up in neat, enticing little lines along her desk and she wonders if it's too late to run up to the store and pick up coloring pencils and art paper, too.

(The previous night Ted had been ecstatic, bouncing around the house and humming softly to himself, stocking their refrigerator with peanut butter and jelly and their cupboards with fruity-flavored cereal. But Rebecca had a brick settling in her stomach, stony-faced and twiddling her thumbs at the table.

Ted squeezed her shoulders, dropped a a quick kiss to the top of her head and nuzzled at her hair a little. "Relax, sweetheart," he drawled, leaning over her shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "He's going to love you as much as I do."

But not even Ted's belief in her could soothe her anxiety.)

And now, there was the frantic pitter-patter of feet just outside her office, Ted's deep voice of, "Henry, wait--", and then there he was: Henry Lasso, nine-years old and bouncing and brimming with enthusiasm.

"Hi, Rebecca!"

Heart thumping in her chest, thoughts of broken promises and a determination to not repeat the past, she stepped forward and knelt precariously in her heels to meet the little boy's eyes. "Hello, Henry."

Ted followed in behind his son and stood in the doorway, eyes soft and bright, watching the interaction. Rebecca felt his gaze like a weighted blanket upon her.

Henry appeared to wilt a little, his confidence dipping as he looked behind him at his father who gave him an encouraging smile. Ted then turned that encouraging smile to Rebecca who felt a surge of strength.

She gestured behind her to the line of toys. "Your dad told me you're into robots? I--"

But she couldn't get the rest of her words out, Henry's eyes lighting up and his little body darting by her to fall to his knees in front of the table, hands reaching eagerly for the T-Rex and light-up robots.

Ted reached down to help her up, steadying her on her feet. She gave him a wry grin. "All that worry for nothing. I just needed to ply him with toys."

He leaned forward, brushed a kiss to her cheek, forehead resting against her temple for a moment. "You didn't need to do anything, hon. Just be yourself."

Still, Rebecca watched the young boy play with the figurines, listened to him make beeping noises and dinosaur roars, and wondered if it was that simple--just be herself when herself hadn't been good enough.

And then--

"Rebecca?" Henry's shy little voice carried across her office and she looked up to meet the little boy's eyes. He held out the build-your-own robot kit to her and bit his lip, looking uncertain. Ted's hand drifted down to her hip, squeezing softly before drifting to her backside, tapping it lightly in encouragement.

She stepped forward, heart in her throat. "Yes?"

Henry held out the kit to her shyly, eyes flicking to his father for a moment, before lifting the kit higher towards her. "Do you wanna build a robot with me?"

Suddenly, her throat felt thick with unshed tears, her chest tight at the sudden whopping feeling of this little person's trust and acceptable. She nodded, cleared her throat, and took the kit from him.

"I would love to, Henry."

ii.

Henry is ten and comes off the plane and into the arrivals area of the airport dead on his feet, eyes bleary and forehead burning up, skin clammy and looking dreadful.

"Dad," he whimpers, falling into Ted's arms and curling up against his chest as best as his ten-year old body can manage. Ted wraps his arms around his son protectively, cradling the body against him, hiking him up higher on his hip and silently asking Rebecca to grab Henry's bags.

She does so immediately, drags the rolling suitcase behind her and falls in step beside them and keeps her hand on the little boy's back, rubbing soothing circles there.

But one look at Ted's worried, panicked expression, the white-knuckled grip on his son, has her hand drifting from Henry to Ted, her hand resting on the small of his back, hooking over his hip and squeezing gently.

"We'll take care of him," she tells him, voice low to mask her own concern. Ted flicks his eyes to hers before cuddling his son closer and picking up the pace.

At home, Ted helps Henry strip out of his clothes, soaked with sweat from his fever and reeking with the sink of ten hours' worth of airplane, and into the tub. Rebecca busies herself with turning down the little twin bed in the spare office they'd turned into Henry's bedroom, brews a strong cup of mint tea and leaves it on the bedside table, along with a cold compress and a thermometer.

Freshly showered and swimming in an oversized AFC Richmond jersey, Henry snuggles down into his bed with a sleepy sigh and a string of coughs.

Ted sits next to him on the edge of the bed, smooths his hair back, rubs his forehead across his son's forehead. Rebecca is touched by the sight of them; doesn't know how she forgets Ted is a father sometimes when caring is ingrained in every bone of his body.

"Okay, bud, we're gonna let you rest up, alright? And when you wake up, you're gonna feel better and we're gonna get dinner."

"'Kay," Henry sighs out, eyes already fluttering closed, cheeks flushed red from fever and travel and a warm bath. Her hands clench at her side and she fights the urge to mimic Ted's movements, to brush her thumb along his cheek and tell him it will be okay. But she's still not sure where, exactly, she fits in.

"You need anything?" Ted asks, voice low and soft and soothing.

"Will you read 'til I sleep? Just for a bit."

"Yeah, bud, of course. Which--"

"Uncle Roy's book," comes the eager response, Henry sounding a little perkier.

Rebecca hides a smile, squeezes Ted's shoulder to keep him in place, and crosses the room to Henry's small but ever-growing bookcase and plucks A Wrinkle in Time off the shelf, returning to the Lasso boys and giving it to Ted.

But then--

"No," Henry says, voice strong and stern. "Can Rebecca do it?" Then, shyly, "She does the voices better."

Ted leans forward to kiss his son's forehead before standing up and handing the book right back to his girlfriend, kissing her softly. "You've been chosen," he teases.

But the words hit her in the chest and settle there, heavy and solid, like a medal around her neck. She takes Ted's place on the edge of Henry's bed, smooths the blanket, and opens the book and begins reading.

Somewhere after she introduces Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which, she feels Henry's hand settle along side hers and his breathing evens out, eyes closed and form asleep.

Gently tucking the bookmark into place, she leans forward and kisses his forehead, still warm with fever, and murmurs, "Sleep well, darling."

Out in the living room, Ted slides his arm along the back of the couch, opening a place for her by his side which she takes gratefully, curling against him and tucking her feet beneath her. His lips find her hairline, his hands find her shoulders, and she lets herself sink into him, exhausted from worry.

"Thank you," she whispers into the silence, her hand sliding across his belly, scratching slightly.

"For what?"

The words are hard to get out but she needs him to know she loves him and his little boy and the opportunity that being with him presents. She clears her throat, turns her head into his shoulder and kisses his shirt-covered chest. "For letting me be a mum," she confesses. "Just for a little while."

Ted exhales harshly before moving quickly, hand lifting her face to his and his mouth finding hers, kissing her deeply, lingering at her lips to kiss her again and again, holding her close.

When he breaks away, he leans his forehead against hers, nuzzles their noses together. "There ain't no one--no one--else I'd rather co-parent with."

Their hands entwine, their fingers tangle, and they settle into the couch and wait for their boy--their boy--to need them, both of them.

iii.

All she can hear from the bathroom is Ted's soothing tone, his 'coach' voice as she's come to think of it--a little performative, a little deeper, a little sterner--and Henry's giggles along with the sound of splashing water. She pushes the bathroom door open and watches her boys--because she knows this now, they are hers--lean over the bathroom sink, safety razors in hand, Ted's voice walking his son through the motions of how to shave. Henry is twelve now and has just enough peach fuzz on his lip and sideburns that Ted had agreed to teach him how to shave.

