#but i think we were doomed from the start takes the cake in this contest

[omegalomania]

its a close contest but i think "every time i see you i just want to paint the walls white" goes down as the filthiest line to be committed to fall out boy song shoutout to pax am days for that one

#*making poasts #thats with studio releases...7-9 legendary comes close for being an entire song about cranking ur hog tho #postcards also has that one line. ive seen sinking ships go down with more grace than you #xo....certainly deserves a place there.... #but i think we were doomed from the start takes the cake in this contest

[lo-55]

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 4

Loss.jpeg

Night has fallen on Chaldeas. Though the globe still casts its red glow across the room, the doom of humanity, it’s too late and Ichigo has been awake for too long for the grief to wash across him like so many waves right now.

He’s summoned another servant today, with the help of technology and Saint Quartz and Cu Chulainn, of course. It was maybe  his fault that he now had two celtic servants. One a caster with vicious loyalty but a habit of hitting on girls, and another that avoided women like the plague and followed Ichigo like the most desperate of puppies.

So now he has four servants to keep up with, and so he’s  tired .

They go off to the next singularity soon. Somewhere in England, in the late nineteenth century. He should really be resting. Getting ready for the next fight. Letting Olga Marie try an fail to teach him even the simple but powerful magecraft that she and Cu specialize in.

Instead, Ichigo finds himself standing in the doorway to the Chaldeas observation room, looking not at the ominous depiction of their future, but the man standing in front of it.

Romani Archiman. Dr. Roman. His shoulders are tense and drawn and his hair is out of its usual pony tail. He looks as tired out as Ichigo feels. When no one’s watching, right now, his green eyes are dull and his humor has faded. When had he last slept? When had any of them?

Mash kept reminding him how important it was to get proper sleep, and maybe it was easier for demi-servants than it is for humans. He doesn’t know. He never thought to ask.

Ichigo comes to a stop beside him.

It is a testament to his exhaustion that Roman doesn’t even notice Ichigo enough to react until he’s been standing there for nearly a full minute. When he does he jumps, startling and in the space between breaths Roman’s demeanor shifts. His eyes crinkle with a smile and he turns to Ichigo, a dozen times more cheerful than he’d been mere seconds before. It’s a startling contrast. From one face to another in less time than it took Ichigo to even realize he’d seen him looking so serious.

Roman was not a serious man. He had a tendency to jump around and get overly excited over seemingly nothing at all. Like cake, and slacking off and a blog he’s obsessed with that is, somehow, still posting online even though the world outside is nothing more than ash and fading memory. Ichigo personally suspects that it’s a prank put together by Da Vinci.

That artist is something of nuisance.

“Ichigo!” Roman’s smile is hard to spot as a fake, when Ichigo doesn’t know to look for it. Now that it is, it’s still hard but he can see the slant to his eyes, the tiny purse of his mouth. Ichigo is no genius, but he likes to think Roman is his friend. And so he does his best to learn to read him.

“Did you need something?” Roman asks, peering curiously at him. Something under Ichigo’s skin hums and crawls. The hiding sets his teeth on edge. Maybe it's because Ichigo himself is such a straight forward person, but he doesn’t much chair for people who hide like this.

And maybe it’s hypocritical, but at the moment he, frankly, doesn’t give a shit.

“You need to sleep,” Ichigo says, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

“Oh! Ah, I just have a little more work to do here before I can do that. See, Sonya wasn’t feeling well earlier and-”

“Roman,” Ichigo grabs his elbow and watches the man jump, like he’s been shocked. He acts like no one’s ever laid a hand on him before in his life.  “Go to sleep. We’re not going to a singularity tomorrow. You can afford rest.”

Still, Roman’s smile turns, tilts, like he’s confused, and this close Ichigo realizes that he’s thrumming with anxiety.

  No wonder he can’t sleep.  

Ichigo is not a genius. And he’s not the best at offering comfort, especially not at times like this. This is a time when they have to step up, when there is no other choice for them than to stand together, and he can’t say he’s entirely sympathetic with the doctor.

But he pulls him, by the elbow, not giving him time to argue as he manhandles him towards the hallway that leads to the dorm rooms. Most of them are empty now, their occupants frozen in cryogenic coffins. Anyone who isn't working is frozen, in fact. All of the staff that had died during the initial explosion had been dragged out, sometimes in pieces, and laid in the snow and ice outside the facility. It would preserve them for the time being. And with Ichigo around, so too were the ghosts.

It had started with Marie, but by now most of the dead staff have started to drink in his reitsu, to supplement themselves. If they take enough, they can even interact with the world around them, though it leaves Ichigo exhausted if too many do it at once. It’s like vampires, but they're eating his soul instead of drinking his blood. And in any case, it keeps the chains in the chest from eating their way up.

Marie had explained, very vaguely because her family specialized in astronomy not ghosts, that if those chains vanished entirely they would have less ghosts and more ghouls. Which was bad.

They pass twelve of them on the way to their destination.

“Ichigo, please,” Roman tries to tug his arm out of Ichigo’s hand, but out of the two of them it’s no contest who the stronger one is. “I have work-”

“You’re no good if you work yourself to death!” Ichigo snaps. He closes the door behind them with a tap to the pad on the wall and tosses Roman bodily onto the bed.

Roman scrambles to sit, blinking at their surroundings in confusion.

It’s almost the same as the last time they’d been there, during their first meeting ever. The only difference is that there’s a pair of jeans in the corner and a picture of his sisters and his mom on the desk under the window now.

“This is…”

“My room,” Ichigo finishes for him. He runs his fingers through his hair, his customary scowl in place. This was probably stupid but-

“You said you come here to relax, right? To goof off and slack on your duties. Well, relax. Marie’s still around so it’s not like you’re the acting director anymore.”

Roman gapes at him like a fish.

“But- But-”

“Shut up,” Ichigo orders tersely. He’s already second guessing his initial reaction but he wasn’t gonna leave Roman there to stare at their doom and he doesn’t have the damn poetry of words to convince him that they’ll rise above their challenges. “And go to sleep. Chaldea will be here in the morning, and so will the past.”

Roman slowly gathered his limbs together underneath him. He looks at Ichigo, confusion written across his face and it’s all Ichigo can do not to snap at him. Roman is a doctor and grown ass man. He should know better than to neglect himself.

To be fair, Goat Face is also and doctor and grown ass man, and Ichigo doesn’t trust him to so much as feed himself.

“O-kay,” Roman says at last, drawing the words out and his face finally softens, with fondness and truth. Some of the lie slips away. “Okay. But what about you, Ichigo? You need to sleep too. You’re supporting multiple servants and multiple ghosts, now.”

Ichigo hadn’t even thought about that.

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I dunno. I can just sleep in a chair or something.”

“No!” Roman shakes his head. “No, that’s not acceptable. As your doctor I have to advise against it.”

“ ‘as your doctor’? What the hell kinda crap are you going on about?” Ichigo scowls deeper.

“You need to sleep, in a real bed. Honestly. We can just share.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like a sleep over in a movie!”  

“... You were homeschooled, weren’t you?”

“Eh?!”

“Fine, whatever,” Ichigo was too tired to deal with this. In the morning he’ll kick himself, and maybe Roman, but for now all he can think of is turning the lights off and getting some sleep, at last.

And if it’s easier to sleep when the living are next to him and not when he’s haunted only by figurative ghosts instead of literal ones, no one will even be the wiser.

*

It’s not so much a house as it is a room where he can simply exist.

It’s small, single story and a basement that still smells faintly like lightning and copper and a strange magecraft. One that he can’t quite place, one that he’s never encountered before.

Ichigo doesn’t ask about the old owners and Waver Velvet, who gets pissed every time Ichigo doesn’t call him something stupid like Lord Elmeloi the fifth or whatever, hadn’t volunteered any information.

Ichigo spends a few minutes looking around. There’s a fold out couch in the living room and the kitchen is stocked with none perishables and frozen meats. The bedroom has runes carved above the door and the window, offering Ichigo a modicum of protection from what might be out there. There’s a bed big enough for his whole family and then some, and the closet has a few changes of clothes. Three suits, of all things, and a familiar mystic code.

White and black, it’s a body suit he’d been given early on. His Chaldea combat uniform.

The material feels like silk but Ichigo knows better than to think it is. It’s tough enough to hold up to arrows and fire and more than he wants to think of. He’d only taken blunt force trauma when he’d worn it. There were three spells woven into the fabric, and Ichigo wonders what it will be like to wear it again before he dismisses the idea.

Ichigo wonders just what Waver had thought Ichigo was going to be doing here, that he needed this.

He goes to the basement.

It’s bigger than he would have expected, and there are weapons lined on the walls. Spears, swords, and bows, and a range setup with dummies stuffed with straw.

There are no windows, to hide him from curious eyes. Any non-mags who finds out about magic is sentenced to death, and that is part of why Ichigo hasn’t told his family about his escapades. His wars.

Kon walks past him at the foot of the stairs. Along another wall is a shelf built into the stone foundations, filled with texts and materials that Ichigo can recognize instantly.

He’d never been good at spell work on his own, but he can use the magic equivalent of chemistry just fine. And, on top of that, after Babylonia a certain goddess had magnanimously taken time out of her ever so busy schedule to teach him the graceful art of gem magic.

Or rather, a stuck up deity who Ichigo had bribed to be his friend had taught him how to shove magic energy into rocks he could throw at people to blow them the fuck up.

Combined with the runes that Cu had spent years drilling into his head, Ichigo could survive a regular mage battle fine on his own, if he had time to prepare. And war has made him paranoid, so he starts taking stock of everything that he’d been given.

Evil bones, dragon scales, eternal gears, crystals of several types and a mystic gunpowder. A few feathers, and a jar of scarabs. Chalk, too, and strong thread that’s more like fishing line.

There’s also, definitely for the best, a fire extinguisher in the corner.

“What kinda place is this, Ichigo?” Kon finally asks. He pokes at a jar of red liquid on top of the thick desk that Ichigo has been given. It’s all and all not very personalized, but for Ichigo’s purposes it’s more than enough. Especially given that Ichigo’s purpose was to sit somewhere where his dad wasn’t. Where he didn’t have to think about the spirits or the hollows or the shinigami, however briefly that might be.

“It’s just a house, Kon. A… friend of mine owns it. Think of it as our secret hide out,” Ichigo waves his hand around, idly.

“A secret hide out huh… I get it!” Kon bounced towards him, his soft paws scuffing lightly on the concrete floor. “This is a place to bring girls!”

Ichigo snorts and punts the plushie towards the stairs. “What girl is gonna hand around a creapy basement with you, huh? What are you a serial killer?”

“More like a lady killer! Or I could be, if I just had a body to call my own. Hey, you said I could borrow yours, remember!”

“I didn’t forget. Sorry, we’ve been busy,” Ichigo steps over him and climbs back up to the totally normal looking house above, with Kon on his heels. He lets out a soft breath. It feels too warm above ground, but Ichigo opens the windows and lets the sunlight pour inside upon his skin, lets the wind pull at his hair and dance through the drapes. “I’ll let you have it tonight, okay?”

“But nothing in this town ever happens at night!” Kon whines. When Ichigo sits on the couch he climbs up to flop across his lap, pouting.

“Just try to stretch your legs, and you can have some time on the weekend, deal?”

Kon considers him suspiciously before he nods, once.

“Deal.”

They sit together in the sunlight, in the foreign house, with the spring air cooling them until his phone goes off. Rukia, of course, because work doesn’t give him much of a break.

It’s alright. Sometimes a few minutes to breath is enough.

* *

Rukia Kuchiki is  not the first Shinigami that Ichigo has ever encountered.

There was another, a man who had taken to following their group around North America.

They met in 1783. He was… strange. And admittedly, it was a strange situation that they had found each other in. He’s pretty sure Shinigami don’t normally hang around Alcatraz, but what does he know? The island is infested with all sorts of monsters and guarded by one of the oldest heroes of written legend.

Beowulf. Powerful and vicious, battle hungry but not necessarily cruel. He’d even let them pass into the fortress after just a ‘test’ fight against a dragon.

They, or rather Ichigo, find the Shinigami with Sita, sitting next to her in the deepest prison of Alcatraz. Florence Nightingale is somewhere above them, charging headlong after him with Rama strapped to her back. He’s in bad shape, his curse slowly consuming his body, and Sita is their only chance to save him. Even without Beowulf the prison is crawling with dangerous creatures of all types.

Ichigo finds Sita first.

But she is not unguarded and Ichigo curses himself for leaving his servants upstairs to handle the chaos there.

Ichigo is more than capable of handling celtic soldiers, who fall beneath his vicious attacks and his steadily strengthening magic. The more he uses it the stronger it gets, and his body is adapting quickly to the strain it puts upon him. It’s only been a year or so and he can already go toe to toe with most average mages. A simple soldier with a spear is well within his abilities.

This man, Ichigo can tell with a second of inspection, is not.

He doesn’t have the same energy as a servant. And he’s dressed in clothes that aren’t celtic or american. He’s dressed like he’s from japan.

A black kosado and hakama. All black, with curly brown hair that’s nearly past his shoulders and brown eyes that almost fool Ichigo into thinking that he’s harmless.

But people are more themselves when they aren’t being watched, and this man, older than Ichigo and, he realizes, most certainly dead, has no idea he’s been seen.

He looks at Sita like she’s some kind of puzzle, like some game that he doesn’t know all the rules to. Ichigo stays a moment, and watches him watch her until Sita realizes that she has a visitor.

“Oh!”

She leans forwards on the bed, and right through the stranger, who half turns to look at Ichigo over his shoulder. He’s not interested in him though, not really. He can see it.

Roman is hiding something.

Something important, and he doesn’t know what but he does know now how to recognize when someone is hiding something. Even if it wasn’t for Roman, it’s not only heroes he’s summoned. There is an assassin class, and his heroes have their flaws. Their secrets. Each singularity is it’s own mystery and they are full of liars and tricksters and more than ever before Ichigo has a bone deep appreciation for people who are plain and true.

Ichigo crosses his arms over his chest and stares right at the ghost.

“You’re Sita, right? Rama’s wife?”

“My Lord Rama? Is he here?” she rushes to her feet, all red hair and fire the flutters like an ember on the wind. Not like Rama, who burns anything in his path if he must.

Ichigo nods, once. He lets the stranger inspect him too. There’s the smallest amount of stubble around his chin, like he hasn’t shaved in a while. And he’s armed. Saber class.

“Yes. But he’s injured. We need your help to heal him.”

Ichigo finally breaks eye contact with the ghost. He steps backwards and points his fist at the lock on the door. Sita hurries to brace herself and he shoots it off with a vicious Gandr. When he uses them on living things, he’s lucky to stun them. On inanimate objects, they blow up. He doesn’t get it, but that’s his life. Becuase fuck him, obviously.

