#i was trying to keep an open mind and not automatically be like 'waaah they changed things!' as i know people are prone to do with remakes

[fairytalesandfandoms]

not the meme!

or, I watched The Wicker Man (2006) and lived to tell the tale

(a combination of actual criticisms and the usual piss-taking, because come on, have you SEEN this film? On second thought, if the answer's no, then don't)

I'd already read @forthegothicheroine's thoughts on the film and I would like to add my resounding agreement

Despite having A LOT of the same/similar dialogue, it felt to me like the film was only engaging with the original on a superficial level? Rather than, you know, THE CORE THEMES. Like the conflict between two different strongly held belief systems! And sex vs repression! Which simply wasn't as pronounced in this film which made it a lot less interesting

the MINUTE Willow said she had a daughter in the letter I was like 'Bet you she's his. Because 9 times out of 10 in a movie when a guy's ex says she has a kid the kid turns out to be his.' And was I right? Yes I was.

👏 where 👏 was 👏 the 👏 midnight 👏 orgy 👏 you 👏 cowards 👏

(before anyone accuses me of wanting to see a midnight orgy, I'm using this as an example)

*shrek voice* they don't even have folk music

The costumes looked too Aesthetic(TM). Like, they looked like someone had raided all the cottagecore Etsy shops. And this was before the word 'cottagecore' was a thing. I much preferred the 1973 costumes which either looked like 1) clothes that you could imagine everyday people in the 70s would wear or 2) for the procession, like they had been made in an arts and crafts class, which is the look they SHOULD be going for imho

omg Alma Garrett hiiiiiii

Even though Nicolas Cage does not improve the film at all, I still think it would've been bad with or without him. See above point about themes

And you'll never guess what... the version that I watched... didn't even have the bee line (see what I did there)

Seriously, I had to go back and check I hadn't missed anything! After the islanders all surrounded him there was a vague voiceover of Nic Cage yelling part of that scene over shots of the procession, but no bees! I was so confused, especially since that was why I was watching the film in the first place!

I was already going to call this post 'not the meme!' for (near-)rhyming humour, but then it was LITERALLY NOT THE MEME. You couldn't make this up

I had to go and look it up on YOUTUBE for goodness sake

Anyway

Unless you're watching as part of some sort of bad movie thing, or to get the context for 'NOT THE BEES' (yes, hi) or because you want to watch films with Nicolas Cage in (ditto) I would save yourself the bother and stick with the original which is undeniably superior in every way

[staysaneathome]

Put That Thing Back Where It Came From (Or So Help Us Both)

“…aaah! Waaah!”

Martin shuts his eyes and lets his head relax further onto his pillow under it, trying to slow his breathing and will his hearing to stop working. He’s exhausted, it feels like it’ll be a matter of moments before he finally drops off to sleep—

“Waaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Martin pulls both sides of the pillow up around his face and muffles a small scream into it.

He’s just finished his night shift at the convenience store, and he only has a few hours before he needs to get up and ready for his afternoon shift at the shelter. And yeah, sure, his cheap apartment complex has extremely thin walls, but when he’d moved here his neighbor hadn’t been the kind of person who sounds like they’re torturing a small animal, so he’d figured it would be alright.

Then again, the kindly old goblin who used to live next door to him moved out not long ago, back to his clutch’s home in Amsterdam or something. And the person who’s just moved in clearly is not as considerate as their predecessor.

He lets go of the pillow, then groans when he realizes one side has gotten snagged on his horn, again.

This can’t go on, he decides as he sets about untangling himself and kicking off his blanket. He knows from experience that if he just tries to bury his head in the sand and live with it that the noises will just get worse. Better to endure the discomfort of knocking on a stranger’s door early on and ask them to keep it down so that his sleep will stay uninterrupted down the line.

Plus whatever’s wailing sounds positively heartbroken. And the animal lover in Martin has never been willing to stand idly by if someone’s making one sound like that.