But she doesn't want to miss out on the fun, doesn't want to miss this moment.

Henry laughs when Rebecca comes in and starts putting shaving cream on her own face, hands rubbing together and lathering the foam over her cheeks and across her lip. “Don’t leave me out, boys.”

“Rebecca, you look like Santa,” Henry laughs, his own face covered in patchy shaving foam.

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment then. Ho ho ho.” She uses her pointer finger as a faux-razor and wipes the cream from her face in long, clean drags, before leaning in to kiss Ted. It's these casual demonstrations of affection that she cherishes the most, the gestures she thought she'd never get.

“Oh, one sec—“ Ted cups her cheek and wipes a bit of cream off her chin before leaning in to kiss her properly, kiss lingering. “Be done in a bit,” he murmurs against her mouth, kissing her softly again.

Henry pretends to gag into the sink and Rebecca rolls her eyes, drops a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, ruffles his hair affectionately and just barely resists rubbing shaving cream into his hair. “Dinner’s in five,” she calls out over her shoulder, leaving her boys behind in the bathroom.

She turns, watches them a moment longer—her family.

iv.

She never forgets for a moment that Henry is part-Ted. She sees it as he grows older, that boundless energy never quite settling, endless curiosity as he insists on all three of them exploring every nook and cranny of London, wants to know each bit of history that has tread over the cobblestones or sweated into the brickwork.

(She'd spun a bit of a tale, told Henry that London was built on magic, enchantments woven into each alleyway. He'd given her an awestruck look and when Rebecca looked up to give Ted a wink, she'd found his face just as awed, just as enraptured in her tale. Like father, like son.)

They go to museums where he and Ted both press their faces eagerly to display cases and drag her into display halls and beg her to give the suits of armor a voice. It only takes one look at their identical Lasso puppy dog eyes to get her to crack, snap to attention beside a gleaming suit of armor, and put on a rough Cockney accent, saluting her boys, "At your service, sirs!"

It sends them both into a fit of giggles and Henry leans against her side and looks up at her. "You're silly, Rebecca."

She taps his nose and ruffles his hair. "And don't you forget it."

She catches Ted's eyes over the boy's head and the sight of his expression--warm, hungry, and so nakedly, openly affectionate--punches her in the chest, sends her staggering back. She tries to steady herself on Henry's shoulder but he's already gone, the attention span of his father, and bouncing to the next exhibit.

"Don't get too far away from us," she calls after him, sighing when he throws her a thumbs up and scampers away into a pirate and nautical themed room.

And then Ted is there, his arms around her and pulling her in against him, mouth finding hers, kissing her desperately, fiercely. It's more public affection than she's used to from him--usually keeping it to holding hands or an arm slung over her shoulders--and it catches her off guard as she remembers that expression she'd seen earlier.

"What was that for?" she asks breathlessly, steadying herself against him with her hand on his chest, swaying back towards him on instinct wanting more.

"Because you're you," he says simply, tucks a curl of hair behind her ear. "Because you love my son. Because you love me."

Tears spring to her eyes and she reaches up to cup his cheeks in her hands, feels his stubble scrape along her fingertips. "You both are easy to love," she says, voice wavering. She grins and adds, "Annoyingly so, might I add. You melted me."

"Naw, you were already a squishy melty marshmallow," he teases, kissing her softly and slipping his hand into hers and following Henry into the next room.

"I was not," she protests half-heartedly. "They were calling me the ice queen in the bloody papers! I was, y'know, tough."

Ted kisses her temple. "Absolute marshmallow."

v.

Four years ago, her office was relatively barren--filled with stale, lifeless paintings worth too much money, overpriced decorative statues on her surfaces, and a clean, blank glass desk. Nothing too personal, nothing to show who she was.

Now, though. Now.

Now, there are collages of photographs hanging on the wall. Pictures of her at galas and events with Ted on her arm; front pages illustrating AFC Richmond's Cinderella story, Ted surrounded by the team drenched in water holding a shiny trophy aloft; articles featuring her new approach to handling of club ownership and empowering those around her.

Now, along the windowsill facing the pitch there are pictures of her and the team: Sam and Dani on either side of her in some club with shots of tequila in hand, another with Keeley on her back, heels in hand, Rebecca giving her a piggy-back ride, both of them grinning broadly into the camera.

Now, there's a Jurassic Park-themed blanket folded over the back of her office couch where a rapidly growing little boy collapses onto it after running around with the players at training as best as he can and a duffel bag with spare clothes for Ted in her closet next to her coats. Little places in her life carved out for them.

Now, on her desk, is a framed picture of her and Ted, their arms wrapped around each other, kissing softly at the Higgins' vow renewal ceremony, the frame hand-made by Ted out of painted popsicle sticks, little hearts and marshmallows and footballs painted into one corner and Always yours, Ted scribbled in the other corner.

Now, the only other picture on her desk is a hand-drawn picture from Henry of four figures--a mustachioed man, a petite woman with long hair, a young boy, and a tall, blonde woman, all holding hands. The labels are what's important: Dad, Me, Mom, and Mum.

And beneath it all, in blazing, declarative glory: My family.

[roxannepolice]

I'm a simple woman. All I want from Doctor Who is the Master teaming up with the Rani to abduct the Curies, because they just very need radioactive whatsit, much on 1890s Earth, running around shimmered as them just because we were robbed of Sacha Dhawan regenerating in Missy's dress, culminating with the Doctor thwarting their scheme using a gallium parlor trick.

Pros: educational, the Master, the Rani, historical figures of the season is a STEM power couple, gallium everywhere.

Cons: none whatsoever.

[brucewhite]

Bruce made the mistake of putting another fish ball in his mouth just as Snow asked him a question, which meant that it took him a moment to chew it and gesture vaguely in apology. It took a good thirty seconds, which felt very long. Which might have been horribly awkward if this were a date, but this was just Snow. She had already seen him at his most awkward.

"Sorry- er, great! Mads just finished his PhD, which is very exciting, of course," Bruce explained. He actually didn't know much about what that meant— his housemate had explained his work to him, of course, but Bruce still had a hard time wrapping his head around how school worked. Which was why he continued to work at Whosits and Whatsits despite offers from the RAS to help him get an education.

It wasn't that he was afraid. It was just... well, the whole thing seemed like much more trouble than it was really worth.

"And things are good at the shop as well, we've just gotten this lovely tea set in that I think you would really like. I have a feeling it's going to go fast. Do you want to see a photo?" Bruce pulled out his phone to pull it up. He'd thought about texting it to Snow, but then he wasn't sure he should, and then he'd forgotten altogether. But he could show her now!

Good Soup | Snooze

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 102

Okay, trying to queue this again after it apparently got eaten along with chapter 101.

Y’all pray for me to whatever higher powers you believe in or can make up on the spot. Thanks.

Thanks for this chapter goes to the fabulous anon who sent me an ask about Jedis. I really, really hope you are seeing this chapter and I hope you like it. I also want to thank @baelpenrose​ as my resident Star Wars expert, who checked, double checked, and triple checked my writing to make sure everything was as entertaining/accurate as possible.

Before you all cringe at some comments Sophia makes, she is deliberately downplaying her knowledge of Star Wars in an attempt to see if she can give some of the other characters a twitchy eye.