“Yes!” Sita agrees eagerly. Her smile is equal parts soft and fierce. “If I can be of use to him, then I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Okay,” Ichigo stands away from the prison door. “Stand back,” he orders, and she steps back into the cell, against the door. The ghosts watches him raise his hand, holding up his fist at the door. The mystic code hums across his skin and he feeds his own mana into it. There’s a flash of pale blue and red and the lock explodes in shards of steel, just as they’re joined by others.

Rama comes stumbling around the corner, his fine clothes stained with blood and his body frayed at the edges. He looks bad. The hold in his chest is starting to gape and glow gold at the edges.

Ichigo hears the ghost suck in a sharp breath and he takes a step towards Rama before Ichigo cuts him off, blocking him from his friends. Sita rushes to him.

“Sita!” Rama reaches out around him and Ichigo can’t understand how he’s even on his feet. How deep does his love for his wife run? “Damn it, my vision is blurry. I can’t see anything…”

“I’m here!” Sita falls to his side as Rama collapses, finally succumbing to his festering wound. Ichigo watches, his hands clenched at his sides as Mash explains about Cu Chulainn Alter, and his Gae Bolg.

Ichigo stands back, with his Cu at his side. The caster leans on his staff, watching Sita gently stroke her husbands hair. They will never meet, and it drives pain into Ichigo’s chest on their behalf.

“Well. Fuck.” Cu says bluntly.

Ichigo snorted. “Yeah. That sums it all up pretty well.”

The ghost tries to take another step, but Ichigo catches his hand.

He spins, his brown eyes wide. “You- You can see me.”

“Well yeah. No shit,” Ichigo says aloud. Caster peers at him curiously, but Ichigo just taps the corner of his eye. A ghost, and Cu nods and leans back again. Even amongst his heroic spirits he’s an oddity. Not all of them can see ghosts. Only the ones that attack them, and more than once has Ichigo had to forcibly guide them into striking true.

Cu is a bit better. He hasn’t told him explicitly but Ichigo suspects that Scathach is somehow related to the afterlife. The land of shadows sounds like it should be full of ghosts.

Ichigo let’s go when the ghost pulls at his hand, peering at Ichigo. It’s funny, watching someone pull a metaphorical mask onto their face. This one is a kind person, someone who’s harmless, but Ichigo can still see them. He is armed and his eyes betray him, as eyes so often do.

Sharp and intelligent. Like a cat watching him.

“I suppose you do have some reitsu. But to be able to see me, is still not an easy feat.”

Ichigo frowns. “I do? It feels like all of it’s being sucked out by everyone at Chaldea…”

“Excuse me?” he blinks at Ichigo a couple of times.

“Nevermind. There’s just some people who are sucking up my reitsu so they don’t disappear, you know?”

And now even the ghost was looking at him like he’s crazy. Great. Awesome.

The glittering glow of Sita’s body dissolving interrupts them, and Ichigo turns to face his servants with a hard clench of his jaw. Rama slowly sits up, sorrow over taking his features. Even in a holy grail war, he will never meet his wife again.

“We should go,” Ichigo says quietly. “We still have to go east. We have to finish what we started. Rama, are you ready?” Ichigo goes to him, and offers him his hand. Rama takes it and stands.

“Yes. My body does not falter. I renew my vows now, Master of Chaldea. I, Rama, King of Kosala, will fight at your side. I shall not be defeated again. This I swear!” He bows his head to Ichigo, this proud, powerful king.

“Yes,” Liz steps up, a noble countess with her chin lifted and her eyes defiant. “We will win, for you our master!”

“We will rip out the root of the infection,” Nightingale agrees, smacking her hands together. Her red eyes burn with a ferocity that would make lesser men tremble.

Mash nods, shortly and firmly. “I will put my faith in Master, and follow his lead.”

“You already know that I will strike down your enemies,” Medusa adds, her long hair swaying with the promise of poisons.

“Lead the way, Master,” Cu claps his shoulder and Ichigo looks each of the mover in turn. Finally, he speaks.

“I swear I told you to use my damn name. You’re all so dramatic.”

Cu laughs at him, and Ichigo starts the long walk. From Alcatraz to Washington.

Only now they have a tag along. The ghost insists on following them along, because apparently Ichigo and the singularity is dangerous enough to warrant his attention. Which is  great .

“What do I call you then,” Ichigo asks, side-eying his newest companion.

He tilts his head, sending brown waves spilling across his shoulders.

“Mmmm. Kyo,” he says after a minute.

“...That is  not a real name.”

* * *

“So, your friend, the Lord, how do you know him?”

Ichigo looks up at Rukia. She’s standing over his bed that night. Chad is asleep in the corner, passed out after a study session run long.

“Who, Waver? We met a while ago.”

Ichigo scoots back on the bed, until his back is to the wall and he can sit, criss cross, looking at her. Waver had come to town earlier, on business as much as to see Ichigo. They’d talked, briefly, in front of the school earlier until Ichigo had had to rush off. Not before Waver had extracted a promise to meet up with him a few days in the future. Apparently there was some weird shit going on in town that had nothing to do with Ichigo and his friends, but was now his problem because he was a mage.

A two bit one, but still.

“How?” Rukia asks, narrowing her eyes at him if only slightly.

Ichigo considers telling her everything, but it’s a bit too much to believe.

‘I time travelled for three years trying to stop the incineration of humanity and I met him as a demi servant and his old servant because he fought for a holy grail and oh yeah did I mention i punched god?’

Yeah, no. Even shinigami didn’t go time travelling. He’d checked. It didn’t help that most shinigami were so out of touch with the living world that even three hundred years ago they didn’t know much about human magics or the goings on. Before the fall of the age of gods humans and spirits had been closer, had almost lived together. Ereshkigal had told him some of how it worked, four thousand years ago, but he’s certain things have changed. For one, she is clearly not in charge of the afterlife anymore. Which begs the question of just where she had gone.

To the reverse side of the world? Or somewhere else entirely?

“After Chaldea,” he says instead, picking over his words with as much care as he can, “After the explosion of Chaldea, their patrons, the Clock Tower in London, sent someone to see what was happening. And to take stock in the situation. Waver was the one that they sent.

“Apparently he gets the ‘problem children’ a lot.” And that was what they were, really. He and Mash, they were just teenagers. Even now. Eighteen….

Eighteen is not enough years for what he’s seen, what he’s done. For the choices he’s had to make.

“No wonder they sent him for you,” Rukia snorts at him, but there’s a smile at the corner of her mouth and Ichigo fights not to return it. Instead he scowls, as he usually does.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively at her. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you wanna come with?”

“No,” she shakes her head and he stands and leaves her in his bedroom. His dad is in the clinic. He’s been avoiding Ichigo for weeks, ever since that day in the cemetery and Ichigo is fine with that. He’s still angry.

Yuzu and Karin are up in their own room, and the lower half of the house is quiet. Ichigo pours himself some water and takes a few minutes to calm himself. Waver has him on edge, and more than that…

Something is coming. He doesn’t know what, yet, but his instincts are hissing in the back of his mind, louder and louder ever since he took Rukia’s power as his own. Something is something. Something dangerous. Something deadly. Some change he has no idea how to see or stop.

His cup is covered in a thin layer of frost.

Ichigo stares down at it.

The cold spreads across the surface, white eating over the glass. Elegant swirls of frozen leaves spread out from his finger tips.

He pours out the water and puts the cup away, trying not to think about it.

Because even with Ichigo, even with magic and ghosts and all the other shit in his life, he’s never frozen anything. He isn’t fucking Jack Frost.

He goes back upstairs, trying not to think about it, and helps Rukia rouse Chad to send him on his way home. There’s work to be done. A smarter man would ask about the ice. Would mention it to Rukia. Would wonder if the two aren’t connected.

And Ichigo is not stupid, but he’s maybe a little too used to strange things happening and learning the why at a later date.

* * * *

The acrid smell of burning flesh sears into his mind. Into his soul. Choking him, smoke curled into his lung like an ash made cat that tears claws into the soft tissue.

It’s red. Red, red, red everywhere. Fire singes along the edges of reality. The earth hovers, red and burning and doomed from the start. Doomed from babylonia, doomed from the present and the now.

Mash lays in front of him. Crushed, broken. No shield, no armor, just a dead little girl, reaching for his hand.

Yuzu and Karin are sprawled apart from eachother and they never should be, never should be, because they are twins, they were born together nothing should ever tear them apart-

Isshin. Isshin and his mother, they lie beside a river that runs with fire instead of water. Bloody, broken, staring at Ichigo.

The air shifts and the glittering shine of gold spins around him with a scream. His servants, his friends, cut down and torn apart and left only as glitter that roars their betrayal at him. At his failure. He is the master, the center of power, but he cannot fight on his own. He is powerless in the face of the hulking monster that drags itself out of the rubble to kill him.

He takes a step back, fear clogging his throat. Lahmu crawl across the broken rubble of Fuyuli, of Uruk, of Rome and London and Camelot. His foot hits something. He doesn’t look down, he doesn’t need to. Orange and green and white. White and gold and black. Romani, laid to waste.

He is helpless. Powerless. His command spells are gone and he has failed. Lost.

Fire roars at his throat and-

He’s punched in the face by the smell of perfume.

Ichigo looks up at the sky. Pale blue, a few whisps of cloud floating across it.

He drinks in air. Air that tastes like flowers instead of ashes and death.

Something soft touches his shoulder and it’s only familiarity that keeps him from lashing out.

Lavender eyes peer down at him. It’s his hand on his shoulder. His Caster.

His Merlin.

“Wha- I’m in a dream?” Ichigo sits, slowly, and Merlin helps him up. A warm hand on his shoulder and guilt in his eyes.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Merlin shakes his head, mournfully. “I normally call you here before they can set in, but I was distracted this time…”

“Distracted,” Ichigo repeats dumbly. “Wait. So every time you’ve brought me here, it’s because I was going to have a nightmare?”

“I did tell you, once. Incubi are made of dreams. And I, as half of one, gain my sustenance out of them as well. Bad dreams are sour, so I don’t want yours to-”

“Cut the crap,” Ichigo elbows him lightly in the side. “Just tell me the truth. We’re friends and you don’t want to see me suffering.”

Merlin can only stare at him for a second. “... I always forget how brazen you are, Ichigo. You never have minced your words. You really consider me a friend, do you?”

“Of course I do! And don’t try to give me any shit about we can’t be friends because I’m human. I’m not anymore, remember. I’m a shinigami.”

“Yes, yes. And isn’t that ironic? I, unable to die, and you a creature made of death.”

“You make a bad philosopher. Stick to being a dreamer, Merlin.”

Merlin merely laughs at him, a softness in the wind, and Ichigo sits with him until the sun comes up outside his bedroom window.

* * * * *

What was with people and coming in through his window?

Ichigo stares at the man, Urahara, that is sitting on his window sill. Kon is having a minor panic attack in his arms, flailing around. Rukia has left. Vanished with only a note to tell them not to look for her and if she thinks Ichigo will listen to it, she doesn’t know him very well at all. Ichigo has never been one to abandon his friends, even if they don’t explain what’s happening or why they’re in trouble.

Ichigo will go after her, but first he needs to figure out how to turn into a shinigami again. Kon is no help, he’s too busy running around for Ichigo to dig his pill form out of his plush body. And this man…

His timing is too good. Is he some kind of clairvoyant, like Gilgamesh? Or just a man with far too many cards in his hand to play?

Whatever the case, Ichigo is strangely glad that he’s here. Without Rukia’s glove and with Kon losing his mind, Ichigo needs help to get out of his body.

“So you’ll pop me out of my body,” Ichigo says, eying his cane, “Just because Rukia is a regular customer. Is your shop really that slow?” He definitely has too much time on his hands.

“That’s right!” the man practically sings and Ichigo could swear for an instant his eyes were lavender instead of grey. He’s like a strange mix of Merlin and Da Vinci.

And isn’t  that a scary thought?

“...Yeah, okay. I’d appreciate the help.”

Kisuke pushes his cane through Ichigo’s chest and he pops out the other side like a weasel.

Ichigo carefully lays his body in bed and covers it up. It’s almost two in the morning and normal humans are asleep, including his family. He picks a few small rocks out of his school bag, simple stones with straight lines carved onto them. He eyes Kisuke, still sitting in the window.

“When I get back from this, I’ve got a couple of questions for you,” he says, marching up to Kisuke, who flicks his fan out over his mouth. Only his eyes are visible and those are still hidden in shadow.

“Oh? I can’t imagine what you’d ask a simple shop keeper like me…”

“Plenty,” Ichigo says plainly. He plants his hand next to Kisuke’s head and leans over him. “But for now. Get out of my room.”

He pushes him straight out the window, and onto the lawn beneath. Ichigo figures that he’s probably tough enough to take a little tumble. He trusts Kisuke to be fine before he jumps out the window after him. He needs to get to Rukia. He can feel it. Something is happening.

His instincts hiss that he needs to  move .

He follows the feeling of coolness and wind and snowflakes that he can almost see. It’s joined by another feeling, something clean and pale and just a little bit angry, thin threads that wrap together to be stronger.. Uryuu.

He needs to hurry.

Ichigo sprints across the city, pouring on his speed. Faster and faster until he swears he’s running on the wind.

He turns the corner.

Uryu on the ground, Rukia not far. Two Shinigami. Red hair and black. The red head with his sword lifted above Uryu’s head, ready to strike.

Ichigo swings his sword off his back and the streets cracks and erupts beneath the sudden force of his power. It throws the shinigami, Renji Abarai, off of his feet.

“Huh? Who are you? Who’s orders are you here on?” he barks.

Ichigo ignores him. He touches Uryu’s shoulder, making sure he’s still in one piece, and pours Mana into his human body. It should be enough to jump start his own healing process. Mana transference is about all Ichigo is good for anyhow.

“What did you…?” Uryu looks up at him, bewildered.

“Later,” Ichigo says. He blocks the blow that comes from behind, bracing himself against the ground.

“I get it,” Renji pushes down hard, his eyes wild. He feels like fire and venom and bone. “You’re the one that stole Rukia’s powers! Because of you, she’s going to be executed!”

Ichigo’s blood runs cold. Rukia. Executed? For helping him? For giving him the power to protect his friends, his family?

No. He will not allow it.

“That’s bullshit!” Ichigo throws him back, power surging through him. His own anger and the energy that Rukia has given him. Cold coursing through his veins. “Rukia was just helping, she saved us! Isn’t that what your job is?!”

“She broke the rules is what she did. What’s a few human lives to a shinigami? She should have never done that.”

A few human-

Ichigo throws himself at Renji with vicious abandon. Renji is fast but Ichigo is strong, Rukia is strong, and it’s her power that lets him swing his sword with utmost surety.