He can feel that the fur on the back of his neck has gone cowlicky, and he attempts to smooth it down and shake his fringe out of his eyes as he raps smartly on his new neighbor’s door.

He can feel his shoulders hunch automatically, his customer service smile coming out. Martin knows he’s big, even for a minotaur, and he wants to put his new neighbor at ease even if he’s feeling fed up and exhausted.

There’s a soft, dry susurrus of sound behind the door, like dry leaves rasping against each other on a forest floor.

Martin can barely keep his eyes from fluttering shut when the harsh snap of locks being undone has him snapping to attention as well.

The door creaks open as the occupant shoves themself through, glaring up at him over the rims of their square glasses, eyes rich and deep. The hair falling across their forehead is velvety black, peppered with strands of grey like light shining off silk. A smart-looking button-up shirt is rolled up to their elbows and partially unbuttoned, giving Martin an unwitting glimpse of the slim, svelte form and black chest binder beneath. Below their waist, a tail of rich, deep green scales glitters in the fluorescents of the hallway, appearing to extend far into the apartment behind them.

Martin feels his breath catch.

Oh. Oh no.

This person is incredibly handsome. Almost too good-looking to really feel real, you know? Someone so far out of Martin’s league they’re not even batting in the same proverbial park. This person is in the 02 in front of millions of people, universally beloved, while Martin’s still down in a requisitioned council playing field, not even worthy of rowdy kids’ taunting. Hypothetically, he means.

Ooh, Martin’s in trouble.

“What.” Says the insanely handsome lamia in a deep, smooth, masculine voice. “Do you want.”

“I-uh.” Martin has to swallow to get his throat working, make his thick-feeling tongue form actual words. “Hi? I’m, uh, I’m Mar-Martin, Blackwood! Martin Blackwood, yes, I, um, live at the end of the corridor? Right, right next to you, actually, and-and I couldn’t help overhearing some, some noises? And normally, I wouldn’t mind but I just got off of work and I’ve another shift in a few hours, so, so I was wondering if there was anything you needed. Help? With?”

It takes a lot of willpower for him not to turn right around and brain himself on the wall behind him in response to that word salad.

The lamia scoffs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Well, Mr. Blackwood, unless you happen to have a degree in veterinary sciences, I very much doubt that you’ll be in any position to help me whatsoever.”

Martin’s about to protest that, okay, he maybe doesn’t have a degree, but he’s worked at a no-kill shelter for five years now so he could be considered more of a help in this particular field than maybe the average person.

But then he catches sight of what’s cradled in the lamia’s arms, and.

Well.

That’s certainly. A Creature.

In the impossibly pretty lamia’s arms is something small and hairless, apart from a patch of thick curls on the top of its rounded head. It’s a little bigger than a loaf of bread and the sort of color that Martin’s learned to associate with classroom furniture, the shade of brown kindly described as “neutral”.

It has four chubby legs, but its each of its forelegs end in an odd, starfish shape with five protrusions that’re eerily similar to hands, while its hind-legs end in a flatter, rectangular shape, also with five protrusions. The main body is also pretty chubby-looking, with small folds of skin forming where it twists and wriggles. For some reason it has a blue and pink garment covering its lower body.

It’s face is oddly flat, overall. There are two rounded things on either side of it’s head that Martin assumes are ears. There’s an odd dimple between its nose and its mouth, which is full of mostly flat, white teeth. It’s eyes are screwed shut and leaking what could be water, but also could be some other kind of clear and potentially toxic fluid. Whatever is coming out of its nose definitely is.

It’s whimpering like it’s contemplating starting up the racket that it had been making earlier again, but doesn’t know whether it has the strength to do so.

“What is that?” Martin can’t help breathing.

The lamia draws themself up, cuddling the creature closer with an imperious look. “This happens to be a cat, if you don’t mind.”

Martin looks at the lamia. Looks back down at the creature, whimpering unhappily in their arms.

“I’m sorry, in what world is that any sort of cat?”