After an extraordinarily bizarre situation regarding my former foe and who I assumed was his partner, I was profoundly relieved to find myself in a very boring, very normal situation a couple of weeks later. Even the regular family dinner was pretty normal: grilled cheese on a very good sourdough, with a tomato soup so garlicky that even I had no objections to it. I made a point to puree it, so Derek was very happy with the texture and I was happy with the flavor. Arthur shot me odd looks once in a while, but it was a happy, calm dinner.

And things were going… so well… I thought as Maverick dragged everyone into his quiet argument with Sam.

“Sam,” He stated emphatically as he dunked his sandwich and ripped a tomato-soaked piece from it. “We all want it to be real but… humans don’t exist outside of Earth and the Ark.”

“Yoda is not human,” Sam insisted loudly, grinning the entire time.

I choked on my soup. “Yoda? You two have been arguing Star Wars this whole time?”

“Maverick insists they are not real,” Sam enunciated carefully. When he got excited about a topic he loved, he had a tendency to rush everything and drop syllables, making his words nearly impossible to understand.

“They meaning Jedi?” Arthur asked, eyeballing the pile of sandwiches on the table. Finally he snagged his third half-sandwich and dunked it without ceremony. “As much as I wish they were real, I have my doubts.”

So did I. “Human beings who can use telepathy, telekinesis, and distance-empathy?” I scrunched my nose. “I think that’s a bit far-fetched.”

“But extraterrestrials exist,” Sam pointed out.

Conor nodded. “They do, obviously. Otherwise, Noah would be a bloody big figment of our imagination.” Shaking his head, he smiled. “If we didn’t make Santa real as children, I doubt we could make up someone like Noah, right?”

Sam only got more serious. “I was always taught that aliens don’t exist. My teachers told me that the only life off of Earth were bacteria. But, even if Else is bacteria, Noah isn’t. So, maybe other things we thought were pretend are real.”

The table was silent for a moment, shattered only by Derek dusting bread crumbs from his hands as ceremoniously and loudly as humanly possible. “Sam has a point,” he signed. “Fabricators exist, aliens exist.. Hell, telepathy exists - “

“Not telepathy,” Miys interjected from above.

“Neuro-pheremonal communication exists,” Derek finger-spelled, making a point of how cumbersome the term was in a way none of the rest of us really could. Seven minutes later, he took a slurp of soup and continued. “Unicorns exist, even if they are chubby. Why not Jedi?”

I opened my mouth to refute, then realized I couldn’t: we had the genetic code for both narwhals and rhinoceros in the gene bank. Good effing luck convincing anyone unicorns don’t exist, I guess. Instead, I grasped on my one last leg of logic. “But humans, like Luke Starkiller and Obi-whatsit Kenoshi don’t actually exist.”

Maverick looked absolutely revolted by something, which confused me. He liked tomato soup, and actually chose the cheese for the sandwiches himself. “Sophia. Have you even seen those movies?” He was absolutely aghast as he posed his question, and I suddenly understood what he was revolted by.

“Of course I did,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “In college, in Intro to Adolescent Literature.”

Soup abruptly coated everything on the table as both Arthur and Conor spat violently at my clarification. Arthur scrubbed his chin the fastest, so had the honor of levelling his incredulity at me. “Sophia Reid. Do you mean to tell me that you have only seen Star Wars ONE TIME?”

I shook my head, confused. “No. I’ve seen all three.”

“ELEVEN,” Sam corrected me loudly. “There are eleven movies.”

“Please, please tell me you at least saw Rogue One,” Maverick begged. “You may not have known it was a Star Wars movie?”

“Is that the one where the robot hits the guy and says he has another fresh one?” I asked carefully.

Maverick nodded. Arthur, however, looked like he was about to start breathing fire. “I am going to force you to consume every bit of Star Wars media worth consuming if I have to get Charly and Derek to program the audio versions to play in every room you enter.”

“I can do that,” Derek signed, unhelpfully.

Arthur just nodded. “See? I can make this happen. Your quarters will feel like Hoth, all digital communications will sound like C-3PO, and many Bothans will die before your datapad functions.”

Alarmingly, Miys interjected. “Wisdom, Bothans are an endangered species. Please do not encourage Educator Farro to commit atrocities.”

I was still gasping in confusion when Arthur recovered from his choking. “Oh shit. Bothans are real? They were a very back-stabby race of dog-type people who fought against fascists in Terran media. I thought, at least. I wouldn’t actually kill a real one… I am far more high functioning of a sociopath than that, thank you.”

“Noah,” I choked out. “Are you serious? Are Bothans real?”

“Affirmative,” they responded, setting off an entirely new round of choking and sputtering. I would need to have something done about my floors if this kept up. “And while they do resemble Terran canines on a very superficial level, they are genetically more closely related to a Terran fern.”

Arthur looked like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. “That is the least back-stabbing and least threatening plant I can possibly think of.”

Conor, not to be outdone, was still curious. “Boston or Fiddlehead?”

“Asparagus fern, Human Conor,” was the reply that set off a thousand coughs.

Sam recovered first. “That does not mean Jedi don’t exist,” he insisted.

“Of course Jedi exist,” Miys answered in a tone that was as close to being confused as I had ever heard.

Almost immediately, Arthur, Maverick, and Sam started cheering and high-fiving. Conor looked confused, while I spat my soup out again.

“WHAT?” I choked out between attempts at keeping tomatoes and garlic out of my lungs.

“They are as real as any member of any other Terran religion.”

Silence ruled the room for a split second, broken first by Arthur throwing his fork in the air behind him.  Like a signal, it led to Sam and Maverick dropping their head to their forearms with a groan.

I managed to recover enough to slide my food away, lest I risk death over an absurd conversation. “Are there anything like Jedi in the known galaxy?” I asked, receiving a thumbs up from Arthur, who was still trying not to choke on his soup.

“Only in small measures.”

That seemed like the magic phrase to snap Arthur out of whatever coughing fit he was having. “Are there any species in the galaxy that have Jedi abilities?”

“You will need to be more specific.”

Conor, laughter out of his system, joined gamely. “Is there anything that can move physical objects without touching them directly?” he started.

“Several species can,” Miys conceded. “Those who only experience what you consider ‘sight’ as changes in air currents can, in fifty-four percent of cases so far, also change the air currents in a sufficient way as to move physical objects.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “They can stare at something hard enough to move it?”

“Wisdom, if I experienced physical pain, I am certain that your oversimplification just now would have caused such a sensation.”

Without rebutting, I waved for Miys to continue and ignored the laughter caused by the comment.

“Similarly, there are species more limited than Hujylsogox, who can perceive the physical world strictly through sound,” they continued. “In such cases, it is not uncommon for these species to also alter their surroundings by vibrating physical objects at a frequency that causes them to move within physical space.” A brief pause before, “And no, Wisdom, that does not mean they scream at objects until such objects move. I would also like to point out, Educator Farro, that the same species can cause internal organs to vibrate as a sufficient frequency as to cut off air flow.”

“Force choke is real,” Arthur whisper-shouted, mildly horrified. Clearing his throat, he spoke more clearly for his next question. “What about ‘there is a disturbance in the Force, as if many voices cried out’ etc?”

Miys buzzed thoughtfully for a moment before replying more clearly. “There are number of species who are able to perceive and interpret with great accuracy any changes in interstellar radiation, no matter how small. Should, say, a star go nova or collapse into a black hole, they are very reliable in providing information to cartographers. Should such a species state with certainty that a planet ceased to exist, I would need to see the planet from orbit in order to disbelieve them.”