Still, it’s hard to keep up when Renji won’t shut up. Something about menos and children and then he asks Ichigo’s swords name.

He frowns and racks his brain. That feels like something he should know. On the tip of his tongue. His sword. Rukia’s sword. Does it have a name?

Renji takes his silence for ignorance and he’s not wrong.

He puts his sword in front of him and it glows faintly red. The taste of fire and bone is stronger.

“A shinigami’s zanpakuto is the true form of their soul, it’s their true power. And this is mine! Now Roar, Zabimaru!”

Ichigo watches the sword change, grow fangs and cracks. A Noble Fantasm? No, it’s much weaker. He looks at Renji, looks harder at his power. He’s strong, probably stronger than Ichigo but is he stronger than Ichigo and Rukia together? This will have to be a battle where he can’t rely on brute strength.

The sword swings and the cracks pull apart until it’s a glorified whip with teeth and Ichigo jumps back to dodge it. The stones weigh heavy in his pocket and his mind whirls. No longer a saber, no longer capable of simply attacking and slashing until he’s won.

“Give up already! You’re 2000 years too young to beat me!”

And maybe Renji would be right. Maybe he would be too much for Ichigo to handle, in another life. Maybe if he really was just a fifteen year old kid, shihakusho more green than black, he would leave him laying in a puddle of blood without breaking a sweat.

But Ichigo is not fifteen. He is eighteen and he has fought eight wars. He has ended extinction and walked the land of the dead, and demons, and stood amongst stars. He has fought and bled and killed and died, and he has done it all for his family, his friends.

And now.

Now these two are trying to take another friend. They are trying to steal Rukia, to punish her for saving him and giving him strength enough to fight.

And he will not allow it.

His temper howls, blood rushing into his ears and battle fury washes over his skin.

Beneath it, beneath that hot fire that has driven him for so much of his life there’s something else. Something cold and foreign, frost on a window pane in summertime, snow floating around a campfire.

He lunges for Renji.

Renji is forced to release his noble phantasm, his zanpakuto. It lashes out, a segmented whip that bites the pavement with terrible teeth. Ichigo takes it in stride, catches it’s glinting teeth in his own too-long blade and twirls it like spaghetti around a knife. The teeth catch and hold, Renji’s eyes go wide and Ichigo yanks him forward with his zanpakuto.

He takes one hand off his own sword and drives it into Renji’s jaw. His teeth click and blood spurts between his lips before he drops like a lead balloon.

With Renji at his feet Ichigo turns to face Rukia and the man in the white cloak. He tilts his long blade, letting Renji’s zanpakuto slide off. On the ground it glows faintly red and returns to its original form.

“Are you next then?” Ichigo asks, his voice careful and calm even as the wrold inside him rages. Plans pick up and he reads this mans strengths. He’s leagues ahead of Ichigo but even still…

Ichigo is not the type to run. He is not the type to give up. No matter that Rukia is screaming at him to. He won’t-

He twists and blocks the blow he had barely ever seen, his sword moving faster than his mind.

Surprise registers on the man’s face, muted and little more than a twist of his mouth and a twitch of his eyes. Ichigo shoves him away, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Blood seeps out of his back. The cut it shallow, it won’t slow him down but the fact remains. He got hit.

Faster, whispers a voice in the back of his head. A memory, a premonition. He blocks the next attack but only just and under the force of the drawn sword, his own begins to crack. No. No, he will not lose, not like this.

He shoves the man back and flings one of the stones at him, shooting a burst of Mana through it. The man in white has to move fast to avoid the fire that erupts in front of him.

“Ichigo?” Rukia stares at him, her mouth open. “What was that?!”

“I’m not that great at magic,” Ichigo admits, tossing another stone up and down in his hand. He never takes his eyes off of his enemy. “In fact, I wouldn’t even call myself a real mage. I’m pretty second rate at this stuff. But this much… This much I can do.”

He shoots another stone at the shinigami in front of him, who’s name he never did get, and grins when he’s forced to release his own zanpakuto. He’s glad about it, but Rukia is screaming at him.

The air fills with glittering flower petals and Ichigo tastes steel, feels the weight of ‘Duty’ and ‘Honor’ and the scent of sakura blossoms wash across his skin.

They surge at him, a tidal wave of power, danger. Each one is a blade and Ichigo cannot dodge of block them all. Even still, he will not run. He will-

  Protect Rukia!  

Fine.

Cold chases through his body, Rukia’s power surges. Ichigo gives his strength over to it, pours his reitsu into the sword as he once did his saber’s and the sound of bells echoes around him.

A ribbon flutters graceful in front of his face and he swings, running on instinct alone.

The wave of flower petals is stopped in its tracks. Frozen in a circle of ice that reaches towards the sky.

Ichigo is aware, from the shock on the faces of the people around him, that he’s just done something impossible. Again.

Oh well.

He turns again to the Shinigami, bringing his blade in front of him. Not his, Rukia’s. He was going to save her-

“Rikujōkōrō.”

Ichigo shouted when light, six straight rectangles of it, slammed into his stomach. He froze, unable to move. The ice shattered and the blades inside of it floated back to their master, reforming into a single sword. This time, Ichigo couldn’t block. He could do nothing as the blade pierced him twice, and the light faded.

He tried. He did. He would crawl if he had to but-

“Stay alive, for just a little longer, Ichigo. And if you follow me, I will never forgive you.”

He can recognize what she’s doing. She’s drawing the man, Byakuya, and the newly awakened Renji away from him. She is protecting him, and the helplessness is acid on his tongue.

He was left, bleeding, dying, on the streets of Karakura.

* * * * * *

#Ichigo Kurosaki #BAMF!Ichigo Kurosaki #Ichigo Kurosaki is Ritsuka Fujimaru #well sorta #romani archaman #renji abarai #byakuya kuchiki #rukia kuchiki #kyo (SCoF) #bleach #bleach fanfiction #bleach/fate grand order #Kon bleach #Merlin Fate/Grand Order

[thekitchensnk]

and the spider lilies bloomed in the fall (chapter 18)

Rating: T Warnings: Violence Pairing: Gin/Ran Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18

“They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again still see the higanbana growing along their path, even to this day.”

A girl collapses on a dusty road one day. A boy takes her home.

The girl lives.

—

(The boy doesn’t.)

Even weeks later, Ayame could not leave the subject alone. She brought the subject of Rangiku's victory up so frequently and so loudly that Rangiku had developed a scheme to feign deafness whenever Ayame started up.

"I just don't understand why you wouldn't-" Ayame would huff.

"What? I'm sorry, Ayame-chan, but I-"

"I said that I just don't understand why-"

"SORRY, AYAME-CHAN, BUT SUDDENLY IT'S VERY HARD TO HEAR ANYTHING. I think I might have blocked ears!" Rangiku would cheerfully lie.

Ayame would glare. "Don’t be so immature. You can't just pretend to be deaf to avoid conversations you don't want to hear."

Rangiku would momentarily pause in her efforts to mop the floor, and squint at her, digging at her ears. "SORRY, AYAME-CHAN, WHAT DID YOU SAY? I SAID I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

And Ayame would throw her cleaning rag down and storm off, leaving Rangiku grinning widely in her wake.

Whatever illness it was that Ayame seemed to have been suffering from also seemed to have passed. She was adamant that the vomiting spells which had plagued her were just her stomach adjusting to the inclusion of Rangiku into the cooking roster, reasoning which everyone else could quite easily buy, though which Rangiku herself contested hotly.

"There is no kitchen curse!" she would shout angrily. "You're just picking on me, like you always do!"

Regardless, one morning a little over a month after Rangiku's fight with the shinigami student, Chiyo had taken a long, hard look at Ayame, taking the girl’s jaw in one lined hand and examining her with brow-knitted intensity.

Ayame had gone pale and still, her eyes wide with fear as she suffered Chiyo's scrutiny.

"You've not been looking well lately, Ayame," Chiyo had said, slowly. "It's been too long since you've had a rest, I think. Take the morning to go into town. I have some things I need you to pick up."

Ayame had crumpled then with the release of that strange tension, and relief had filled her eyes.

"Of course," she had said weakly, her eyes darting to the door as she did so. "Thank you, Chiyo-san." She had made to leave as quickly as possible.

"Ayame," Chiyo had called after her serenely. At the sound of Chiyo's voice, Ayame had frozen in place.

To Rangiku, watching on, it had made for an odd spectacle indeed.

"Take Rangiku with you," Chiyo had said pensively. "It wouldn't do for you to take ill on the road on your own."

"Y-" Ayame had cleared her throat nervously. "Yes, Chiyo-san. We’ll leave straight away."

Which was how Rangiku suddenly found herself following Ayame through the streets of the fourteenth district, aching with a sense of sudden, dizzying freedom.

It was only seldom that she left the confines of the Floating Moon, and every time she did, she felt the openness of the sky towering dizzily above her. It was strange, but she never felt imprisoned until she was allowed out into the open, where suddenly she found she could breathe more easily. Today, the air was thick with water vapour and overripe with the potential for a storm.

As she breathed in, she breathed in water; the air felt wet and heavy and it lay on the two as they walked, clinging and soft, like an embrace. The sky was iron dark and gray, but it did little to suppress the energy humming under Rangiku's skin. If anything, the dark shadows on the horizon just made the bright leaves of autumn even more beautiful, and Rangiku more appreciative.

In fourteenth, the district had had the means somewhere down the line to plant decoratively- the elegant palm fan leaved gingko trees were beginning to turn butter yellow and the maple trees were sporting shocks of red and fierce orange. The air painted everything in soft focus, muting and blurring the edges of everything solid until it was as hazy and indistinct as a dream.

As Rangiku walked, she raised her arm up and let her fingertips brush against low-lying leaves the color of the sun rise, and she smiled softly to herself in the descending mist.

The sky was dark- so dark- but everywhere, the world was turning to gold.

I'm going to live beautifully, she thought suddenly.

Even if I have nothing else in the world. Even if I'm abandoned time and time again. Even if everyone says that I'm naïve and empty-headed. I'll live with my head held high and my fingers touching gold, and if I can do that, it will have been a life worth living. There is beauty everywhere for those who care to look, and I'm going to find it.

It was a secret vow she whispered to herself, and she held it close to her chest, tucked next to her heart with all the other small and profound things of which she was comprised- the taste of dried persimmons, abrupt kindness to a fallen enemy, the sound of a party in full swing. She felt warm, suddenly, in spite of the damp chill.

Even in the gray light, Ayame looked healthier, as if even just a morning off was good for her soul.

Rangiku was glad to see it. The past few weeks had given Ayame a wan, thin cast to her face.

"Ayame-chan," she called out happily, "I have money for mochi. Would you like some? We could get some tea to go with it."

It was testament to the heady power of a morning off that Ayame hesitated even for a moment. But in the end, not even a morning's freedom could curb Ayame's natural tendency to always, sensibly, obey the rules.

"We should do Chiyo's chores first, Rangiku-chan," she said, though a note of wistfulness was threaded through her voice. "Maybe once we're done with those though."

"I'm going to buy matcha flavoured mochi," Rangiku announced boisterously. "Matcha mochi, yuzu tea." She paused. "Matcha mochi, yuzu tea, and maybe a new ribbon from the market." She bounced slightly on her heels in giddiness. "Where do we have to go for Chiyo's stuff? What does she need us to get?"

"Lye soap, for laundry; jasmine oil for the bath."

"Do you know where we need to go for those? Where on earth do you buy jasmine oil?" Rangiku asked quizzically.

"Chiyo only ever gets the cheap stuff. There's a florist over on the corner that gives Chiyo a cheap price for her loyalty. That's where we'll go."

The inhabitants of the fourteenth were better heeled than the inhabitants of Rangiku's home district. By no means was anyone rich- certainly not by the standards of Seireitei nobility- but the inhabitants all had shoes, and looked to bathe at least semi-regularly. There were no children with hollow, empty eyes and naked backs here; no curdling stream of filth running through the street. Whores here did not heckle and solicit on street corners, but were obliged by law only to operate within certain areas of the district, over clean waters and arched bridges the colour of saffron.

The women went about with wooden combs in their hair, their healthy bodies draped in cheap cotton yukatas of every colour. It was rare to see a mouth of cracked and calcified teeth, and rarer still to see the pock-marked, poverty-disfigured faces which had been the norm where she came from.

It had been over two years since Rangiku had last felt rain dribbling on her face through a threadbare roof. Over two years since she'd had to bathe in a river. Over two years since she'd had only one stained, ripped and patched yukata to wear.

Sometimes she wondered whether the stains and watermarks of that old life were branded onto her soul, evident for anyone with keen enough sight to see. Would she always walk through busy streets with her fists clenched, ready to swing? Would she always scan dark corners and alleyways for the next attack? Would it show in her manners, in her speech? Was the dirt and shame caked on so thick and deep that she could never be rid of it?

Could everyone see it on her face?

And if they could, did that matter?

She was strong, she was young, she was beautiful. She was moving forward, striding forward. That had to count for something.

(But still, she feared those things burnt on her soul- the fears and the anxieties of abandonment and hunger. She feared them because she knew that they still had a hold on her and moved her in incomprehensible ways, like a magnetic field moves a compass needle. She could gather her things in a sack and walk a thousand miles from that place, but something of it would always be inside her; the fear.)

Here and now, she was indistinguishable from any other person living in the fourteenth district. Her clothes were every bit as clean as theirs. I look as if I was born here. she thought fiercely as she and Ayame walked through the cobbled streets. I fit in here. I’ll smack anyone who says otherwise. There was a rumble of thunder far off.

"Did you feel that?" Ayame asked suddenly. "I think that’s the rain. Did you remember to bring the umbrella?"

"Erm." Rangiku scratched at her head. She had heard that they were to have the morning off and had scrambled excitedly to find her money, like any person with sane, healthy priorities would.

"Rangiku-chan!" Ayame groaned in annoyance.

"Hey!" Rangiku protested hotly. "You have arms! You have legs! Why didn't you bring the umbrella?"

As they were bickering, the sky, thickly filled to saturation with water, finally burst. The rain which dropped fell in fat, heavy droplets which smacked against the ground. Ayame, fussy at the best of times, yelped in shocked outrage.

Rangiku grabbed her by the hand and began to run, overbalancing as she did so.

She only made it a few feet before she felt her arm yank in its socket.

"You're running the wrong way," Ayame shouted, though her voice was drowned out by the rain. Her chestnut coloured hair was stuck to her face with water.

"What?" Rangiku yelled back.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! You're runnin- you're running-" Ayame gave up and grabbed her arm and began to stride in the opposite direction. Rangiku followed blindly, an arm raised above her head to in the hope of some meagre cover.

The florist's was only two streets away, but they were soaked through and breathless by the time they arrived, Rangiku's fumbling with the door adding a good twenty seconds to the time they spent in the rain.