The lamia’s expression mixes indignation, outrage, and a pout that Martin finds unfairly adorable. “They-they can’t help that they were born with a few, a few mutations!”

“A few?!” Martin can’t help the octaves his voice is reaching, even as it makes his ears flick. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that, if by ‘a few mutations’ you mean they’re an entirely different species!! Their ears aren’t even in the right place, they’ve got no whiskers, an-and do they even have claws?!”

The lamia hisses at him, fangs out in a threat display, but that causes the creature in their arms to let out a dangerously upset whine. They instantly are focused on it, bouncing it gently while making soft shushing noises until it settles once more.

Martin pinches the bridge of his snout.

“Look.” He sighs, weariness in his bones. “Has it. Has it eaten anything today?”

“You think I didn’t try that?!” The lamia hisses, sans fangs this time. “I, I gave them dry food when they arrived, and they ate a few pellets of that but then they wouldn’t touch it, or the wet food I opened!”

Martin privately feels the creature at least has a modicum of taste, because he wouldn’t touch what goes into most wet cat foods either.

“Maybe it’s not up to really digesting those foods yet.” He suggests. “Have you got any baby formula? Or, or milk in a pinch?”

The lamia makes a face that Martin suspects means ‘why on earth would I have either of those things’.

“But they’re not a baby.” They mutter. “I ordered an adult cat. Look how big they are!”

Martin looks. And whatever it is, it is quite large for an infant, even if its behavior puts him in mind of puppies or kittens crying fretfully for their mothers.

“Sometimes some breeds can be bigger than others. Like—like Maine Coons, you know?” He says, conveniently omitting the fact that he severely doubts any domesticated cat could get that large.

The lamia looks doubtfully at the creature.

The creature opens its eyes to stare dolefully back up at them and Martin, hiccoughing.

“Look, wait here a tick.” With that, Martin jogs back to his apartment, grabbing his keys out of the door where he left them.

He doesn’t have any formula lying around, but at the bottom of his bag he does find a feeding bottle that he rinses out with steaming water just in case. He also has fresh milk in for tea, so he grabs the carton.

He takes a moment as he locks his door behind him to desperately hope that whatever this creature is, it’s one that can digest cow milk without problem.

He returns with his bounty to where the lamia is waiting. “May I come in?”

“O-oh.” The lamia shifts, moving out of the doorway enough that Martin can shuffle through. “Ri-right, of course.”

Martin enters the apartment. It’s fairly neat all things considered, only a few boxes left unpacked and everything. The only mess is a box with several blankets spilling out of it and a vast assortment of cat paraphernalia, including one food bowl of kibble and another of water, both with a splash radius. A tin of wet cat food is going off on the counter.

Martin discretely sweeps it into the bin.

“Right, it might be a good idea to maybe give their face a wipe with a warm cloth or something? Can’t imagine having all that drying on them is very nice for the poor mite.” He holds up the milk carton and bottle. “I could warm this up on the stovetop for them if that’s alright with you?”

“Of, of course. Uh, saucepan’s, saucepan’s just in that cabinet there.” The lamia points out one of the lower cabinets as they snake over the floor towards the bathroom.

Martin bends over to get it and nearly clonks his head on the inside of the cupboard when the lamia’s voice comes, “My-my name’s Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“Oh, oh, er, nice to meet you!” He calls back, spotting a work lanyard discarded on the counter by the stovetop that bears the same name and a fancy-sounding workplace.

The lanyard also has He/Him under Jon’s name in slightly smaller font. Martin files that information away carefully as he half-fills the saucepan, places the milk temporarily in Jon’s fridge, and turns on the heat.

“So, you, ah. You placed an order for a cat?” Martin asks as he warms the milk on a low heat.

“Mm.” Jon’s voice sounds distracted over the sound of running water. “You’re being very good now, aren’t you? Just need to get under your eyes here…”

“How, um. How come you didn’t go to a shelter? There are some pretty good ones nearby…”

The resulting silence has one of Martin’s ears flicking nervously.