Maverick let loose a low whistle, but it was Sam who spoke next. “But what about living beings, on an individual level. I know you can do that, but can any other species?”

“It is, perhaps, the most common trait in the known galaxy,” Miys admitted. “Even humans can do this, to a degree, although you tend to ignore it against all logic.”

“Okay. What about force lightning, though?”

I actually started to respond to that, having an answer finally, but Miys beat me to the draw. “Species who communicate through electrical currents are more numerous in the galaxy than those who can see. In the same way, they need to be able to manipulate such currents. Their young are frequently sequestered on their home worlds in order to prevent electrocution of species whose neural organs can be disrupted by uncontrolled communication. The same species are capable of using those same currents to increase their own synaptic response and reflexes.”

I almost wanted to laugh at Maverick’s face. He looked frustrated and ashamed in a way that I could not figure out. Maybe because these abilities existed, but not in humans? Regardless, his tone was frustrated when he asked his next question. “What about force ghosts? Please tell me those are real?”

“Very much so,” Miys confirmed. “Though likely not in the way you think. What you consider ‘Force Ghosts’ are, in the galaxy as it is, the result of technological advancement combined with spiritual beliefs.” A few groans surrounded the table, but Maverick perked up slightly. “Many species believe, as a result of their evolution, that their predecessors’ life energy persists after death. In these cultures, it is so common as to be unremarkable for a person to have a synaptic recording chip installed shortly after birth, to record their entire lives. They, then, pass their chip on to their successor in  position.” Wait a minute… I thought, but Miys continued before I could put everything together. “In such circumstances, many species’s neural organs will manifest a… personality, separate from the original, in order to preserve mental stability. Such manifestations are very similar to what Terran media considers a ‘Force ghost’.”

“Hang on,” I ventured, holding my hand up emphatically to cut off any other questions from the table. “That. Stop there.” Taking a deep breath, I thought back through everything I had read in the past. “I thought the idea of deliberately having multiple, distinct identities was… a story, honestly.”

“Even in your own past, it was discovered that the human brain can host two distinct personalities with no difficulty, Wisdom,” Miys admonished. “These species, however, are uniquely adapted so that, along with the memory implant, they suffer no actual combination or confusion of experiences. What their ancestor experienced is their ancestor’s memory, and what the person experiences is the person's memory. A person cannot overwrite an ancestral core. Only speak to it.”

“Can humans do that?” Sam asked, dazed in wonder at this new revelation.

“Not yet,” Miys responded. “But I do insist on the word ‘yet’, as you were never meant to do many of the things you do now.”

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[zrtranscripts]

Season 9, Mission 7: Scream

Scream and Shout

~

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Oh, my calves are killing me.

PETER LYNNE: Yeah, as the dairy farmer said to the... other dairy farmer?

SAM YAO: Yeah, dunes aren't the easiest, are they? It feels like I'm trying to get up a down escalator. Still, we must be near our rendezvous with Mohammed now, mustn't we?

JANINE DE LUCA: That was the message we received via coded transmission from Miss Spens. Mohammed Boujettif, a fixer based in the city of New Agadir, will meet us at coordinates a short distance from here. He'll wait for one hour, no more.

PETER LYNNE: Well, we're still a good day's journey from New Agadir, though. Um, question. Does anyone find it a little suspicious that he wants to meet us so far from the city?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I've been rereading Amelia's info packs about New Agadir. It's supposed to be very hard to get inside the city. Citizens of the Maghreb Protectorate - that's the nearest official government - generally get let in. Everyone else needs friends inside - or favors from - the criminal networks that really run the city. Amelia said the place is like post-apocalypse Ipswich used to be, before the Last Riders razed it. Maybe Mohammed's going to introduce us to some friendly New Agadirans.

PETER LYNNE: Or he's going to rob and kill us, and maybe eat us! I don't know. Listen, sorry. It's just, it's all gone fine for the last few days. You know, camping in the desert. Janine's rain water collectors. Our maps have actually been accurate. And hang on, not been pursued by anything! I mean, it's going to go wrong now, isn't it?

JANINE DE LUCA: In my experience, little goes wrong in quite the way one anticipates. We must get into New Agadir. That is where the Death's Hand mercenaries are expected to be, and that way, we can enter Red Scorpion base. So we must attempt to make contact with Mr. Boujettif.

SAM YAO: Shame Veronica's not here to triangulate our position, really. She's back in my tent, said she wanted to avoid getting more sand in her circuits. Got the compass, Frances?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Yep. Yes. It's uh, that way, towards the tree. The-the one that looks like... the only tree.

JANINE DE LUCA: Very good. Come along, everyone. Run!

~

PETER LYNNE: Well, here we are at the tree. Got to say, I mean, of course the desert as a whole is beautiful, but in terms of your actual landmarks, it's kind of... a bit weak, maybe?

JANINE DE LUCA: Miss Dempsey, are we still on course?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Sure are. Oh, uh, heading confirmed. We must continue straight on towards the uh... more sand.

PETER LYNNE: See what I mean?

JANINE DE LUCA: There is rather an abundance of sand, but also an abundance of stars. Goodness me, just look at that sky. Perhaps I'll satisfy entry 48b on my bucket list, “Witnessing the entry of a meteor into the earth's atmosphere.”

PETER LYNNE: Yeah, we humans call that a shooting star. Never seen one?

JANINE DE LUCA: Perhaps I never thought to look up.

PETER LYNNE: Oh, well, you should have said. I would have laid one on for you.

SAM YAO: Oh, all the constellations. Never seen them so clearly before. Mum used to point them out to me. There's Orion. There's Cassio-whatsit. And there's the Big Dipper... or is it the Plough? Are they the same thing?

PETER LYNNE: And look over there, it's the Hurry Up Man, tapping his star watch.

[distant scream]

FRANCES DEMPSEY: We should definitely hurry up. What was that?

JANINE DE LUCA: A hyena.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Oh. Are they very dangerous?

JANINE DE LUCA: In numbers, yes. Provided we leave the area before the pack answers its summons, we'll be fine. Come on. The coordinates aren't far, but progress is slow. We must run as best we can.

~

JANINE DE LUCA: Are you absolutely sure these are the coordinates?

SAM YAO: Janine, Frances ran Dearg for four years. She can probably read a compass.

JANINE DE LUCA: I... Yes, quite. I'm sorry, Miss Dempsey. I'm merely concerned that the mission be a success. Your navigation has been unimpeachable. I didn't want you to accompany us here, but you haven't yet been a hindrance on our mission.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Oh, uh, thanks. I-I think.

JANINE DE LUCA: It's Mr. Boujettif who has let us down. You were right, Peter. It's hard to imagine why he would bring us out here if not for malevolent purposes. We must be on our guard.

PETER LYNNE: And it's pitch black. Never seen a sky cloud over that quickly. Cold, too. Let's get going now.

JANINE DE LUCA: I concur. We will have to abort the mission, find another way into New Agadir. Miss Dempsey, which direction back to camp? I've got rather turned around.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I uh... hang on. [flashlight rattles] Damn! Torch is on the blink.

PETER LYNNE: And we're much too far from New Agadir to see the city lights.

[distant scream]

SAM YAO: That's not a hyena. Bloody hell, must be Mohammed! Come on, he needs our help. Head for the scream, run!