"Great!" Ayame complained, raising her hands in annoyance. "Chiyo gave me the morning off to improve my health, and here I am, soaked through and shivering!" She glared around the shop.

"That's not my fault!" Rangiku protested.

"I didn't say it was!"

"You aimed it in my direction!"

"I know you don't control the weather, Rangiku.” She drew herself up haughtily. “Don't be childish."

Rangiku glared mutinously. "You're not much older than me. I'm sure of it."

The shop assistant coughed politely, a hand as white as porcelain coming up to cover her delicate mouth, but Rangiku was pretty sure she could detect the hint of an amused smile beneath it. Ayame immediately looked mortified; Rangiku continued to shoot daggers at Ayame.

"I am," Ayame tried to smooth her clothes to make herself look a little more dignified, "so sorry about that. We didn't mean to create a scene."

Gin had seemed to make it his life's work to terrorise every shopkeeper he came into contact with. Rangiku hardly thought that raised voices and endless complaining warranted the level of embarrassment that Ayame was displaying.

Color flooded Ayame’s cheeks. "If you don't mind me asking,” she said in a quick bid to move on from the supposed shame of minor public disturbance, “where's Kojima-san? Is she working today? Not we have anything against you-" Ayame added hurriedly- "it's just that she has an understanding with my employer regarding prices, and my employer is very strict about this sort of thing."

There was a quiet, understanding amusement at Ayame's fumbling in the young shop assistant's violet eyes.

"Please don't worry," she said, her voice as soft and sonorous as glass chimes. "Is it the jasmine oil that you're here to purchase? I've been made aware of the arrangement, if so."

"Yes," Ayame said with a sigh of relief. "Yes, that's it. I don't believe we've met before. Have you only just started working here?"

"Six weeks ago," the shop assistant admitted shyly. "I've only just moved here."

"Oh? Did you travel far?”

The shop assistant's ears turned a delicate pink, as if she were about to divulge a shameful secret. "Inuzuri," she murmured, unable to look Ayame in the eyes.

If anyone could understand that feeling, it was Rangiku.

"Shit," she said appreciatively. "That's further than even me, I think, and I lived in the middle of fucking nowhere."

"Rangiku-chan, watch your mouth!" Ayame cried in shock.

"What have I done this time?" Rangiku complained in despair.

The shop assistant laughed then, an awkward, breathy laugh and the flush settled lightly on her cheeks. She looks good laughing, Rangiku thought. Healthier, more alive, more like a person. She smiled to see the woman’s composure waver.

"What's your name, shop assistant from Inuzuri?" she asked warmly.

"Hisana." The woman paused. “Just… Hisana.” No surname, Rangiku noted pityingly. It was not unusual for those from the poorest districts not to have one.

“I’m Rangiku, and this lovely lady,” she draped a clumsy arm over Ayame, “is Ayame.”

There was a short awkward pause whilst Hisana looked them over, during which the drumming noise of the rain filled the shop.

They were soaked, and their thin yukata had done nothing to prevent them from being soaked through to the skin by the weather. A cold, dim light filled the shop, second-hand light filtered through the rain clouds. Rangiku’s tabi squelched in her sandals as she shifted her weight, her chin raised pridefully as Hisana looked them over.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Hisana said formally. She looked at them thoughtfully for a beat. “What perfect names you both have for the setting.”

Ayame wrinkled her delicate nose, but it was Rangiku who explained.

“We get that a lot, in our line of work. Men always think they’re so original.” Rangiku put on a comically gruff, masculine voice. “’’Lovely little flowers. I’d love to pluck your petals,’ and all that rubbish. It makes my skin crawl. What losers. They always think they’re so original as well, the smelly goats.”

Hisana looked confused, but was too polite to pry further into their employment histories. It was, Rangiku figured wryly, probably why she worked at a florist and not behind the bar in a whorehouse.

“The rain is pouring down very heavily,” Hisana noted, “and neither of you seem to have an umbrella. Would you like to stay here while the rain eases off? I could make a pot of tea.” There was a desperate look in her eye.

Ayame looked torn- it was very wet outside, but she was uncomfortable imposing too long on someone else’s kindness.

Rangiku had no such qualms.

“Hisana-chan!” she cried out, tripping over her feet in an effort to take Hisana’s hands in her own. “You’re our very own saviour! Thank you!” She barely paused. “Do you have yuzu flavoured tea?”

“Rangiku-chan!” Ayame scolded.

“What? She offered!”

HIsana shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid we don’t have any yuzu tea. Only standard green tea.” Anxiety entered her voice. “Will that suffice? Is that alright?” she asked, a slight worry in her eyes.

Ayame nodded firmly. “Pay no attention to Rangiku-chan, that klutz. Green tea would be lovely. Thank you for your kindness.”

Whilst Hisana pottered about making tea in the shop’s backrooms, Rangiku took the time to look closely at the wares.

Autumn was just beginning to set in, and the shop had wild bunches of the last of the summer cosmos on display, tied with string, pink and yellow and orange, childishly bright. The elegant, slender petaled chrysanthemum flower that was her namesake was also on display in singles and doubles, and she bent her head down to smell them, her nose filling with their green, aqueous smell. It was usually the second to last flower to bloom in the year. There had been no chrysanthemums growing where she had grown up, and she had scarcely known that she was named for a flower. It wasn’t until Yuki had offered to make her a cup of chrysanthemum tea that she had learned that fact.

As she cast her eyes around, they landed finally on a familiar sight, a scarlet nest of spindly protrusions, grown from a bulb, fierce and scarlet and beautiful.

Her eyes went wide.

He had been full of happy impatience, that day; all smiles and nervous movements. He had wanted to give it to her, that patch of ground, had wanted to make a present of it. She had not known at the time, but it had been his way of saying this is your home, this garden is mine but it is yours too, put something of yourself into it so that you can know that it belongs to you, that you built something here with me, that we were here together. "This spot is for ya'.” He had said. “Grow whatever ya' want here- onions, scallions, garlic, cress, cabbage. Whatever ya' want."

“Here. Give them to me. I'll carry 'em for ya’."

"They're pretty. This was a good idea ya' had. I wonder what these are?"

“The fox is having his wedding…”

He had given her a spot of her own in the garden in which to grow whatever she’d wanted, and she had wanted flowers. She had raced to the river and dug the flowers out of the riverbed with her bare hands, carrying them back bulb and all.

She had greeted him with mud on her face and arms full of spider lilies, and he had pronounced them beautiful.

He had barely looked at the flowers. She had thought that he must have been lying, just to appease her.

They were the first thing that they had put in the flower bed, and her spider lilies had returned every year after, as constant and steadfast as the rain. They had always bloomed for his birthday, and for hers too, thriving brightly as the world around them was beginning to decay.

It had been so long since she had seen them, and her heart ached all of a sudden for a ramshackle garden and a rundown house, for happy summer days, and for a boy made of smiles and silver, all so far away.

Hisana had returned with the pot of tea, and she poured a cup for each of them. In the damp autumn chill, the steam from the tea condensed quickly, spiralling and smoking in the air.

I need to have one, she thought. She burned with it, suddenly, the need to have some reminder, some memento, some thing that could tie her present to her past, something to convince her that it had been real.

(Because it had been real. Hadn’t it?)

(Hadn’t it?)

“Hisana?” Rangiku asked abruptly. “How much is it for one of these?”

Hisana’s hands flew to her mouth as if she had sparked off a catastrophe.

“Oh,” she said gravely. “I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Rangiku’s face contorted in confusion.  “Huh?” she asked, her mouth a small ‘o’.

Hisana took her hand gently. “You’ve not lost someone?”

Rangiku blinked. “No…?” She laughed loudly, retracting her hand to thread it nervously through her hair.

“Oh. Then I’m sorry. The higanbana is not a pleasant flower,” Hisana said in a small voice. “We only stock them for O-Higan, so that people might commemorate their loved ones who have passed on.”

Rangiku was silent, her brow wrinkled.

Ayame looked at her gently. “They’re flowers for the dead, Rangiku-chan,” she said. “People put them near graves, so that vermin won’t get at the bodies.”

“I didn’t know that,” Rangiku said quietly, a strange despair curling in her belly. “I always just thought that they were pretty.”

Hisana was a kind soul, and she rallied quickly to try and brighten Rangiku’s spirits.

“They are very pretty, and they do look interesting. There aren’t many flowers that look like a spider lily, and not many flowers at all grow so late in the year. And there are so many stories about them. They’re interesting flowers really.” She smiled enthusiastically.

Ayame was contemplative. 

“They say that once upon a time, the flower was the most sacred flower of all,” she said pensively. “Two spirits were commanded to guard the plant. One guarded the leaves, and the other the flower. But the tragedy was the leaves and the flower can never grow at the same time, so the spirits could never see each other.

But the spirits fell in love anyway, though the stories never tell that part. They decided to run away together, to become everything to one another, defying every law of the gods in the process. The gods raged at their disobedience, as all gods do, drunk and violent in their power, and they decided to punish the lovers for their insolence, for daring to abandon their god-demanded duty.

They would never meet again for all eternity, and never will, not until every star in the sky blackens and sputters out. Not until the sun and moon embrace each other in the sky without covering one another up. Not even then. They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again will still see higanbana growing along their path to this day, because of those two spirits. Red spider lilies.”

Rangiku’s expression must have been strange, because Hisana took her hand gently and looked her in the eyes earnestly.

“They’re just stories, Rangiku-kun,” she said kindly. “It is also said that the higanbana light the way to the next life, for what that’s worth. So they’re not all bad. You shouldn’t let stories get in the way of a pretty thing. If you want one, you should buy one.”

But something of the melancholy of the story had worked its way deep into her heart, and she felt like an empty-headed fool all of a sudden to have liked them so openly and enthusiastically.

Knowing the sad truth behind the lovely scarlet flowers, she was certain that she would never be able to look at them in the same way ever again. Joy in their beauty and all of her fond, sun-lit memories would be tinged forever now with a streak of sadness, like a line of spilled blue ink.

She could not stand the sight of them.

Outside, the drumming of the rain was beginning to slow.

She laughed a bright, fragile laugh, but it sounded a little hollow even to her own ears.

"No, no," she said, "I wouldn't want something as depressing as that in my room, Hisana-chan. Only pink cosmos for me from now on. You've done me a favor in any case, because I was going to spend my money on mochi, not flowers." She grasped around desperately for a change in subject, so that the two women would stop giving her such pitying looks. "Good job that your boss isn't here! What would she think of Hisana actively stopping her customers from buying flowers, eh?"

When she laughed this time, it was more genuine.

Hisana blanched in anxiety.

"It's okay, it's okay," Rangiku said smiling, and sipped at her tea. "We won't tell if you don't."

Ayame glared daggers at Rangiku, who pulled a face at her in return. "When does O-higan start this year, Hisana-san?" she asked, kindly changing the topic for Hisana.

"Tomorrow, actually. It's a little bit later this year, apparently. O-higan follows the movement of the sun, or something like that," Hisana paused thoughtfully. "Or at least, that's what I've heard. It will end on the 29th though."

"Due to the nature of our, ah, work, it's very easy to lose track of time. Days and nights kind of all blur together. September already..." She trailed off suddenly into a fraught silence, looking unsettled, like the end of September heralded a death sentence.

Rangiku had other concerns.

"It's only a week until my birthday!" Rangiku yelped.

Hisana looked very confused.

"I do not know your line of work," she said politely, "but do you not have calendars there?" The question seemed genuine, but Rangiku pointed her finger at her all the same.

"Ayame-chan! Look at this! Hisana-chan has only known us for forty minutes, and she's already giving us sass about our inability to keep track of time. She knows us both so well already!"

Hisana looked shocked, but it only lasted a moment before she broke into a delicate, tinkling laugh. "I don't quite know how to respond to that. Happy birthday then, if I'm not fortunate enough to see you again before next week."

Ayame stood abruptly. "We should go, Rangiku-chan. We have chores to do, and the rain has eased off," she said shortly, her expression stormy.

"Eh? But I was having fun talking " Rangiku complained.

"We shouldn't infringe too long on Hisana-san's hospitality. We're keeping her from her job."

Rangiku was about to protest that the shop was empty, and likely to be empty for the rest of the morning, with the weather being as bad as it was, but she stopped herself when she caught sight of Ayame's troubled features. Her eyes narrowed.

"Okay," she nodded quietly. "Let's go."

If Hisana found their sudden departure rude or unexpected, it did not show on her smooth, polite face. "Don't forget the jasmine oil you ordered," she reminded them courteously.

Ayame looked at her. "Thank you. I might have, had you not reminded me." She paused, and her expression softened slightly. "Thank you so much for giving us shelter from the storm, and for the tea you made us. You didn't need to do that. Kindness is rare, even here. We appreciate it."

Hisana smiled sadly. "I've not met many people since I've moved here.” She ringed her delicate, pale wrists with her hands anxiously. “I left everyo- thing behind in Inuzuri. I spend most of my days here, in the shop, alone. It was nice just to have someone to talk with."

"Then I'll definitely come again when I next have a morning free," Rangiku vowed. Ayame gave her a sharp look, and she swiftly moved to correct her.

"Rangiku-chan doesn't get many mornings off, so that might be difficult," she said smoothly. "But I do. I'll definitely visit."

Rangiku was puzzled, but said nothing. They made their farewells, and left soon after.

As they turned the corner, Rangiku craned her neck to look back. Hisana sat behind the counter, alone. Her pale fingers played slowly with the petals of the spider lily.

It made for a sad picture.

The rain had stopped, but the cobbles on the street were slick with rainwater.

Gigantic puddles stretched across the street and captured the sky in their flat, reflective surfaces. It seemed to Rangiku that there was a second sky right at her feet, that she was walking above it, and that with every step, she might fall through the clouds. It was a dizzying, vertiginous feeling, like standing on the precipice and preparing to let herself fall. Her heart beat an odd, syncopated rhythm against her ribcage, and she could feel her pulse in her neck, and it made her feel slightly sick. A strange sense of unease settled over her.

They walked in silence, Ayame's face tight with some unspoken emotion, Rangiku's eyes downcast.

They bought the lye soap Chiyo requested, and stopped at a market stall so that Rangiku could buy her mochi, but by the time it was time for her to order, she had changed her mind and decided to buy herself hanami dango instead. It was almost time for them to be returning to the Floating Moon, and she figured that it would be more easy to eat dango as they walked across the bridge to get home.

Home.

She was just starting to eat the red bean dango, when Ayame stopped abruptly in front of her. Rangiku was so absorbed in eating that she walked barged into Ayame's back.

Her eyes flashed in irritation. "Hey!" she hissed, outraged. "Don't just stop in the middle of the road! I could have dropped my dango, and then we would have had to go back so that I could buy more." She pouted childishly.

