#What is in a name?

[greatwyrmgold]

One of the titles Wildbow was considering for (the story ideas that eventually coalesced into) Worm was "The Events Leading Up to That Thursday," or TELUTT for short. "That Thursday" refers to, presumably, Gold Morning (which canonically started on a Thursday).

I don't have a point here. I just think TELUTT is just a deeply silly name. It replaces the elegance and thematic implications of Worm with a mildly intriguing but extremely vague description of the events, which is only technically accurate. Also, while TELUTT is way more Google-able than Worm, it sounds kinda silly.

[tryan-a-bex]

Tom, Dick and Harry; or, the Watsonian Explanation

Why is Destruction called Joe?

Read on ao3

“I will help.”

Joe looked up from his painting at this pronouncement from his brother, Dream. Usually Dream was happy enough to sit and talk while Hob cooked, but today it seemed he desired more active participation. Shaking his head, Joe glowered at his current painting, hoping the coming kitchen shenanigans wouldn’t make it harder to focus than it already was. Something was off, maybe just there… Shaking his head again, he dabbed his brush on his palette.

“Ah! Oh! What is that?! My eyes! My eyes are stinging!” With a clatter, Dream threw down his knife and ran for the bathroom to wash his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You didn’t warn him?” Joe glanced askance at Hob, who was looking after Dream in mild concern.

“You know Dream!” Hob chuckled. “He was sure he would be the only one in history immune to onions.” Shaking his head, he turned back to the counter.

“Gotta get these all in quick now,” he mumbled, as Joe returned to his painting. Ah, yes, maybe that would do it…

Joe was vaguely aware of Dream drifting back into the kitchen, as Hob scraped one pile of cut veggies into the wok and turned to the counter for the next.

“Dream! Fuck!” At the yell, Joe glanced up, seeing the unexpected tableau of Hob holding a large kitchen knife to Dream’s gut.

“Behind! If you’re coming up behind someone who’s working in a kitchen, any kitchen, you say ‘Behind!’ so they don’t accidentally stab or burn you!”

“I’m sorry!” Dream raised his hands as Hob huffed and darted around him for the next pile of chopped veggies.

“Maybe you should just go for a walk, mate,” Joe suggested. Between the onions, the knife, and the scolding, Dream looked like he was finished in the kitchen.

“Oh, it’s okay, love, you can stay,” Hob countered, stirring the veggies with one hand as he reached for sauce ingredients with the other.

“I could use some fresh air,” Dream lowered his hands, and Joe glanced up again, amazed that his brother was in tune enough with his own emotional state to know when he needed a bit of space to calm down. Hob really was good for him.

“Be back soon, duck, the food will be ready in 20 minutes.”

“Yes.” Looking warily at Hob’s hands and feet for signs of sudden movement, Dream leaned in for a quick kiss and then headed out the door.

“I found a place.”

Dream came in the door just as Joe was setting the table and Hob was bringing the food over. If it had been anyone but his brother, Joe thought he might have heard excitement in his voice.

“Lovely! What did you find?” Hob asked, pulling Dream’s chair out.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I will show you, rather than tell you. After dinner.” Dream sat, gazing up at Hob with that sappy look that Joe usually found so cute but was, once in a while, totally annoying. (Today it was cute. He was glad the knife scene earlier hadn’t hurt their relationship at all, not even with the onions and the scolding.)

The dinner was delicious, as Hob’s always were. He had definitely put his immortality to good use. Joe was a decent cook too, he thought, though sometimes it felt like Hob’s compliments were a bit extravagant. They were always glad when Dream took them out to eat on his nights.

After cleaning up, which Dream had a bit more practice helping with, Hob smiled inquiringly at Dream.

“Well, love, are you ready to show us your new place now?”

“Yes,” Dream confirmed. “But, I want it to be a surprise for you. Will you wear a blindfold?”

This was an interesting development, Joe thought. He wondered how much Hob trusted his brother. He knew he would hesitate before putting himself in Dream’s hands quite that entirely. Not that he thought Dream meant him harm, or even mischief. Just that he was a little… spacey sometimes. Like with the onions. And the knife.

“Of course,” Hob gazed up at him tenderly, and took his arm as they adjourned to the bedroom to search for some appropriate piece of material. Joe shook his head, and took the brushes he had been soaking to the bathroom sink for a good rinse. Should be just enough time before the two lovebirds were ready to go, and it didn’t look like he’d be painting any more today.

Finished with the brushes, he donned his jacket and shoes just in time for Dream and Hob to come out of their bedroom, jackets on and some length of something in Dream’s hand.

“We will walk to the corner first. You will hold Hob’s other elbow.” Joe nodded in agreement, glad that Hob had negotiated for a bit of extra security. It wasn’t every day, anymore, that Dream walked into lamp posts because he wasn’t paying attention, but, well. It had happened. More than once.

At the corner, they stopped for Dream to put the blindfold on Hob, and then Joe and Dream took his elbows and they continued on. As they rounded the corner, Joe spotted a pub, about halfway down, called the Black Horse. Ah, yes, that looked like his brother’s type of watering hole. Hadn’t he met Hob in a place like this? That would explain the excitement, and the anticipation for Hob’s reaction that had led to the blindfold rigmarole.