~

SAM YAO: The screaming, it stopped. I hope that doesn't mean... which way was it coming from, Five?

[muffled screaming]

PETER LYNNE: There it is. See, I swear that was coming from the other direction a second ago. God, I just wish it wasn't so dark. I can't see a bloody thing.

JANINE DE LUCA: We're close to the source of the scream. I know our instincts are to render aid as swiftly as possible, but we must approach with caution. Fan out. If the threat is still present, we will surround it. [footsteps through sand, muffled nearby screaming] Almost there. Slowly, everyone. Slowly...

[FRANCES DEMPSEY stumbles in the sand and shouts]

SAM YAO: Frances, you all right? Five, can you see her?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I'm okay, Sam. Just tripped over something. [muffled screaming] I... Oh God, the screaming's coming from underneath the sand. It must be Mohammed!

SAM YAO: Dig! Everyone dig! [sand shifts] It's definitely a person. Crap, they feel cold.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: [flashlight rattles and clicks on] Torch is back on.

[flashlight clicks off]

PETER LYNNE: And off again.

JANINE DE LUCA: I found his head. Frances, shine the light by my feet.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Ah, hang on. [flashlight rattles and clicks on] There.

[very nearby scream]

SAM YAO: That's not Mohammed, it's a really decayed zombie. A screaming really decayed zombie. Run! Everybody run!

~

[zombie screams]

PETER LYNNE: Okay, so running screaming from a zombie, yeah, used to it. Old hand. Running from a screaming zombie, that's new. Oh, and it's so dark, I can't see my own hands. Does anyone know where we're going?

JANINE DE LUCA: Our only objective is to lose our pursuer. We shall just have to do without light.

SAM YAO: What kind of zombie is that, anyway? Why is it screaming?

PETER LYNNE: [laughs] Maybe it looked in the mirror. Tends to do it for me.

JANINE DE LUCA: We've not encountered this variation before and should not engage until we learn more about it. Our cure might well prove ineffective against its bite. Keep running!

[zombies scream]

SAM YAO: Oh, to our left, there's another one. There's loads! Oh crap, they've got us surrounded. Hey! Ooh, maybe if we scream, they'll think we're zombies, too.

JANINE DE LUCA: I don't think that will prove effective, Mr. Yao. No doubt they're adept at distinguishing predator from prey. Listen, to the right. The quality of the sound is different, reverberant. A ravine, perhaps. Can you hear that?

PETER LYNNE: Well, I'm not a bat, so no. Uh, not that... I mean, I'm not saying you're a bat, Janine, obviously. Um, just only in terms of the exceptional, impressive hearing. [laughs] And of course, the leathery wings. I mean... Right. Uh, sorry.

JANINE DE LUCA: I suspect my improved hearing is an effect of the nanites. However, you've hit upon the crux of my plan, Peter. It's only an educated guess, but that will have to do. I'll lead you through the gap in the screams and into the ravine. With me, run!

~

[zombies scream]

JANINE DE LUCA: Yes, it is a ravine. I've found the wall. A river must have run through here long ago.

SAM YAO: Ah, yeah. Would that be attrition, do you think? Or abrasion. Um, what's the other one? Hydraulic something. And that's all I can remember from A-level geography. Except lateral moraines. What even are they?

JANINE DE LUCA: Mr. Yao.

SAM YAO: Sorry.

PETER LYNNE: Haven't we sort of... trapped ourselves? Uh, you don't know what's at the end of the ravine, or if there even is an end. Just sort of wondering, what are we doing?

JANINE DE LUCA: I suspect the zombies are using echolocation to hunt. The screams bounce off our bodies and alert other zombies in the area to our location.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Ah, I see. So if the echoes are pinging around the ravine, that'd sort of baffle them. That's clever, Janine.

JANINE DE LUCA: The zombies are entering the mouth of the ravine. Listen.

SAM YAO: Ugh, that's horrifying. Is it working?

JANINE DE LUCA: We'll have to trust that it is, but even if they can't pinpoint our location, they will stumble into us eventually. We must push deeper into the ravine. Peter, take the vanguard. Runner Five, draw your sidearm, protect our rear. Run!

~

[zombies scream]

JANINE DE LUCA: We seem to be losing the screaming zombies. Keep moving through the ravine until we can no longer hear them and then we will try to find a way... Peter, stop!

PETER LYNNE: What? Oh! Ah. Oh. The massive hole in front of me. Um, did you hear the hole, Janine, by any chance?

SAM YAO: Oh, I wonder how deep that... [pebbles clatter into hole and echo in the depths] Very deep.

PETER LYNNE: And the zombies are very close. This isn't good.

JANINE DE LUCA: Runner Five, ready your weapon. [gun clicks] I estimate ten hostiles. It's far too dark to aim. Spread your shots. Fire!

[gunshots]

SAM YAO: Five’s out.

[gun clicks]

JANINE DE LUCA: My weapon is jammed. The zombies are upon us. I... I don't have a plan!

[rifle shots, zombies splatter and stop screaming]

PETER LYNNE: Right, someone's shooting with a rifle. The zombies are down. What is happening?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Up here, can you see me? The skies have cleared, to give the heavens a better view of your heroics, no doubt. Wait there, I'm coming down.

SAM YAO: Well, good thing I activated my Mysterious Stranger perk.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: What's the saying? “A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet.” Well, now we've met.

PETER LYNNE: There's another saying! “A friend is someone who doesn't lure you into a dark ravine filled with screaming undead!” ... It tends to be quite situational!

JANINE DE LUCA: Mr. Lynne is right. You have put us in danger, mortal danger. I assume you are Mohammed Boujettif?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Yes, and I'm sorry, truly. Screamers don't usually hunt here this time of year. I myself was forced to flee our rendezvous coordinates.

PETER LYNNE: But why bring us out here in the first place?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Unfortunately, I'm currently persona non grata in New Agadir. I'm being followed by certain agents. Should we be seen together, you'll become known associates, never to be admitted under any circumstances. If I'm to assist you in entering the city, I'm afraid you'll first have to help resolve the misunderstanding that led to my exile. And I see you are more than up to the task. So quick to figure out the screamer's hunting technique. And look, to the west! A shooting star. The heavens approve.

JANINE DE LUCA: The heavens are indifferent to our activities, but beautiful. Quite beautiful. We will help you, Mr. Boujettif.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: And I will help you. Your prime minister explain the severity of the situation when she contacted me. I would love to know how she came to discover so much about me. An intriguing woman. But she informed me that without your intervention, a malignant fungal entity might swallow my country as it so nearly did yours. So I will help you to assume the identities of this band of assassins and to establish contact with those inside Red Scorpion base. Together, we will penetrate the impregnable fortress, you have my word. And please, call me Mo.

~

[ronmanmob]

Parents: Uncles Ron and Reggie

Otp parents meme:

Ronnie and Reggie as Uncles

Now this...This is a curious, curious venture. Ronnie and Reggie are, depending on the verses we’re talking about, uncles variously - by which I mean, to both each other’s children and to their brother Charlie’s boy Gary. I’ll give each circumstance a bit of a chew in turn, shall I? Yes. Lets. Onwards!