Ayame closed her eyes and inhaled as if trying to reign in her temper. She exhaled steadily, and when she opened her eyes again, she said:

"You and I need to talk. Properly this time. No stupid games."

"I've not done anything wrong," Rangiku insisted immediately.

"No,” she said. “No you haven't. But you're making a huge mistake, Rangiku-chan."

Rangiku looked up from her dango and gave Ayame her full attention. "Hm?" she said, taking a bite.

"You're making a mistake." Ayame repeated quietly.

"What do you mean?" Something twisted nervously inside her at Ayame's tone of voice.

"Why are you here?"

Rangiku didn't understand.

"I work here.”

“No, Rangiku. You know what I mean.”

She didn’t.

“I need to eat, and this job's better than the alternatives,” Rangiku protested weakly. “And anyway, I like it. I like being around you, and Yuki-san, and Sayaka-chan, and Rin-san, and everyone else. I like being useful." To Rangiku, it was simple. She needed to eat, yes, but more than that, much stronger still, though she would never tell Ayame, she knew that she would sooner die than be alone again.

"Rangiku..."

Ayame sighed. Something in her seemed to crumple in on itself then, as if some iron pillar in her had collapsed under an immense weight. She looked Rangiku straight in the eyes, and her brown eyes were bright and almost desperate. Rangiku stared into them uncomprehending, and she tried to smile, to get Ayame to smile with her, but it was no use. Her gaze was almost too uncomfortable to bear.

"Not everyone is as lucky as you," Ayame gritted out. "Not everyone gets a choice. How do you think Yuki got started? She was thrown out of her house because she was found kissing girls, and had nowhere else to go. Sayaka? Sayaka was hooked on drugs when she was too young and trusting to know any better. Rin? Fled a marriage to a prosperous man who nearly killed her. She still has the scars on her back. Rangiku-" Ayame's voice caught in her throat, "don't make the mistake of glamorizing this. All of us were desperate. None of us had a choice. Maybe there are some girls out there who are lucky enough to have a say in whether they do this or not, and frankly, more power to them if they do. But never forget for a moment- for most of us, there is no choice, and there never has been."

Rangiku breath caught in her throat. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked weakly.

"Do you know how many of us get our start? We're sold into it. That's how it was for me, and that's normal." Ayame swallowed. "I've only just paid off my starting debt. I could leave, but there's no other way I'd be able to make money, so I'd just find myself back where I started, on the street. Girls like me- we’re trapped." She paused, and when she spoke, her voice was thick. "But you're not. You could leave today if you wanted. You could leave now. You've got power. You've got prospects. Why don't you understand? Why won’t you leave?"

Rangiku could feel a kind of hot shame curling in her chest. Her voice wavered when she spoke. "But who would keep you safe?" she said, her hands balling up in her yukata. "You need me." She was certain of that. "I keep you safe. You need me."

The look Ayame gave her was unspeakably soft.

Her words were not.

"We don't need you," she said gently. "We were alright before you came, and we'll be alright after you're gone." She paused, and when she repeated herself, she sounded so thoroughly matter of fact that Rangiku wanted to cry. “We don’t need you at all.”

Her cheeks were suddenly wet, and her dango felt sticky against her hand, but she barely noticed.

It's happening again, Rangiku thought dully. Why? Why does this always happen?

She had made this, this small thing for herself, this space of shared jokes and shared nights; she had folded herself inside it, had made herself indispensable to it in the hope that she would not ever have to suffer loneliness again. It was her sandcastle, standing small and proud on the shoreline, the work of childish hands and clumsy labour, and she had smiled to see it, to know that it was hers and hers alone.

But the tide was coming in. There was one truth for her, though never for anyone else it seemed: there could be no security anywhere in the world. Just this: the futile effort of building, building, building, just to see it all swept away in the end.

"That's the truth," Ayame said and her voice cracked. "We don’t need you. You'd never have to see any of the awful things you see regularly here ever again. Do you think it's healthy? To be responsible for the safety of so many people at your age? To have seen the things you've seen?"

Rangiku cheeks burned. Her mind replayed Ayame's words over and over again on repeat; we don't need you.

"Rangiku," Ayame said, her voice low and urgent. "Do you really think Chiyo is content to let someone like you sit around playing barmaid when you could be making her money? When I'm gone, the first thing she'll do is coerce you into whoring yourself out for her in my place. I'm on your side, and I will be even when no one else is- you have to listen to me."

It was this which snapped her attention back to Ayame.

"What do you mean, 'When I'm gone'?" she asked, her voice small and tremulous.

But Ayame was tight-lipped and would not say anymore.

"There is a place for you. Out there, behind those pale stone walls. The new term starts in January. If you aren't there, in that stupid uniform, when it starts-" her voice came out of her throat almost like a sob "-then I'll kick your ass into next Tuesday. I swear it. I will. I don’t have powers, but I’ll do it."

Rangiku was dazed. It felt as if the entire world had tilted sideways, like she had stepped through the clouds and she was falling through space.

"What is happening...?" she mumbled to herself in horrified wonder.

Behind gray clouds, the sun was beginning to dip below the skyline, and the shadows of the golden leaved gingkos and fire-garbed maple trees were beginning to crawl and lengthen over the cobbled street. What little sunlight was to be found played idly on the slow eddies of the river below.

She watched Ayame looked up at the sky, her expression unreadable.

How fragile, this life. How easily it crumbles apart.

Ayame sighed. Ragiku watched her as she readjusted her yukata neatly, as fastidious as ever.

"We'd best get back," she said with distantly. “The gong will be sounding soon.”

She walked ahead, and Rangiku watched her as her green-clad back got smaller and smaller , before finally disappearing around a corner.

Rangiku looked helplessly at the dango in her hand. Her hands were sticky, like a child’s.

With a heavy sigh, she lobbed the stick into the air.

It tumbled several inelegant somersaults before splashing into the water below. She was no longer hungry. She felt sick.

#bleach #ginran #gin ichimaru #rangiku matsumoto #hisana kuchiki #spider lilies #real life is kicking my ass #writing is just... not feasible for me rn #fyi check out gxlden's new fic on AO3 #sterling characterisation #places due importance on Gin's relationship with Aizen AND Rangiku #*chef's kiss*

[pivitor]

Emotional Roller-Coaster This Week

So, the last eight days have been an absolute whirlwind. Some really great things happened. Some really bad things happened. I’m kinda still reeling. I had some big firsts, and spent some time with great friends, had some real catharsis. I also fell further into depression than I have in a long, long time, and, oh yeah, got diagnosed with a chronic illness.

I need to get this all off my chest, cause I’m drowning. Join me? 

Before we start, there’s two things you need to know about me. Both are things I’ve mentioned in bits and pieces on here, but here’s the full story:

1. Three months ago I had shoulder surgery to repair a torn labrum (I technically tore it when I dislocated my arm in high school, and it’s been popping out on me once every other year or so ever since, but my most recent [and now final] dislocation was very bad and sent me right to the doctor). I spent about two weeks out of work, just sitting at home on the couch in a sling. The pain wasn’t great, but it was worse mentally: I put on a couple pounds and immediately started to feel terrible about myself, and being stuck at home when I wanted to be out there, doing stuff with friends or with guys or to reach a point where I can move out, felt terrible. I wasn’t in a great headspace for a long time. As of now I have about 95% of my arm function back, and am fully healed, just trying to get back the last of my range of motion and gradually increase back to my old strength threshold.

2. This one is a bit more complicated. I’ve talked a lot here about how I grew up in a cult, but I never went into further detail. Well, here we go: I was a J*hovah’s W*tness. (I’m censoring this because I don’t want this showing up in searches) It wasn’t something I would have ever chose for myself, but when you’re born into it, you’re pretty heavily indoctrinated -- I thought it was the gospel truth despite having many reasons not to. They’re a very homophobic organization, so growing up in it wrecked my self esteem. My entire childhood and time as a teenager I thought I was worthless and doomed, destined for eternal destruction. I was often suicidal. When I was about 18 or 19 the cult printed an article “clarifying” their view on homosexuality, and said they recognized that some people are just naturally attracted to the same gender and as long as they don’t act on it they’re still “acceptable” to God. It’s dangerous bullshit that makes me so angry now, but as a brainwashed, suicidal teenager, it felt like the only chance I had to live a worthwhile life, so I got baptized into the religion, which is the biggest mistake I have ever made in my life, because once you’re a baptized member of the cult, if you leave you’ll be shunned by everyone you’ve ever known. Your own parents will treat you as if you’re dead. I was very zealous for a year or two before realizing that I just couldn’t do it anymore, but it’s taken me nearly ten years to fully wake up from the indoctrination, read information from outside religions, scientists, and former members who have left. Currently I still live with my family and have to pretend to still believe (because the moment I don’t they’ll kick me out on the street), and am on the cusp of two promotions at work. As soon as those go through, I should be able to save money to move out, which I wanna do before the summer, and then I’ll be completely free.

Okay, the rollercoaster week itself:

Pre-Monday: For about a week, a week and a half before this all started, I’d been experiencing some pain in my side that was making it hard to sit up for long periods of time. This normally would’ve been a major red flag, but thanks to the shoulder surgery, I’d been having random back pains off and on recently anyway. I assumed it was related to me overcompensating for the shoulder and left it alone. Big mistake.

Monday: So one of my promotions at work involves a coaching center we’re launching. We were supposed to do our first presentation last Monday, and when my boss showed up for it, everything fell apart. It wasn’t totally my fault -- the general condition of the office itself wasn’t up to par, and the boss recognized that there wasn’t much I could do about that -- but a lot was, and I spent all week trying to fix things and get them running, and running into one major roadblock and frustration after another. We’re finally doing the presentation today, but it technically still isn’t 100% fixed. Work has been a major, major source of stress all week. I don’t think I’ll mention it again because there’s not much more to it than what I’ve listed here, but remember that it’s hanging over my head all week.

Monday night I was invited to a birthday party for a friend from my gym. Since the cult doesn’t celebrate holidays, I’d never actually been a birthday party before, complete with cake and singing happy birthday and everything. It was really nice -- even though it was truly just a bunch of guys hanging around a bar watching the Eagles, it still felt like something really special. I also spent about a half an hour in my car before I walked into the bar trying not to hyperventilate. I don’t feel guilty at all as I may have once, but I was still really worried about being seen by someone and my family finding out.

Wednesday: Tuesday was my only truly normal day of the week, and even then, we had my cousin staying with us up until Wednesday, so even then it wasn’t truly normal. We normally have church on Thursday nights (I have to attend so as not to blow my cover, but I tend to stand in the lobby and play on my phone the entire time; it’s a nice chance to catch up on my reading usually), but I had a concert on Thursday I was not going to miss, so I told my parents I was going to a different congregation on Wednesday night, but instead I went to Starbucks and caught up on Crisis on Infinite Earths. It’s...depressing that this is what I’m reduced to, but I was happy that it finally occurred to me to just...lie about it.

When I got home and took off my shirt to change into my pajamas, I noticed a patchy, red rash on my stomach, side, and back, right around the same area I’d been having pain for the last week or two. I’d absolutely never had anything like this happen before, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I crossed my fingers that it was an allergic reaction, put some cortisone cream on it, and decided to wait a couple days to see if anything changed.

Thursday: On Thursday I drove up to Philly after work, and ate a few slices at my favorite pizza place, reading comics, until it was time for the concert. It was a free show from Pkew Pkew Pkew, a band I truly, truly love, and it was one of my favorite shows of the year. Just pure joy. They played for about an hour, but were the opening act, and I don’t care for the headliner (Beach Slang), so I had originally had a few ideas about what I could do afterwards, considering that their set was over by 10 or so. I could go home (coward’s option), I could go to the Barcade. What I really wanted to do was go to a gay bar or club. I’d gone right before my surgery and had a great time, but I’d been avoiding going back (or joining a dating app or anything else) until my arm fully healed because it would very much have gotten in the way of doing anything physical. I was finally in the place where I could use my arm, but now I had that strange mysterious rash, and didn’t think it was right to do anything like that until I’d figured it out/gotten it cleared up. I don’t wanna pass anything on to anybody.

By sheer coincidence, Philly’s Emo Night ended up being this very same night (this one is held once a month), so I ended up heading over there and dancing until 2AM. I got very drunk and had a fantastic time. But there were a lot of couples. There was this girl that kept hitting on me, and then getting pissy when I didn’t reciprocate. There was this extremely hot dude in a Misfits hoodie, and early in the night we were the only two who were dancing, and he gave me a high five that he pulled into a bro hug after the song, which got me all riled up, but I couldn’t work it into anything else haha. And then this group of about four guys or so showed up, dancing all night, very affectionate, cupping each other’s faces when they talked to each other and all that. I’d seen them before and both times thought they might be gay, so I stuck close and was kinda part of their group for the night, which was really really fun. At the end of the night, one of them mentioned their girlfriend, and I reeled way more than I had any right to. I had a fantastic night. I went home feeling very alone.

Friday: Friday was my gym’s Christmas Party, which, much like Monday, was my first ever Christmas Party. I had a really fun time chatting with everyone, eating, watching one friend get drunk, try to jump up on the rings, and get dragged home by his wife. We had rowing contests and the losers had to take shots. But there was one guy there I’ve always had a crush on, a very straight, very married guy, and he was looking extremely hot and was acting extremely funny all night, and it was rough. I went home and dreamed about him all night. I woke up feeling even more alone and frustrated.

Saturday: I was pretty depressed and listless by this point. Feeling really sorry for myself despite all the fun I’d had all week. I had plans to drive up to Asbury Park for an Aaron West and the Roaring Twenties show and I just...really didn’t feel like going. But I drug myself out of bed and made myself go, because you don’t miss the gig. Before the show I wandered around Asbury, basically torturing myself. I wanted to visit a restaurant but had eaten lunch too late and wasn’t hungry. I found a gay club but still had that rash, so I didn’t wanna go in. I ended up standing on the beach, in the dark, finally having a genuine smile as I dodged the waves, but also just thinking about how sometimes Kangaroos just walk into the ocean and...never come back. I was not in a good headspace. I made myself get off the beach.

The show though...damn, that show. Dan played the second Aaron West album, Routine Maintenance, from front to back, and it’s an album about Aaron making the people in his life proud of him, about his friends giving him direction, about finding redemption through being there for his family in their darkest hour. That kind of shit is my kryptonite to begin with, but all I could think about was how all I had ever wanted in my life was to make my family proud, and how I’d never be able to do it, how someday soon they’re just...never gonna talk to me again. I cried twice during the set. And afterwards I got to hug Dan and tell him how much the album fucks me up. It was really cathartic. I felt the cloud start to lift.

Sunday: So Sunday I finally go to the doctor about this fucking rash, which hadn’t gotten any worse but had not gotten any better either. The diagnosis?