They entered the pub, Joe making sure Hob didn’t get banged on the doorway, and Dream making sure they were placed at just the right spot for maximum impact when they took the blindfold off. With a flourish, Dream removed the fabric, and Hob’s face lit up with a gratifying degree of wonder.

“It’s just like the White Horse! Oh, how clever of you!” he exclaimed. Dream blushed, as Joe thought wryly that it wasn’t particularly a clever thing to have done. But it seemed to have paid off, as Hob and Dream were about drowning in each other’s eyes.

I’ll just get myself a drink, Joe decided, giving up on anything reasonable coming from the lovebirds. There was a nice looking whiskey on the top shelf, and he pointed at it as the barkeep approached.

“I’ll have some of that.”

“Sure thing, Dick,” answered the barkeep. Joe, so taken aback at the casual insult that he took an actual step back, managed to crash into Dream.

“Behind,” Dream said, in his very driest tone.

“The same, on the rocks for me,” Hob requested, not having heard the barkeep’s response to Joe.

“That’s a twenty year old whiskey, Harry, you can’t have that on the rocks,” protested the barkeep. Hob confusedly placed his hand on his chest, where Joe noticed a couple more buttons were undone than earlier. Dream slid between them and put his arm around Hob’s shoulder, dangling his hand into the same little patch of hair that was showing between the open buttons.

“And what for you, Tom?” the barkeep continued, looking at Dream.

“My name is not Tom,” Dream stated, frowning at him mildly.

“Ach!” the barkeep exclaimed, “if I tried to keep everyone’s name straight in here I’d forget how to pour drinks!” He set the shot glasses in front of them and reached for the whiskey bottle. “Every Tom, Dick and Harry who comes in here is Tom, Dick and Harry to me. That last guy was Tom,” nodding at a table across the pub, “so that makes you Dick,” pouring for Joe, “you, Harry,” pouring for Hob, “and you Tom again,” pouring for Dream. “Hope you wanted whiskey too,” he added, with a look that seemed to warn Dream not to not want whiskey.

Joe relaxed, suddenly realizing the perceived insult that so surprised him hadn’t been intended at all. He raised his glass to the boys, chuckling internally as Hob removed his self-conscious hand from his chest and Dream settled his in there a bit further.

“Well, Brother, I guess that means you’re Not Tom, same as I’m Not Joe, eh?”

Dream raised his glass and clinked it against Joe’s, shrugging.

“I guess so, Brother.”

“Well, then, Tom,” Hob said with a smirk, raising his glass, “let’s get this celebration started!”

Next

After notes:

The Doylesian explanation is of course Tom Sturridge.

The kitchen scene and lamp post troubles were inspired by this post by @softest-punk

Thank you to @greebledrat (discord) and AnneMcSommers (ao3) for beta reading

[nightshift-clocking-in]

Does anyone else struggle to name their fics? Write 100k? Sure, no problem. Name it? Oooooo I don’t know about that bud 😬

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!

[tuttle-did-it]

David Tennant for Prime Minister, please.

edit- Since this is getting so much attention, edited to include descriptions of screenshots.

This woman has lost her fucking mind.

Jo, are you okay?

[ayy-junipei]

Fears

[willgrahamscock]

the bond between mutuals who only share one or two fandoms is stronger than an entire fandom combined… I do not know what you are blogging about but you are right, pip-pip and bing-bong are homosexuals who crave blood and understanding and I will heart that in support

[sing-you-fools]

me: this is a background character who's in one scene, has two lines, and is completely irrelevant to the rest of the story. i am going to stop obsessing over what to name him and use the random name generator on behindthename.com. i am going to accept the first thing it gives me and move the fuck on.

behindthename.com:

[hinamie]

mentor

[nocek]

And we all should be jelly.

(at least Miguel is so maybe they are closer to that dumb triangle than Wade thought XD)

[greatwyrmgold]

Oh my fucking god. The reason I keep getting these stupid questions wrong is that the Retail Inventory Method (sometimes just called the Retail Method) and the Conventional Retail Method (of estimating inventory) are, in fact, different methods of estimating inventory.

Not by much; the conventional retail method excludes net markdowns from one part of the equation, and is otherwise identical to the retail inventory method. This makes it worse. It would have been much easier to understand if the Conventional Retail Method was completely different than the Retail Inventory Method—ideally something not involving inventory at all. But it's not. They're a fraction of a percent off, but that's enough to flunk a test or create expensive errors.

Scientists get so much undeserved crap for their naming conventions, which tend to be either bizarre or boring with little middle ground. Accountants are so much worse, and you never hear anyone complain about it. You should! It's terrible!

[cryptocism]

that half-blank, half-apocalyptic look

"i can b ur angle or yuor devil" etc etc "get a man who can do both" etc etc

obsessed with this vamp i think he should get to do whatever he wants forever

[wolxoltl]

Time really is a flat circle.

[papillon-de-porcelaine]

First meeting.

(You guys should really watch Dead Boy Detectives on Netflix. It's really good (and really queer))

[stil-lindigo]

hobie motherfuckin' brown!!!!!!

[let-them-fight]

can we stop doing this trope