“…Didn’t want to run into someone I knew there.” He thinks he picks up over the water. “Besides, I spoke with a representative of the Rescue Center on the phone, and their website was very comprehensive.”

Martin tilts his head, watching the pot. “Oh? Think you could contact them again then? See if the, uh, cat has any special care needs?”

A mutter that’s too quiet for Martin to hear even as the water’s turned off is his only response.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said the number’s been disconnected.” Jon’s voice comes from directly behind him, making him jump. “And the website url keeps bringing up a page saying ‘it doesn’t exist’ or what have you, which is ridiculous, because it was just there yesterday—!”

Ah. He got scammed then.

Martin switches off the heat before the milk starts to steam, moving it to another hob to let it cool a bit before pouring it into the bottle.

Jon is behind him, the creature bundled into his arms. It’s blinking at him sleepily, sclera slightly pink. It looks…a little bit better? Martin really can’t tell.

Martin attaches the nib to the bottle, and after testing the temperature, holds it out to Jon. “Um. Do you want to…?”

The lamia’s face is briefly consumed by wild-eyed panic, before a superior expression covers it and he turns up his nose. “Not all of us are mammals, you know.”

Martin draws his hand back, mildly stung. “Hey.”

“No, I mean.” He groans, drawing a hand down his face, before peering up at Martin over his glasses. “I wish I could say I’m better when I’m more awake, but I’ve been reliably informed I’m not. I apologize. I meant that I don’t…have any experience, in this style of feeding. Is there. Is there some trick to it?”

Martin, damn him, melts despite himself. If questioned on his quick capitulation later, he’s going to blame it on sleep-deprivation. “Not, not really? If you don’t feel comfortable, I could always show you…?”

Jon and the creature almost appear to exchange glances for a moment.

Jon slides closer and, with an incredibly reluctant expression, holds the creature out. “Just. Mind you’re careful with them. They’re, they’re delicate.”

Martin takes them carefully, giving Jon a reassuring smile. He tries to pretend he’s treating one of the animals at the shelter instead of…whatever this is. “Hello, you. Are you hungry?”

The creature watches him, suspiciously.

But when he holds the bottle close to their mouth, they latch onto the nib with surprising gusto, sucking down the warm milk greedily. One of their forelegs even comes up to clumsily grasp at the bottle.

“Easy!” Martin chides, chuckling quietly. “It’s not going anywhere, duck, you can take your time.”

“I am not,” Jon objects, slithering closer. “Calling them that. It’d be ridiculous to own a cat named Duck.”

“Why not?” Martin teases, head feeling foggy with exhaustion. “S a good name, Duck. Could call them Robber instead. Robber of Sleep, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

The creature says nothing, just keeps emptying the bottle, eyes half-lidded.

“Don’t be mean.” Jon’s pouting outright now. It’s just as unfairly adorable as it was before. “…Do you want to sit down? You look…”

“Thanks,” Martin yawns agreeably, too tired to even question when Jon leads him over to a cushioned, circular structure with an odd, canopy-like overhang made of wood and a pair of quilts.

It won’t dawn on him ‘til later that this is most likely Jon’s bed.

In the moment he keeps watch as the creature gradually empties the bottle, eyes drifting slowly but surely closed as Jon pulls himself up onto the structure behind him.

“I could, ah.” He murmurs, trying to twist around to face Jon under some vague idea that not doing so would be impolite. “My work at the shelter has a book. Big book, on all sorts of animals and their diseases and mutations and care and stuff. I could take a look at it f’you. If you like.”

Jon’s eyes glint in the dark behind his glasses. “S please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Martin huffs a soft laugh as he puts down the empty bottle, shifting the creature up to his shoulder to prepare to burp them, rubbing their back gently. “No trouble. Happy to help.”