I have fucking shingles.

For those who don’t know, shingles is the chicken pox virus. After you’ve had chicken pox it never really leaves your body -- it stores itself away in your nerves. As an adult, it can reemerge as shingles, which begins as an intense pain, then advances into painful rashes on one side of your torso. Without intervention, they can continue to spread and become almost immobilizing. I’m currently on a pill I have to take three times a day for seven days, which will stop the progression of the shingles, and then it will heal up on its own, but it could take a few weeks.

Thankfully, I’m not contagious -- I can only spread the disease if someone has prolonged, direct contact with the rashes. I can be around people, but like I feared, it does rule out sex for a while. The worst part is that shingles as a disease can’t really be healed. The symptoms will go away, but I’ll be susceptible to outbreaks the rest of my life. Fortunately, the doctor made it sound pretty manageable -- the pain in my side, in that exact same spot, will always be my first symptom, so as soon as I feel that I need to get to a doctor and get back on the seven day medication to end the flare-up. It doesn’t sound like shingles flare-ups are super common either -- reading up on it, it looks like most people have, at the most, three outbreaks in their life. But, it’s still a chronic illness, and it’s one that’s very rare to emerge at this young of an age -- this is something you normally get in your fifties or sixties, not your early thirties! 

Honestly, I could only laugh. Just my luck, right? I’m so frustrated. My arm’s finally reached the point where I can get back to trying to pursue guys, but nope! the shingles has to postpone it a few more weeks :/

But despite it all, the depression of the rest of the week had mostly lifted. I had processed it. I was feeling better. For a while.

Back in the spring I had joined a subreddit for former members of the cult, which is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, as it let me share my story with people who had been there and understood, and really helped clear out the last remnants of the programming from my brain. Every once in a while different gay Ex cult member will contact me on there, and I’ve struck up a few nice casual friendships. Last week a guy reached out to me on there looking for friends in the same situation as him, and I replied, and on Friday he finally replied back, and we texted each off and on Saturday and Sunday morning. Sunday night, though, we got into a deeper conversation. He’s in his early twenties, and some of the stuff he was asking for advice about made it sound like he was just starting to wake up from the programming and just starting to think about leaving and being gay and everything. Eventually, as we talk more, I find out that that’s not fully the case. He’s jealous of some of the stuff I’ve done that he hasn’t -- going to Pride, going to gay bars -- but unlike me, he’s had a fair amount of sex. Like any closeted Witness, he had to drive into unfamiliar cities to do so, and it’s a strategy I’ve thought of trying but never pulled off. 

I dunno, I’m so depressed. I feel like such a failure. I know having sex doesn’t make you a better person, and not having sex doesn’t intrinsically make you a failure. But I feel like this because I want it so badly, because I always have, and I could have been doing it for years, and I’ve been really forced to confront the fact that it’s my own fear that’s been getting in my way all this time. If I’d really tried I could’ve done it by now. If I really tried I probably could’ve moved out and started my new life by now -- I’d probably be dirt broke in an apartment with like eight roommates, but I could’ve done it. I don’t feel like anybody else, including this guy I was chatting with, have been judging me for this, but I’m pretty disgusted with myself, irrational as it may be. I know it’s not true, but I feel like my whole life has been a waste of time. And I’m so fucking sick of it.

So. This is everything I’ve been processing this week. I don’t really know what to do with it. I’ve gotta be patient a little while longer. Keep working on my real estate licensing test so I can make some more money. Wait for the shingles to heal up. Get on Grindr and just, fucking, fuck some dude the moment I’m cleared up.

But fuck, I’m so fucking sick of waiting.

#pivitor

[btsybrkr]

2020 Vision: What To Expect From The Next Decade (By Someone Who Has No Idea, Obviously.)

Happy New Year, all!! I had planned to do a little run-down last week of everything that happened in the 2010s, but instead succumbed to the existential struggle that comes with the week that follows Christmas Day, in which your time becomes largely swallowed up by asking yourself ‘what day is it?’ and ‘at what point am I supposed to stop living on a diet of alcohol and Quality Street?’. It’s festive purgatory, and you’re literally powerless to do anything other than sleep, eat, and moan that the shops are still playing Christmas music. That’s my excuse, anyway.

So, instead, I thought we’d say a collective “cinnabit, lad” to 2019 and a collective “what is UP, dude?” to the Roaring 20s 2.0, the only sequel that humanity has waited a whole 100 years for. Apart from Avatar 2, which I imagine will come out at some point in the 3020s.  What do we know so far about what the 2020s have in store for us? Obviously, not a lot, but as someone who successfully predicted the outcome of the last election, and the UK’s last four Eurovision losses - two things which I’m sure absolutely nobody ever saw coming - I thought I’d give out my own valuable speculation. Here’s what the 2020s might look like, according to me.

Politics

Let’s get it out of the way - we’re in a terrible state. At this point, every important issue is so divisive, that the nation is divided over everything, including whether we’re actually divided or not. Do I think we’ll become any less divided in the coming years, in a United Kingdom where the conversation is so often dominated by things we can absolutely never seem to agree on? Yes. We will have no choice. Why? 

All-out war.

Yes, I said it. In 2021, there will be all-out war. With America, probably. I don’t know why. Maybe Trump will get into an argument with Boris Johnson over who can manage to effortlessly look the most like a Viz caricature of themselves - they both already do somehow, I’m just saying they might disagree on which one of them is the best at it. Could be that, or possibly a more serious cause, to do with nuclear weapons or something, but I’d rather not think about that, because it’s not as funny as the Viz thing. And it’s more likely. So, we’ll pretend for now that we’re on the verge of the first pantomime, slapstick war the world has ever seen.

Anyway, while Trump and Johnson are beefing up a storm - picture Punch and Judy, except the puppets are in suits and have thinning, bright yellow hair - previously all-encompassing issues like Brexit will fall by the wayside, until Boris Johnson eventually decides to hand his notice in to focus on more important things, like beating Trump with a wooden spoon and chasing after the dog that stole all his sausages. After this, we’ll all come together to realise that if actual elected officials can’t do the job, then maybe we, the people, deserve our chance to test our political metal. Obviously, we can’t let just anybody have a go, but at the end of the year, Cosmopolitan magazine puts the traditional democratic process at number one on its ‘Leave It In 2021’ list, so we have absolutely no choice but to come up with something else, which brings me to...

Television And Film

2022 will start with a bang, with the debut of Simon Cowell’s new talent show format, So You Think You Can Be The Prime Minister?, hosted of course by Ant and Dec, with the aftershow on ITV2 being hosted by Jeremy Paxman. Contestants will line up in huge crowds to give judges Russell Brand, Susanna Reid, and, of course, Jesus S. Cowell himself (forgot to mention, Simon Cowell has been elected as the new Christ in this completely non-hypothetical universe, alright?) their opinions on hot political topics such as Brexit, the NHS, and, of course, whether a Jaffa Cake can really be classed as a biscuit or not. Each episode, contestants will take part in a live debate, themed around a different issue with every passing week. The two least popular contestants after the weekly phone vote will go head-to-head giving their own rendition of Running The World by Jarvis Cocker, with the worst performer being eliminated. I know a sing-off isn’t exactly relevant in a politics programme, but it’s Saturday night primetime so it’s still got to be at least somewhat entertaining, yeah?

Love Island will be back, of course - and not just with a Summer and Winter edition, but with an additional Spring and Autumn one for the 2024 schedule! This will be a win-win situation for the series producers, and for its viewers, as by 2027, ITV will run out of attractive under-35s to appear on the show, and members of the public will begin getting called up to appear - like with jury duty, except that ITV pay for you to have extensive cosmetic surgery first, so that you’re aesthetically pleasing enough for people to want to tune in, and so that you can maintain a successful career selling Bootea on Instagram afterwards. 

Films will also go through a renaissance in the 2020s, as the Hollywood big boys come to a conclusion that everything has just become a little too… blockbuster. To remedy this, they make the joint decision that, 100 years on, we should take ourselves back to the silent film era, which will surely create hundreds of jobs for mute people, therefore solving Hollywood’s problems with a lack of diversity in film. It’ll also give well-known TikTok creators a chance to make the leap into mainstream entertainment, as they’ll have spent so long lip-synching over the years that they’ll now be more qualified to star in these new golden age pictures than actual trained actors. Obviously, that sounds absolutely beyond comprehension, but look at Count Orlok in 1922’s Nosferatu. See his slender limbs, blank stare, gothic dress sense - in a way, he’s the original e-boy, and there’s plenty of them out there on TikTok now that could play the titular vampire just as well in a 100th anniversary remake, just with less neck-biting and more lip-biting. Trust me, it’ll be a hit.

Technology

Throughout the 2010s, there’s been a lot of talk about everyone spending too much time on their bloody phones, so, in 2024, Apple will try to combat this issue when they unveil perhaps their most innovative product to date - the iPhone XZ+, a phone which exists solely in the mind of its users. Not in a Black Mirror, chip-inside-your-brain sort of way, either. It is literally imaginary. It’s a phone that, instead of being a phone, is actually just the concept of a phone. Yes, for the small cost of £1,500 and six units of your own soul, you, too, can block the rest of the world out. How amazing is that? No more wasting hours of your day keeping in touch with friends and family. No more accessing a wealth of information, wherever you are, with a quick Google. No more blocking out the sound of cackling pre-teens on the bus by putting in your earphones and listening to music. These things are bad and must be stopped, before we become an entire species of communicating, bopping, learning zombies.

I think those must be bad things anyway, since you can rarely go a few seconds scrolling through social media without stumbling across a ‘woke’ meme about how the use of smartphones is destroying us, one notification at a time - memes which I’m absolutely sure were created and posted from a book or a potato or something. Otherwise they’d just be hypocritical, wouldn’t they?

Anyway, the iPhone XZ+. It’s the only thing you need inside your head this decade. Apart from a very real ever-growing sense of fear and doom, which you can get for free.

Sport

The next decade will see the Olympics and Paralympics take place in 2020, 2024 and 2028, as well as the Winter equivalents to both in 2022 and 2026. You’d think we’d be all Olympic-ed out with that, but in the absence of anything else that gets people feeling remotely patriotic in a purely nice way, the world will decide to come together to throw scaled-down, low-budget Olympic games in all the off-years this decade. 

Summer 2021 will see the start of the first ever Not-The-Actual-Olympics. Marked by a glamourous opening ceremony in a field in Loughborough, the opening will feature a series of performances from stars such as H from Steps, and will be attended by some people who aren’t the royal family, but really do look like them. Taking place over the 10-week long games will be thumb wars, arm wrestling, staring contests, and an exciting event in which competitors try to eat the most HobNobs they possibly can without the help of a glass of water to combat the extreme dry-mouth they end up with. It might sound underwhelming now, but if there turns out to be any truth in the other predictions I’ve made here, it might be just what you need to restore your faith in the everyday.

Happy New Year, Everyone

In all seriousness - not that the rest of this isn’t serious, because it is, and is definitely all going to happen - whatever the coming years bring, it’s important to remember that we have to take the good with the bad, to look after ourselves and each other, and to enjoy each day as much as we possibly can, even during the bits of life that leave us feeling a little less Gangnam Style than we did way back in 2012. Thanks, everyone, for reading my blog. I’ll be back again in a week or so to talk absolute arse about something else. Until then, I hope you all had a great 2019, and have an even better start to 2020. Cheers!

[yakumtsaki]

I only call you when it's half past five, the only time that I'll be by your side, I only love it when you touch me, not feel me, when I'm fucked up, that's the real me, when I'm fucked up, that's the real me, BABE ♪

Here we fucking go again, desperately trying to make the fuckboi wolf commit to a serious relationship. My plan to turn Komei into a werewolf crashed and burned last generation and Jojo has had the want locked for like 10 years and it just won’t fucking happen. I’ve never had a non-cheaty werewolf in this game, I don’t know how other people do it but I’m having a ridic hard time with it. Victor’s ghost is judging me and who can blame him.

Speaking of, Shajar’s makeover is this wolf shirt, and yes, full shade intended. I still can’t believe she rolled popularity, way to single out your weakest spot and make it your life’s purpose. I mean that would be like Wyatt rolling fam-  ..nevermind.

UGH. Will you pick a fucking attitude and stick with it you furry asshole??? 

What kind of defective cuck wolf even is this. He won’t befriend us but he won’t attack either, he just sits around with his plastic bone playing house. USELESS. I didn’t know it was possible to hate a digital animal this much..

..but here comes Maxx to defy all expectations. Happy birthday Maxx, you look so wholesome and Lassie-like, I’m sure life with you will be like a vacation!

LOL. Is antagonizing Sophie really how you want to start your adult life, Maxx?? Well I guess having eyes is overrated.

SOPHIE WTF. You beat Victor but can’t take on this flop? Where is your holy warrior spirit??

- I’m old af and starting to worry about my eternal soul, so I’m literally turning the other cheek.

Nice, thanks for nothing. God I miss Victor.

Man, Maxx has ISSUES. He doesn’t even have a mean personality or a bad relationship with the cats, why are you like this you freak??

NOOOO not the fucking pet fight club again omg MAXX YOU DICK

Great, amazing job, Goro! The real Goro is rolling in his grave. All this went down in literally under a minute after Maxx grew up, talk about determination. 

-HA, kneel before Zod!

That’s not even from Mortal Kombat, Maxx, god, can you not make this worse than it is?

-Yea like I give a shit, what am I, some kind of fatass nerd cat?? I’m a dog, bitch, I like running..

Omg.

-And playing outside..

OMG.

-And being affectionate to my owners!

STOP. Christ, what kind of monster have I brought into our lives???

-One day in and I’m already the alpha.. Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Oh yes, Maxx is.. The best boy. And soon this cat legacy.. will be history.. the Age of Dog.. is finally.. upon us. 

💔💔💔💔💔

Not that we needed further proof that Maxx was given to us straight out of Satan’s unholy womb, but guess who else loves him on top of Cyneswith?? Why, Wyatt, of course, chief of police married to a serial killer, truly the best judge of character the world has ever known. Show me your friends..

..and I’ll show you who you are. UGH DAGMAR

-As a mailwoman I’m programmed to hate your kind, but I feel such a connection between us.. It’s like the universe conspired-

GTFO. Don’t test me, istg I’ll marry you in..

..you actually don’t look half bad compared to what else is out there. Shajar brings Toadface McBooberson here home from school which. why does bigger cleavage clothing even exist for teens and why do I have it, I really need to stop downloading default replacements in the dark. Anyway, hope you’re all ready for the adventure called ‘What is Shajar’s sexual orientation/does she even have one’!