Gary Kray

Little Gary, Charlie’s boy, is doted on by his identical (give or take) uncles, but is cared for more in this here meme’s terms - science fairs, wake ups, parenting things - by his mama and his papa than he is by Ron and Reg. Provided they weren’t working, either would take up the slack if needed - especially if slack came in the form of a bit of roughhousing/boxing to wear the little lad out before going home time. But no matter the need, if they were about to render aid either of the twin brothers Kray would scoop Gary up and make sure he was looked after all he needed to be. I can’t speak to how Reggie might entertain the little mite, but Ronnie-- Here’s a list. 1) Boxing practice (naturally); 2) Helping out round The Sole Trader; 3) Playing with his cousins (Ronnie’s children, verse allowing); 4) Discovering new bands/sorts of music (Metallica didn’t go down well with Gary’s mum, but it’s an essential part, Ron maintains, of any young lad’s musical education). 5) Long dog walks with The Pack 6) Card games 7) Homework-time (maths is a special favourite as Ron is a dab hand at the more basic bits and Gary, being only little, doesn’t need the complex bits yet)

The list goes on :) 

Each other’s littlens

As to being uncles to each other’s children, again, the memey-whatsit doesn’t quite fit our twins Kray. Much of the parenting bits are seen to by the respective sets of parents and Ron--

Hm.

Ronnie has a very...specific way of seeing Reggie’s little lad RJ. Being that they, he and Reg, are identical twins, to Ron’s mind RJ is as much his son as he is Reggie’s. He has a different mum to Ron’s own brood, of course - gosh bless Frances - but beyond that RJ, to Ron, is his; so much to that he will say, if asked, that he has six children as opposed to the five he and his wife Monica (@hislittledxll) have together. This feeling is only deepened when RJ ends up spending extended periods of time under Ron and Moni’s roof as his parents - RJ’s - try and work out the kinks in their too volatile to have a littlen around when they’re raging relationship. We can therefore, meme-wise, posit that the same responses that apply to Ron and Moni about their biological babies apply to RJ to. You can find those here.

This thought on parentage though is not something that goes both ways. Ron does not think that Reggie has the same claim on his children as he does on RJ, and since Reggie doesn’t think in these terms regardless the issue is never raised. He, Reggie, is Uncle Reg to them just like he is to Charlie’s Gary, and would chip in if asked at any point in time at all; work permitting. 

To date, interestingly, he’s not been asked.

[conniecorleone]

sexual attraction: wow I wanna fuck that

romantic attraction: wow I wanna date that

sensual attraction: wow I wanna cuddle that

aesthetic attraction: wow that exists

[hadriandemara-ffxiv]

Voice Reference: Hadrian!

Bold what applies to your muse, italicize situational ones. Feel free to add your own suggestions and carry it on.

► ACCENT “country” │ “backwoods” │ “sailor” │ “noble” │ foreign speaker | “The Queen’s English”  │  “Manchester Coalfield”

► ELOQUENCE educated (at times, depending on the subject and his sobriety) │ uneducated (at other times; see previous) │ doesn’t use conjunctions │ shortens words │ just makes up their own words (when he gets stuck in between two, especially!) │ old English │ Buffy-Speak (it’s.. y’know... a sort o’... big languagey-thing, soundslike. With the whatsit.)

► TONE loud │ soft │ room volume │ high pitched │ low pitched │seductive │velvety │ speech impediment │ abrasive │ gruff │ shrill │ booming │ matter-of-fact │ toneless │ husky │ gravelly │ breathy │ nasal │ barking │ chatty │ condescending │ musical │suave │ world-weary (after a few dozen drinks) │ brash │ authoritative │ lisp

► HABITS refers to self in third person plurals │ incorporates different languages / terms / sayings │ uses gender-specific terms (guns and magitek armor are always ‘she/her’) │ adapts to audience │ changes pitch around animals or children │ shifts tone when lying │ gives others nicknames │ uses terms of respect towards others │ pauses in mid-sentence to work out the, uh... whass’called. the right word, and that. │ incorporates colorful descriptors / analogies

► VOICE REFERENCE

Christopher Eccleston is the closest I’ve been able to find so far! Here’s his 47-second grumble on littering, which is something Hadrian would absolutely be disgruntledly against. It’ll give you the basic idea!

- - 

Stole it from @kyrie-silverwings​​ since I saw they’d posted about it recently! Let’s taaaag... @chanaihimaa​​ @ren-roelanberry​​ @thevoilinauttheory​​ @rostiksvenach​​ @cedric-hunt​​ @luck-and-larceny​​ @xaelic-voidknight​​ @the-stoked-flame​​ @yuki-yukichan​​ @shiftyarchfey​​ @mathemagiks​ and you!

[thelastspeecher]

I can’t think of a good title, so I’m not gonna give this a title.

A little while ago, I got in a major mood for my Stay-at-Home Stan AU (my AU where Stan becomes a stay-at-home dad), to the point that I wanted to write a thing for it, but couldn’t think of one.  Luckily, @bluestuffeh came up with a premise.  So, here’s Stan, the legendary stay-at-home dad, helping Ford, the legendary mess, with a parenting problem.

Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————

              Stan strolled into the house, whistling.  He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door.

              Well, this is what life is gonna be like when the girls finally start school.  His hands on his hips, he looked around the living room.  Danny and Daisy had just been dropped off at some summer program being thrown by the local library.  They were finally old enough to do the activities alone, so Stan was trying to get used to spending the day at home on his own.  After all, they would be starting kindergarten in the fall.

              “What am I supposed to do?” Stan muttered to himself.

              It’s been so long since I did something other than take care of them. I forgot what I can do with free time.  Stan frowned thoughtfully.  Hobbies are a thing, right?  I haven’t been able to have hobbies for five years.  What did I like before I became a dad?  I know there was at least one thing.

              “You could always do some cleaning,” Angie’s voice said in the back of Stan’s mind.  Stan thought on that for a moment.

              Nah.  Trying to remember what hobbies I have is better.  Before Stan could spend any more time thinking, the phone rang.  He sighed in relief.  Good.  Coming up with hobbies sucks.  He walked over to the phone.

              “McGucket residence,” he said, picking up the phone.  “Stan speaking.”

              “Stanley, good, I- I need your help,” Ford’s voice said desperately. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

              “What did you do this time?”

              “Nothing!”

              “Really?  The last two times you needed my help, it was ‘cause ya made a deal with a demon or weren’t observing proper lab safety.”

              “I disagree with Angie’s assessment of my behavior in the lab.”

              “She’s got a PhD, too, Ford.  And I trust her a bit more with science, since she’s never grown wings.”

              “Despite you calling her your angel,” Ford muttered.  Stan flushed.  During his last visit, Ford had overheard Stan trying out new pet names for Angie.  And he refused to let Stan live it down.

              “All right, guess ya don’t need my help, then,” Stan said briskly.

              “No, wait!  I- I really do,” Ford said quickly.  “But it’s not because of something affecting me.  It’s Tate.”  That got Stan’s attention.  He straightened.

              “Did another supernatural whatsit try to adopt him?” he asked.

              “No, he’s sick.”

              “Okay.  What’s he sick with?”

              “He claims it’s the flu, but his symptoms don’t align with influenza.” Ford’s panic was evident in his voice. Stan could picture Ford running his hands through his hair, practically pulling it out in distress.  “He also says he’s had it before!  Stanley, what’s-”

              “Geez, Sixer, calm down,” Stan said, exasperated.  “Kids get sick all the time.  Don’t you remember how often we puked our guts up when we were Tate’s age?”

              “Um.  Yes?”