He’ll just close his eyes for a moment, he tells himself. Just a moment, and then he’ll make his excuses and go. Just a moment…

Martin wakes up a little too warm and comfortable, with the creature snuffling softly on his chest, Jon’s head pillowed on his shoulder, and his not-inconsiderable tail tangled up with Martin’s legs.

He is also thirty minutes from being very late for work, if his cheap plastic watch is any indication.

The easy part is moving the creature off his chest onto Jon’s, and gently shifting Jon’s head off his shoulder onto a pillow.

The difficult bit is attempting to untangle Jon’s tail from his legs. Particularly since it keeps tightening to keep him in place, like a python around its prey.

He ends up toppling off what he’s realizing to his own mental panic is obviously a bed (extremely handsome Jon’s bed!!!) in his attempts to free himself. Somehow this clatter doesn’t wake the two occupants.

He then wastes time dithering over whether he should leave Jon a note, then over what he should write the note on, then over the fact that for all his neatness Jon somehow doesn’t have a table or any chairs, and ends up leaned over the countertop scribbling his phone number on the back of an instructional pamphlet called ‘Your Cat Friend And You’, along with instructions on how to make the creature more warm milk and some reassurance about how he’ll be back later but call if there are any problems, any at all!

It isn’t until he’s fled Jon’s apartment, grabbed his own bag, and is on the bus towards the shelter than he realizes that he signed the note, love, Martin.

This time he doesn’t hold back from attempting to brain himself on the bus’s safety pole.

His boss at the shelter is a lovely orc, who’s extremely understanding about his flailing attempts to explain that someone came to him with an animal emergency, which is why he hasn’t showered or changed clothes from yesterday. She even offers him paid leave, if he wants it.

That makes him feel even worse, if anything, because she is a genuinely good, lovely person and Martin always ends up feeling a bit like a heel whenever he can’t quite live up to that himself or leaves her in the lurch. Part of his brain (one that sounds a lot like his mum, if he’s honest with himself) whispers that she’s genuine in a way that he can never hope to be.

Still. He waves off her offer, places himself on feeding and cleaning duty to make up for the trouble he’s caused, and only allows himself to ask to look at the office encyclopedia once.

She agrees, of course.

Martin pours over the book on his break, an extra strong cup of tea at his elbow to help make up for skipping his morning dose of caffeine, trying to place what on earth kind of creature is in Jon’s apartment.

It’s an excellent encyclopedia, with glossy, high-definition photographs of various animals accompanying through descriptions of their habits, health, and care.

The creature is probably a mammal, as it was warm and has no feathers, scales, or exoskeleton. It’s not hairy enough to be any kind of bear, and didn’t have any claws, ruling out many other predators of that type. It has no hooves, so it’s not an ungulate. It’s teeth are too dull to be a raccoon, koala, or a badger. It’s too big to be a naked mole rat, a mouse or a pooka. The ends of its hind-legs are the wrong shape for chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas, or any other kind of ape, though Martin feels that these are probably the closest.

It certainly isn’t any sort of cat, domestic or otherwise.

He gives a small groan, munching on the rich tea biscuits that serve as his lunch. He’s almost starting to think it’s not here, that Jon was somehow scammed into taking some sort of—of alien under his wing.

There is one last entry, right at the back of the book.

It’s the only one without any photographs, instead using an artist’s rendition of the animal described in the text on the opposite page.

It looks fearsome, regardless. A bear’s feet and an ape’s hands, chest like an orc and legs like a tengu, a merperson’s head filled with a raccoon’s teeth and a cow’s eyes, downed all over with thin, fine hairs.

Humans, Martin reads, were apex predators at one point in time before their extinction, specializing in endurance and tool crafting to catch their prey. Due to their ability to adapt nigh-impenetrable defenses against their predators, their species bred like wildfire, causing an overpopulation crisis that nearly took the planet down with them.

These animals were highly dangerous, the book says. While extinct, any potential resurgence of their species is a matter of international concern.

Martin shudders and begins flicking back through the book, trying to find a more likely candidate.

After all, what’s the likelihood of one of those turning up in this day and age?