Ugh, this certainly feels familiar. Shajar please, PLEASE fight your Jojo genes, I mean everyone loves Cyneswith, this is shaping up to be Gunter/Jojo volume 2 AND I CAN’T DEAL WITH IT AGAIN

-So, Butterface, my ambition in life is to have my own music theme play whenever I enter a room, like Darth Vader or Mary Poppins-

-Isn’t the sound of people already in the room sighing enough of a theme for you?

-Well it looks like one little frog around here isn’t getting turned into a princess!

Yea, I really don’t know what I expected?? Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.

Speaking of daddy dearest, let’s check in. How’s it going, Jo? Great? Thought so, ok bye-

-DON’T YOU DARE PAN AWAY AND LEAVE ME TO MY MISERY MY ASPIRATION IS SCARLET RED

I’m sorry Jo but I’m a hear no evil, see no evil, spend-legacy-time-on-no-evil type of bitch and your life just bums me out at this point. But if it’s any consolation, it’s all your fault!

-HOW THE HELL IS IT MY FAULT I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS BULLSHIT

Um, YEA YOU DID. This is generation 2, we’re barely middle class and being heir is quite literally a shit job. Of course you could have minimized the impact had you chosen someone else to marry, but you just HAD to have Wyatt Narcolepsy Monif so.. talk to you later?

-Wyatt I’m worried our ship is sinking and no amount of rotting birthday cake can ease the pain.

-Oui, my estomac hurts toό.. Nothing 14 heures of sleepé won’t remédit of coursé :)

-DIDN’T NEED SUCH A GRAPHIC REMINDER THAT LIFE IS GARBAGE

God, wtf more do you want, 15k and still whining-

-OH. Well this just has Wyatt written all over it, but omg he tried to do a household task, just got confused at the very end. Bravo, leaps and bounds!

Meanwhile Shajar is having a successful interaction with a family member!! It’s a toddler who can’t get away, but whatever, it counts. Looks like this is a game-changing night for everyone.

-YES IT REALLY IS.

Jojo how about you take a page out of Komei’s book and devote your leftover energy to cats or cooking contests or banging Marissa Bendett instead of this constant, obnoxious guilt-tripping?? Man I really didn’t appreciate Komei while I had him.

7 a.m., the usual morning lineup, start on the chores and sweep 'till the floor's all clean, polish and wax, do laundry, and mop and shine up, sweep again, and by then it's like 7:15,  

and so I'll read a book, or maybe two or three, I'll add a few new paintings to my gallery, I'll play guitar and knit, and cook and basically-

-just wonder when will my life begin? ♪

And of course that’s Victor making his nightly appearance and helping put Jojo out of his misery. What a sweetheart!

With the addition of Wulf and his 10 active points generation 3 has officially evolved past sleep, we’re talking 10/10/9 (Shajar you lazy bum) and it’s seriously exhausting. You know how when sims are asleep you can check your phone or eat smth or w/e, yea that’s simply not happening anymore, I’m in constant vigilance all night long..

..and thank god because otherwise I would have missed Allegra and Victor’s ghosts playing??? WTF MAXIS. I’ve never seen this before and it’s the rare combo of sad and adorable. Right in the feels ❤️💔

THAT WASN’T AN INVITATION TO EXPRESS YOUR SADNESS FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME JOJO

Oh “ok” it’s a cockroaches related freak-out. I don’t see anyone else crying over them but that’s Jojo for you. Exterminator bro if you’re that grossed out by a pile of dead insects I have some bad news for you regarding your profession. And while we’re on the topic of professions and crying:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You may recall that Wyatt has been one promotion away from his LTW for about 150 years and all we’ve been doing since is trying to amass the 8 friends needed for it. Welp, we finally got them through our blood, sweat and tears, so what does Wyatt do the day he was supposed to get promoted?? Get fired of course, what else! 

Honestly I’m not even mad, this truly is like the culmination of everything we know Wyatt to be. I mean just cast your minds back to the final moments of this post. We knew what we were getting into. Rock on, Wyatt!

-Nό, there is no disgracéd police capitaine in this maison! Quelle?? I’m not even Français! Et toi shouldn’t be calling personnes at 5 p.m when everyόné is sound asleép!

Time for the black sheep to get the full Kylo Ren treatment. Looking good, Shaj! Now let’s put that hot makeover to use-

-NO.

Here we go, HUMAN contact. Toadface was a bust so let’s try a dude. Shajar do you mind talking about something other than your dead pets??

-But I don’t want to talk about anything else!

Yea and I don’t want to overstate things but I’m getting the distinct feeling finding you a partner is gonna make Daniel’s run at it look like Californication.

Well, the data we’ve gathered so far points to Shajar being a noogiesexual, I’m sure somewhere on tumblr there already exists a pride flag for it. 

That’s right, mop up the dog piss from that grass and think about the face you present to the world.

HOW IS YOUR ASPIRATION GONE TO SHIT AGAIN. WTF ARE YOU DOING WHEN I’M NOT LOOKING, GOING AROUND FACING YOUR FEARS?? JFC

-I have a perma fear of leading the miserable life I’m trapped in.

-Oh look, my kid is potty trainted and I get 5k points.. I’m soooo happy... Definitely don’t miss my serial killer days...

Ok I can’t take this anymore, either Wyatt will have to take up more household duties..

..or we can aim for something within the realm of reality and build a robot servant instead. And if you’re thinkering you’re not whining! Everyone wins.

In the dead of the night, a time when only 12 year old children are awake and watching god knows what-

-Game of Thrones! Team Stark!

Ugh, of course you are-

-Wulf grows up! 

-Woo happy birthday Wulf! Don’t even try to come for my golden child crown, I’m as perfect as my grades.

I don’t like what Game of Thrones is doing to you, Cyn.

First thing Wulf does after his pj makeover is head for the keyboard, which makes the choice for his general makeover clear as day:

Wulf...Wolf...WOLFGANG. I mean, some things are just written in the stars..

..AND SOME THINGS AREN’T, in this case Shajar’s dating life. We get another Butterface McBooberson (wtf is it with this dress in this town) but this one is also sporting terrible hair as a bonus. Score!

Great, we’ve moved from music themes to dead pets to world domination. At least we’re committing to the Kylo persona. Butter 2.0 is into it?? Get a grip girl.

-Um why do you think I have this last century hair? I’m very into monarchy.

This is not only going non-disastrously but dare I say, well?? I can’t tell if I want it to work or not though, on one hand I’ve made my feelings about this face template abundantly clear.. on the other hand this is the first human (except her 10 nice point sister) to like Shaj.. 

..thankfully it looks like there’s no need to solve that dilemma after all. Btw at the time of this writing I literally still don’t know if Shajar is into girls or dudes, or both. No reaction to anyone whatsoever. 

Meanwhile even after the noogie Butter is super receptive and doesn’t hate us? I was as shocked as you are, if we were rich I’d think she has some ulterior motive but nop, it’s just low standards. God bless them-

-cause we made our first friend!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank the fucking lord Shajar’s LTW isn’t friend related, take a wild guess what it is instead.. And of course, the answer is ‘become Mayor’. I can just see the banner now: ‘vote Shajar Union or face the deadly consequences’.

-Ahh my dear, finally, no screaming toddlers ruining my life while you pretend you can’t hear them.. Now I can slowly start un-resenting you.. Maybe there’s hope for this marriage after all..

Not if Cyneswith has anything to do with it! After spending her entire childhood cockblocking by sleeping in her parents’ bed, she literally grew up just as they were about to woohoo for the first time in 10 years. how in character. Wanna know what isn’t in character??? Hold on to your seats, everyone..

............

....................................

..............................................

OK THEN. Much like Wolfgang there is but one appropriate look for the above:

Did anyone think fucking Lolita Cyneswith was remotely possible, let alone probable?? ROMANCE?? And into the elderly???? I thought that combo was bad enough, I mean then you bring in the tinkering factor on top of it and it’s like, Waylon Fairchild and college profs won’t know what hit them.. How naive I was. Things can always, always get worse, and in this family, they usually do. You can probably tell where I’m going with this.. Fast forward a few days and the LTW shows up..

..........................................yup. You know it’s been months and you’d think I’d have articulated a response by now that isn’t just screaming or miscellaneous incoherent sounds, and yet! what can I say, sometimes emotions are so powerful that words fail us. In lieu of a written reaction please listen to this song after the specified time stamp. It’s 3 minutes long and the only lyric is ‘oh no’.

#ts2 #gen 2

[janeykath318]

Kiss, Marry, Kill: Kirk x Reader

It all started as a joke: someone in the security department had done the Kiss, Marry, Kill, game with certain co workers and it had started to spread, even down to Medbay, where various nurses could be heard debating the merits of Scotty, Uhura, and even Chekov. The Captain ended up overhearing while he was getting patched up one day and you knew you were all doomed. 

"So, Nurse Y/L/N, how am I faring on the lists down here? Did I make it on a lot of people's Kiss list?" "I hate to break it to you, captain," you told him, mirth dancing in your eyes, "you're actually leading in the Kill category. Dr. McCoy in particular was very vocal in his choice." "Of course he would," Kirk sighed, rolling his far too pretty eyes. "I did think some of you liked me better than that." He made a sad puppy face that was next to impossible to resist, especially for you who secretly had it bad for him. "Maybe if you wouldn't be in here so much, we wouldn't be so sick of you, captain," you said mischievously. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know." "So, if I stayed perfectly healthy, you'd respect me more?" He asked, half teasingly. "Possibly," you hinted. "Maybe acting less like a child when you're getting hypos would help too. Just a tip." You winked at him and walked out to get the doctor, leaving Jim staring after you, torn between being insulted and in love. The next few days, the Kiss, Marry, Kill theme seemed to really spread over the ship. In fact, someone in the bridge crew announced there would be a contest for people to submit their Kiss, Marry, Kill choices, (among the single officers) along with written out reasons to be judged by Uhura and Sulu. Those with the best reasoning for their picks would get to have dinner with the officer of their dreams. You rolled your eyes and wondered just how desperate the Captain was to be liked. "No way am I doing this!" You declared. It's  utter childish nonsense!" "Oh, c'mon, Y/N, I thought you'd jump at the chance to go out with that corn-fed menace of a Captain you have a crush on," teased Dr. McCoy, hearing your rant. "Oh, puh-leeze," you snorted. "I don't have a crush on him. Just because I made one comment about his eyes once, does not mean I'm all lovey-dovey, lovestruck over him. Heck, even YOU admit he has gorgeous eyes, and you certainly have no romantic feelings for him." "Oh, there's a very big difference, Y/N. You haven't seen yourself when he comes in here. You're practically bowling over the other nurses to get to him." "I do not," you sulked. "Do I, Christine?" "Well......" she tried to hedge, and you put your hands on your hips, outraged at the lack of support. You pretended to utterly ignore the whole contest, but the endless chatter about Jim vs. Scotty vs. Leonard drove you up the wall, especially the guys in medical who talked about him like he was a piece of meat, ripe for the tasting. You hoped they were all horrible writers. Jim deserved better! At last, you got an idea. It would probably not win the contest, but it would make you feel better. You sat down after shift and started writing. Kiss, Marry, Kill, by Y/N Y/L/N Kiss: James T. Kirk Reason: 1. To shut him up when he drones on and on about the wonders of space 2. Those lips are too perfect 3. My gut tells me he's really good at it. Marry: James T. Kirk Reason: Because I worship the ground he walks on and he might be less of a reckless fool if he had a spouse to remind him how much he has to live for and how loved and needed he is.  I’d love to pick that genius brain. Also: captain's quarters come with real water showers, a big plus. Kill: (Hypothetically, of course) James T. Kirk Reason: He's a aggravation to the nth degree. Examples include: Frequent Injuries, extreme stubbornness, Those ridiculous stupid smiles he gives that could cause dangerous heart arrhythmia, his bluer than blue eyes that cause people to lose their concentration when he looks at them, and the terrible dad jokes he cracks that he thinks are so funny and laughs so hard at. Despite being pleased at managing to refrain from mentioning Jim's other positive attributes (that ass!), you wavered back and forth before you finally sent in your entry. You'd kind of bared your heart, after all. However, Sulu and Uhura were both very good at respecting people's privacy and they wouldn't spill your secrets. Besides, the chances of you winning were very low, if not impossible, given that you'd used the same name for every slot. At last, however, you hit send, and went to bed very relieved. You'd almost forgotten about the whole thing by the time the winners were announced three weeks later and when you got a message declaring "Congratulations, Lieutenant Y/L/N, you were selected as a winner in our shipwide contest. Your entry was chosen as the best among those who put Captain James T. Kirk in the Kiss or Marry options." You stopped reading right then and there and began mentally freaking out. You'd only entered as a joke and a fun way to relieve your feelings. Guess they'd taken you seriously. Could you back out without looking like an idiot? Surely, the runner up would be more than happy to take your place. During lunch the next day, the winners were announced over the intercom by Sulu. You didn't know where to look when your name was read and all your friends turned to stare at you. (Thankfully, McCoy had other things to worry about, since someone had won dinner with him.) "Congratulations, Y/N!" Christine said, a pleased grin on her face. "I'll gladly offer my services to help you get ready for your date with the Captain." Your face felt like it was burning up, more so when you saw Jim Kirk ambling over to your table. "Hi, Captain," you muttered, wishing you could sink through the floor. "Nurse Y/L/N! This is a happy coincidence!" Kirk exclaimed, walking up to you, with that disgustingly contagious smile on his face. "How so?" You managed, even more nervous in his presence. "I've been trying to get up the courage to ask you out anyway." "Me?!!" You squeaked. "Of course you. You do know you're my favorite nurse, right?" "No......" you said slowly, processing this information. Jim liked you? Really? Surely it was too good to be true! "Yes, you are," he said firmly. "So, Are you going to claim your prize?" There went that cheeky expression again. "Insufferable egoist," Len muttered, rolling his eyes. "Of course she is!" Christine said for you. "Name the date, place and time, and she'll be there." While you were spluttering, they determined the dinner would take place in the small observation deck the next Friday at 1900 hours. "Great!" Jim exclaimed, "We'll see you then! Have a nice day, Y/N." "Traitor!" You hissed weakly to Christine, but the butterflies of anticipation dancing in your gut said differently. "Trust me, you'll thank me later. I wouldn't have done this If I didn't think he really cares about you," she told you. She did come through on her promise to help you prepare for the big date, and before you knew it, you were all dolled up in a green dress and cute updo style Christine saw in a magazine and thought would look perfect on you. "There! You look stunning!" She said at last, stepping back and inspecting you carefully. You smiled and gulped. "Let's hope the Captain thinks so, too." "Oh, he will," she assured you. "Now, shoo, have a good time!" More nervous than you'd ever been, you made your way to the agreed upon room, where Jim was waiting for you. Having rarely seen him in anything besides his uniform or a hospital gown, you were taken aback by the sight of him in a blue dress shirt and tie. "Wow!" You breathed. He cleaned up GOOD. "Wow, yourself," Jim returned. "You look amazing." "Thanks," you said, face warm with the compliment. "This was really nice of you to play along, but What if Cupcake had won?" Jim laughed. "I'd still hang out with him, but He's only likely to put me on the Kill list. Trust me, I'm not his type AT ALL." As the two of you devoured the food, which was very tasty, he asked you about what you'd written. "I actually didn't think I'd be considered eligible," you told him, "given how I made cases for why I'd want to kiss, marry, AND kill you. Somehow, it was rather cathartic." "I seem to inspire that reaction a lot," Jim said ruefully, buttering a roll. "Glad you came, though. So, tell me, what's life like working in Bones's domain? I hear he can be a bear at times." "Oh, he can," you confirmed. "You just have to use common sense and know how to placate him. He's a good boss, but he doesn't suffer fools." "That's very true," Jim said. "He's said several times that next to Chapel, you're the best nurse on Alpha shift." "He said that?" You asked, flustered again. "Yes, he did," Jim said. "And I think you're pretty awesome too--both as a nurse and a person." "Wow, You really are a smooth talker," you said, raising an eyebrow. "Let's see if you're still saying that once you've got to know me and my quirks some more." "Does this mean you're willing to go on more dates?" He asked, looking hopeful. "As long as this one ends as well as it started, definitely." "What do you say to this?" He asked, pulling the cover off of a plate containing two lovely slices of chocolate cake with caramel filling peeking out. "Poke cake?" You gasped. The man had done his research--this was your absolute favorite indulgence. The white frosting on top covered the caramel glaze that oozed down through holes poked in the cake and made it deliciously gooey and decadent. "Indeed. Made special by real people: not replicators." Jim looked extremely pleased with himself, eyes darting back and forth between you and the cake. Picking up Jim's hand, you kissed it dramatically. "My hero!" You explained in a staged breathy sigh. "That'll do the trick all right. The shyness disappeared along with the cake and you and Jim ended up laughing and talking and flirting until a late hour. "So, see you again soon?" He asked, when he walked you to your door. "Of course. Hopefully NOT in sickbay, though." You poked him meaningfully in the chest, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Goodnight, Jim." "Goodnight, Y/N" he replied staring after you with what Christine would have called "heart eyes."