              “Look, it’s probably nothing.  Just ask Fidds what to do.”

              “He’s not here.”

              “Where is he?”

              “A conference.”  Ford’s voice rose in pitch.  “Stanley, it’s the first time I’ve been left in charge of Tate on my own!”

              “Really?” Stan asked.  “He’s lived in Gravity Falls with you and Fidds for a year.”  Ford spluttered for a few moments.

              “I- his ex-step-mother doesn’t have much faith in my childcare abilities, and she still has partial custody of him, so legally she has a say in who watches him.”

              “Right.”  Stan rubbed his forehead.  “Jenny still hates your guts, huh?”

              “Unfortunately, yes.  Stanley, I don’t know what to do, what if Tate’s seriously ill?  He’s clearly delirious if he’s claiming he has influenza and he’s vomiting,” Ford said in a rush.  Stan raised an eyebrow.

              “He’s puking?”

              “Yes!  I know we vomited as children, but-”

              “Ford.  He doesn’t have the actual flu.”

              “Of course not, his symptoms-”

              “He’s got stomach flu.”

              “…What?” Ford asked, dumbfounded.  Stan leaned against the wall, playing with the phone cord.

              “Stomach flu.  The girls had it last year.  I’ve seen some messes, but twin toddlers exploding from both ends?  Might have been the worst.”

              “What’s a stomach flu?”

              “You-”  Stan kneaded his forehead.  “How do you not know what the stomach flu is?  You’ve got a doctorate!”

              “Not in medicine!”

              “Yeah, but-” Stan huffed.  “You’re falling into that trap of having so much education you forgot the basics.”

              “Pardon?”

              “Angie does it sometimes.  She says that because she’s learned so much in her specialty, she sometimes forgets the things people first learn.”  Stan adjusted his position.  “Anyways, stomach flu is called…I forget the science word for it.  It’s not the actual flu, it’s an infection of your digestive tract. Or something like that.”  Stan frowned.  “Uh, the girls had…I think it’s called a rotavirus.  Most adults aren’t very vulnerable to it, but kids get them a lot. Could be what Tate has.  If it is, all ya gotta do is manage his symptoms and wait for him to get better on his own.”  Ford was silent for a moment.

              “How do you know so much about this?” he asked quietly.

              “Whenever anyone in her family gets sick, Angie goes nuts researching the illness.”  Stan sighed. “It always makes her more paranoid, so I don’t really like it.”

              “Why do you let her do it?”

              “I can’t ‘let’ my wife do anything, Stanford.”  Stan stretched.  “It’s not super harmful for her to do, so I just complain a bit.  She usually backs off once she realizes what she’s doing.  Anyways, when the girls got their stomach bug, she rattled off all sortsa stuff about it. Even while she was sleeping.”

              “She’s a sleeptalker?”

              “Yeah.”  Stan grinned. “It’s somethin’ else when someone who’s dead asleep is giving you a science lecture.”

              “Hmm.”  Ford cleared his throat.  “So, this is likely a viral intestinal infection?”

              “Probably.”

              “So there’s no reason for me to take him to the emergency room?”

              “Sweet Moses, Ford, no!  Don’t do that!” Stan yelped.

              “Wh-”

              “You’ll just run up a bill and the docs ‘ll send ya away with Pepto-Bismol. Not to mention, shit sometimes goes down at ERs.  Just keep him home and make sure he drinks plenty of fluids.  Make him soup, give him juice and water.  Has he had the Hershey squirts yet?” Stan asked.  Ford let out a long-suffering sigh.

              “No, Tate has not had any diarrhea.”

              “He probably will.  Be prepared for that.”

              “Great,” Ford mumbled.  “…Thank you, Stanley.”

              “No problem, Sixer.”  Stan chewed on his lip.  “Next time-”

              “Next time?!”

              “Ford, I literally told you five minutes ago that kids get sick all the time. Kids are germ factories that play with other germ factories and don’t know not to eat dirt.”

              “I knew not to eat dirt,” Ford muttered.

              “Well, not all kids do.  Tate’s gonna get sick again.  And again. And again.  Part of being a parent is dealing with that.  Calmly.  You can’t act like the world’s ending every time Tate pukes.  Take it in stride.  Give him some 7-Up and crackers, let him lay down and watch TV, and just keep an eye on him. Nine times outta ten, kids puke once and then they’re fine.”

              “What if Tate gets worse?”

              “Then you take him to see the doc.  But you don’t make a big deal outta it.  Kids pick up on how grownups act.  If a grownup is panicking, kids are gonna panic, too.  Even if you wanna scream, you keep it to yourself.”  Ford was silent.

              “I feel I’ve become a fool, Stanley,” he said after a moment.

              “Nah.  You’re just a first-time parent.  You think I was this good at being a dad when I started out?  No!  I freaked out all the time!  You get used to it.  And if you feel like you’re doing something wrong, you can always call me.  The girls are doing a thing at the library all summer, so I’m home alone during the day.”  Stan grinned.  “I kinda like telling my genius brother things he didn’t know, anyways.”

              “Ha ha, very funny,” Ford said.  Stan could hear the eye roll in Ford’s voice.  “I…I really do appreciate that, though.  Fiddleford will be gone for a few more days.  I’ve prepared as best as I can, but-”

              “Kids torpedo all your plans,” Stan said, nodding.

              “Yes.”

              “Now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you should probably go check on Tate. Make sure you set him up near a bathroom and make him some soup.  Tate likes the canned cream of chicken.”

              “I believe we have some of that in the kitchen.”

              “Warm it up for him, then.  And get off the phone.  I’ll help you with big things, but I’m not gonna hold your hand for this part.  You know how to take care of a stomach bug.”

              “…Yes, I do.”  Ford chuckled softly.  “Suddenly, I can recall all of the times we became sick with clarity.”

              “Yep.  Panicking makes you ignore things sometimes.”

              “You are correct.”  Ford took a breath.  “Thank you, again.”

              “No problem.  Go take care of your kid.”

              “I will.  Goodbye.”

              “Bye.”  Stan hung up the phone.  He looked up at the ceiling blankly for a few minutes, wistfully remembering some of Danny and Daisy’s firsts.  After a while, he broke free of the memories.  He was glad to have had those moments with his daughters, but he was also glad they were in the past.  Panicked phone calls to Angie’s parents weren’t something he missed.  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

              “So…what hobbies do dads have?”

[belphegor1982]

I'm just imagining a cross-over of two of your interests - Bertie Wooster hanging out with Jonathan Carnahan. I think they would get along well!

:3 

(BERTIE AND THE CARNAHAN SIBS WOULD BE BUDS. More on that later.)

I’d heard of Jeeves and Wooster a bit but never really got into it until last summer, when I basically fell in love with Bertie Wooster, and since The Mummy is one of those few fandoms that’s always in the back of my mind just waiting for an excuse for me to fall back in, I realised at some point that the characters of both fandoms are pretty close in age, or at least the same generation. (And then TM/TMR took over my brain and I put Wodehouse aside for a while.) Evelyn must be about 25 in the first film; there’s 8 years between Rachel Weisz and John Hannah, and she’s two years younger than Brendan Fraser, so in my head the characters’ ages in the first film go thus: Evy, 25; Rick, 27; Jon, 31 (because a 5/6 years’ difference is more fun to play with than 8 years). Which would make Bertie exactly Rick’s age and (again, in my head), Jeeves 6 years older than Bertie.

I was just throwing ideas together and summing up what might come out as vignettes one day in different characters’ points of view, but it got long, so I’m putting it under a cut ^^’ It’s mostly headcanon stuff, anyway.

So. The Carnahans are a moderately respectable family, even if a lot of the upper crust turned their backs on John Carnahan once he married Salwa al-Masri, and Jonathan and Evelyn (respectively 13 and 7) are deemed suitable playmates for 9 year old Bertie Wooster. Bertie is a little baffled by the tiny force of nature that is Evelyn Carnahan, who despite being a tiny slip of a girl with lots of curly hair walks with purpose and self-confidence. (And she can read almost better than he does.) They have themselves a little adventure, and the sibs conclude that Bertie Wooster is a good fellow. As for Bertie, he’s also looking forward to further lessons in picking locks, climbing down drainpipes, and other exciting endeavours Jonathan seems to know a lot about.

At some point he hears Aunt Agatha make… derogatory comments about the siblings and especially their mother, who is a very nice lady, and resolves to keep being friends, because aunts can in fact be wrong, no matter how scary they are.

When Bertie’s parents die, the siblings find a muted sunshine beam that doesn’t look like their Bertie. Jonathan sets out to cheer him up with Shenanigans, and before they know it all three have taken a tumble into the duck pond of Brinkley Court. It’s a warm summer, so they lie on the grass and wait for their clothes to dry, and Evy talks about Duat and the Weighing of Souls while the boys listen. It sounds beautiful and terrible and probably shouldn’t make Bertie feel better, but it does, a bit. Aunt Dahlia is a little horrified at the state of their clothes, though.

Bertie attends Eton, with Jonathan a few years above him, so they don’t actually see much of each other at school. When the war rolls in, Jonathan doesn’t enlist right away (he tries to finish his degree first - and fails) and so spends almost two years (early 1917 to late 1918) on the Western Front. Bertie, as expected of a young man of his class and education, joins up as soon as he turns 18, but just before he’s deployed he’s hit by the Spanish Flu and spends the last months of the war recuperating and stationed in the South of England. He and the Carnahans write to each other as regularly as they can.

When Evy’s and Jonathan’s parents die in a plane crash, they receive a long letter from Bertie. A lot of words are crossed out and corrected, and it’s meandering and sometimes a little nonsensical, but unlike most letters of condolences they received so far it was plainly written by someone who is 1) kind to the very core of his being, and 2) intimately familiar with that kind of grief.

At some point, Aunt Dahlia reasons that since Bertie and the Carnahan girl get along so well, she might make a fine match, and she tries to push them together. Bertie is awkward and low-key terrified, Evy is nerdy and nervous and absolutely unwilling to seriously consider marrying anyone. She ends up swearing solemnly that she’ll never marry Bertie, which he is considerably relieved about, and they part as friends before she and Jonathan leave for Egypt.

But where is Jeeves, you may ask? Well, he enters the picture just after the above paragraph. Which means that one day, a few months after the events of TM, Bertie tells Jeeves about this childhood friend of his who just got married to an American fellow and will be coming for tea to introduce him to Bertie, along with her brother, simply spiffing people, really, can’t wait for you to meet them, old thing.

…Jeeves is not impressed. Mrs O’Connell seems agreeable enough, prim and proper and quite an authority in her field, but her husband’s tie is a little too loose and it’s clear he has no idea how to wear a suit properly. As for her brother, he’s a foppish cad who makes Jeeves itch to count the silver spoons the second he walks out the door. 

Evy, recognising a fellow scholar from unlikely background, had a splendid time talking with him and Bertie, but Rick and Jonathan think Jeeves is stuffy and snobbish.

I think they’re all going to have a little adventure together, possibly with a slight supernatural twist, which will make everyone reconsider bad first impressions:

• From Jeeves’ perspective, Mr O’Connell clearly has more common sense than most of Mr Wooster’s friends and family, which is a refreshing change. As for his deplorable fashion sense (or lack thereof), allowances may be made considering the man’s history. (Though Jeeves privately thinks Mr O’Connell might benefit from having a proper gentleman’s gentleman to guide him down the path of sartorial competence.)

• Jeeves also mellows a little with regard to the Carnahan siblings, especially Jonathan (because he and Evelyn actually got on well enough). It’s transparent that both of them are genuinely fond of Mr Wooster, just as much as he is of them, and - unlike a number of his acquaintances - are just as quick to defend him and come to his rescue as they are to put him into what he calls “the soup” in the first place. 

• It’s also what endears Jeeves to Evy and Jonathan, actually: the lengths this frightfully intelligent man is willing to go to protect the young master and make his life pleasant. They’re both familiar with the concept of service in a way Rick isn’t, and they recognise how Jeeves excels at his job.

• Plus (personal headcanon here) Jonathan, not being adverse to putting the occasional toe - or foot - or his entire person - out of what is legal for two chaps to do together, didn’t miss the way Bertie’s eyes shine when Jeeves is in sight like he’s never seen them shine, how enthusiastic his descriptions of Jeeves’ brilliance, how he’s splendid and grand and a paragon and such a perfect gentleman’s gentleman. Whether Jeeves returns the sentiment, Jonathan has no idea, but he hopes so. Call him sentimental.

• (Rick also noticed, and he’s fairly sure Jeeves does return the sentiment. Not because he knows Bertie, or Jeeves for that matter, but because he saw enough of the world to know what love looks like. He doesn’t say anything, though, because it’s none of his damn business.)

So that’s it for the mo’! I wrote about 800 words of the first vignette, from Bertie’s PoV, before my mind focused on TM and its characters almost exclusively and I lost what little of Wodehouse style I had. Here’s the first paragraph, for anyone still reading this :o)

I don’t know what it is about getting on in years, but I find as they pass that one tends to look back on one’s childhood days with a somewhat fonder eye than one experienced while actually living them. St Whatsit’s summer, halcyon days, as the Bard wrote. Not that I have reached the point my nieces, if ever they should set foot in old Blighty again, might start calling me “aged relative”, as I am sometimes wont to greet my dear old aunt Dahlia with, but some of the misadventures of my mildly misspent youth do seem a lot funnier now than they did at the time. I suppose it’s the same for any and all misadventures, really, since faithful readers might recall that some of the more recent situations this Wooster found himself in are far more ridiculous than letting oneself be trussed up and mock-mummified.

Promising, what? :D Hope I can make something of it.

Thank you for giving me an excuse to be ridiculously wordy ♥

[conniecorleone]

word 2016 has it in the design section, fyi, in the upper right-hand corner of the tools ribbon

A quick tip for writers out there, who use Microsoft Words:

Change the background colour of the pages to a mint green shade.

It is said that green is a calming colour, however, the main reason why I like this, is because I can write for a much longer period of time now, as a white background I used before made my eyes dry and exhausted after just a few hours of working.

It is basically much more soft and careful to the eyes. I can’t precisely explain why that is. I think it’s that by making a pinch softer contrast of the text and the background, your eyes does not get exposed to as much light.

Just make sure to not make the background too dark, or else your eyes will get exhausted do to over-fixating the lack of contrast between text and background.

And maybe you find a nice pastel/light background shade that fits you; give it a try.

Different things work out and fits for different people. And I just felt like sharing this.

Here’s the shade numbers I used to get my preferred colour:

Thanks for reading.