@whatif-animagineblog @yourtropegirl @kirkaholic123 @southernbellestatues

@kaitymccoy123

#WhatIf-Birthday2k17 #my fics #birthday challenge #kirk x reader #James T. Kirk #reader insert #hope you enjoy it!

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Love is a Layered Cake (1/10)

Well, here it is! The GBBO AU that no-one asked for... Well, @rufeepeach​ expressed an interest a while ago - sorry it took so long to appear!

@noora7​ Happy Birthday and enjoy!

====

Summary: Summer has come, and with it, the Great British Bake-Off. Sheep farmer and spinner Rum Gold is one of ten contestants competing for the crown in the latest show. In addition to navigating the perils of televised baking, ridiculous challenges and his fellow bakers, he also has to contend with his undeniable crush on one of the judges, the beautiful and talented Belle French...

Rated: G

====

Week One: Cake

In which Gold meets his fellow bakers, takes an instant dislike to more than one, and interacts with the lovely Miss French for the first time.

Also, Jefferson contemplates a banana and does exciting things with pineapples.

====

“Dad! If you don’t get a move on, you’ll miss your train!”

“Raymond Gold! I know you can hear us! If you can hear a ewe in labour crying in the next field, you can hear us hollering at you from up here!”

Gold glanced up at the farmhouse on the top of the hill, where his son and his aunt were hanging out of the upstairs windows yelling at him, but he made no response. Beside him, Dove chuckled.

“She’ll be threatening to come down here and drag you in by the scruff of your neck in a minute,” the taller man said, his voice matter-of-fact.

“Rum, don’t make me come down there!” Aunt Elvira squawked.

“Told you so,” Dove said. “You’d better make a move, Mr G.”

Gold sighed. “I know, but I really don’t want to. This entire venture was a bad idea.”

“Oh, you won’t think that when you get there. Besides, whatever happens, you’ll get to meet the lovely Miss French in the flesh.”

“Even if the extent of our interaction consists of her telling me my Swiss roll is the worst she’s ever tasted and me just standing there unable to speak.”

Dove raised an eyebrow. “You could have used a better example than Swiss roll, I feel.”

Gold rolled his eyes. “Sometimes you’re as bad as Bae,” he muttered, and he shook his head. “This was a very bad idea.”

“I hate to be the one to say it, Mr G, but you’ve come slightly too far to back out now.”

“Rum, if you don’t get back in this house in the next ten seconds!”

“I’d better go in then.” Gold sighed again. “You’ll be all right whilst I’m away? I’ll be back for evening herding tomorrow.”

“We’ll manage without you for one night,” Dove reassured him. “Go on, before she starts threatening arson.”

Gold set off in the direction of the house, wondering for the umpteenth time what he’d let himself in for. It was all Bae’s fault. They’d been watching the Bake Off last year, and Bae had, in complete earnestness, told his father that he ought to apply. When Gold had shown no signs of actually doing it himself, Bae had taken matters into his own hands and before Gold knew it, letters had started arriving inviting him to come to baking auditions, which up until that winter, Gold hadn’t known were even a thing.

Against his better judgement, he had gone along with it, reasoning that he couldn’t possibly get through to the next round, that he would turn up and the producers would take one look at him and send him straight home again. Except, each time, new letters arrived inviting him to the next stage of the competition, until, well, now. Only a couple of very short hours away from baking Swiss roll in front of several cameras in a small marquee with eleven strangers, scrutinised by the infamous Diana “Granny” Lucas and the wonderful, talented, and incredibly beautiful Belle French.

“Come on Dad!” Bae exclaimed as he entered the house, grabbing his crook and sticking it in the umbrella stand by the back door before manhandling his father towards the stairs. “You can’t go on TV looking and smelling like you’ve just been herding sheep!”

“I have just been herding sheep! Bae, you’re in charge of the girls whilst I’m away.”

Bae looked back at the two border collies that had followed Gold into the house and were sitting placidly by the oven, looking up at him expectantly.

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll take care of Chip and Imp, but I won’t have to if you don’t get a move on! Anyone would think you didn’t want to go!”

“I don’t,” Gold pointed out, halfway up the stairs. “I still can’t quite believe I let myself get dragged into this.”

“Dad.” Bae folded his arms and gave his father a knowing look. “Do you really want to pull out now and miss your chance to meet the lovely Miss French face to face?”

“Yes! At least this way I’m guaranteed not to make a fool of myself.”

“Are you sure about that?” Bae asked. “What will Belle think of you if you don’t show up? She’d be so hurt that you didn’t want to meet her, and that you were so scared of meeting her that you went AWOL at the last minute.”

Gold’s eyes narrowed. “I can already tell I’m going to regret this.”

Bae just smiled.

“Wait there,” he said before running off in the direction of the kitchen again. Gold dutifully waited, halfway up the stairs, wondering what on earth could have got into Bae this time.

“Rum!” Aunt Elvira squawked from the landing. “What are you doing, man?”

“Waiting,” Rum replied patiently, because anything that delayed the inevitable in his mind was a godsend and not to be sniffed at.

“Whatever for?” Aunt Elvira exclaimed. “You’re going to be late! Oh, for goodness’ sake, this is turning into a disaster!”

“It’s all right, Aunt Elvira.” Bae reappeared. “It’s my fault.” He raced up the stairs, holding out Gold’s cane, the gold-handled one he hardly ever used. “Well, take it,” he said, pressing it into his father’s hands. “Unless you were planning on limping around the tent. You can hardly take your crook.”

“Bae, I really don’t think…”

“It’ll bring you good luck,” Bae said, and Gold looked up sharply, but there was no cheeky grin on his son’s face. His smile was completely in earnest. He took the cane, the metal cool against his hand. “Or, at any rate, it’ll give you courage. Just don’t use it to beat the other contestants into submission.”

Gold gave a snort of laughter and made his way up the stairs to take a shower and get ready to quite possibly meet his doom. He only ever used that cane when he had to leave the safe confines of the farm and go and do something particularly unpleasant, like talking to the bank. Whilst the experience was going to be an infinitely different one, the fear was still the same, and hopefully he would be able to pull through. After all, it wasn’t every day that one got to meet Belle French. He sighed, hoping that he wouldn’t make too much of a fool of himself in front of her. It was all very well having a hopelessly unattainable schoolboy crush on a lovely woman on a TV screen hundreds of miles away, but to be in the same room with her… Gold was utterly terrified.

Just focus on the cake, he told himself crossly. That’s the only reason you’re there.

“Rum?” Aunt Elvira’s voice came through the bedroom door.

“Not now, Aunt Elvira, please. I’ve already had to talk myself out of drowning in the shower.”

“Oh Rum.” Aunt Elvira sighed. “I just wanted to say… You know you’ve got nothing to prove.”

Gold raised an eyebrow in the mirror and snorted. He had everything to prove; that was part of the reason why he was so scared about this whole arrangement in the first place.

“I know you’re getting cold feet, but think about it, not trying at all is more cowardly than trying and failing.”

Gold rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Aunt Elvira. That’s very helpful.”

“I’m doing my best!” Aunt Elvira said, affronted. “This is a big thing, Rum. You’ve already come this far and that’s a huge achievement. Just don’t throw it away now.”

Gold sighed, and, satisfied that he was ready and couldn’t possibly spin in out any longer, opened the bedroom door. Aunt Elvira threw her arms around him.

“You’ll be fantastic,” she told his shirt. “And if Granny Lucas makes any impertinent comments about your Swiss roll, trip her up with your cane.”

“To be honest, it’s not Granny I’m worried about when it comes to impertinent comments,” Gold muttered, but before anything more could be said, a taxi could be heard traversing the winding drive up to the farmhouse, and it was time for Gold to go.

X

“Thank goodness you’ve arrived, we were starting to worry, I mean, I know the trains have been ridiculous all week but this time they’ve really outdone themselves, if you’d just like to follow me please, I have a couple of waivers I need you to sign for the insurance and then we’ll be ready to go and you can meet your fellow contestants and…”

The little woman who had met Gold at the entrance when he had finally arrived at the filming location had not stopped talking from the moment he had got out of the taxi. She’d taken his box of personal ingredients and handed it over to a runner who had borne it away so quickly he might have teleported, and Gold had been left wondering if he would ever see his homemade cherry jam again, but before he had any time to protest, she had been dragging him through the stately home that served as a base of operations for filming and explaining the weekend’s proceedings at light speed.

“I’m Astrid, by the way,” she said, holding out a hand, but as they were still walking and Gold’s ankle was already protesting at their pace, he was in no position to take it. Thankfully, Astrid took this all in her stride and continued her chatter. Gold was getting tired just listening to her. “I hope I’m not talking too much. Leroy always says I talk too much when I’m nervous, and I am nervous, it’s my first day. But you’ll be nervous too, I expect, with all the cameras, at least I get to stay out of sight and…” She tailed off as they came to a door. “Well, everyone else is in here. I’ll let you get acquainted.”

She pushed open the door and waved him inside cheerfully. “I’ll be right back with the paperwork.”

As he entered, everyone else in the room turned to look at him. It was clear that he was the last person to arrive, and the weight of so many pairs of eyes on him felt incredibly heavy.

“Well, looks like they’ve rounded up the straggler at last,” someone said, a dark-haired young man wearing a leather jacket in the middle of the room. Up until the moment of Gold’s entry, he had been talking to a blonde woman who was wearing a look of extreme distaste, and Gold couldn’t tell if it was directed towards her conversation partner’s discourse or his own tardy arrival.

“Now, now, Killian, don’t be mean, darling.”

Had Gold not been so equally embarrassed and terrified, he would have smiled at the welcome intervention. There was no mistaking Ella Furrier. She was already a larger than life personality on the TV screen, but seeing her person was something else. The contrast of her two-tone hair seemed even starker now as she came towards him, wafting expensive perfume that covered up the cigarette smoke. It was entirely possible that he was more scared about meeting her than meeting Belle French, but that was because Ella always looked like she was about to devour her conversation partner whole rather than out of any kind of attraction on Gold’s part. She had reached him in the doorway and put her arm around his shoulders, guiding him into the fray.

“Now, darling, you must be Mr Gold. Raymond. Or do you prefer Ray?”

Gold shook his head. No-one called him Ray, and only Aunt Elvira called him Rum. “Just Gold. Everyone calls me just Gold.”

“Very well then. I do like a bit of mystery.” She was still walking him around the room. “Let’s get you introduced. I’m sure you know Ursula, of course.”

Whilst Ella’s co-host (and, it was rumoured, girlfriend) was marginally less outrageous than her partner, Ursula Tempest was still a force to be reckoned with, and between the two of them, Gold was certain that they would either make his life a complete nightmare or become his strongest allies. Right now he was more inclined towards the former.

“Pleased to meet you, Gold,” Ursula said. “Oh Ella, I don’t know what you’ve done to frighten him. He looks a little like a deer in the headlights. It’s all right, no-one here is going to eat you.”

Gold wasn’t entirely sure about that. The man in the leather jacket, Killian, was still looking at him with a sneer. His blonde companion gave Gold a brief smile. He nodded, unsure what else to do. It would all be all right once they actually got started, he told himself.

On the other side of the room, Astrid had come back in and her radio burst into life; she listened to the crackled message before rushing over to Gold and the two presenters.

"Ursula, Ella, make-up want to see you. They were saying something about your eyebrows, Ella," she added with a somewhat mystified air before pressing the insurance waivers into Gold’s hands. Ella gave Gold an apologetic look and left him in the middle of the room of strangers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a production runner moving around the room fitting everyone with mic packs, and he took a deep breath. He could do this. This horrible state of limbo surrounded by his competitors hopefully wouldn't last too long and then they could get down to the real reason that they were all here. Baking.

Seeing him looking rather lost, the blonde woman who had been talking to Killian purposefully extracted herself from the conversation and came over.

"Hi, I'm Emma," she said as they shook hands.

"Raymond, but everyone just calls me Gold."

"Ignore Killian," Emma muttered under her breath, nodding over at her previous conversation partner, who was now attempting to flirt with the runner fixing his mic. "I've only known him five minutes and I already want to upturn a bowl of not-quite-set meringue all over him. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

"Hello there, welcome to the madhouse." Gold turned and had to do a double take on seeing the man who had spoken. He was wearing a waistcoat and pocket watch with a cravat, and Gold felt incredibly underdressed in his jeans. For a moment he wondered if the man was somehow involved with Ella and Ursula and was a new presenter; he seemed to share Ella's outrageous eccentricity. "Jefferson's the name, carrot cake is the game."

Gold shook his hand, still wondering what on earth he'd managed to let himself in for.

His late arrival meant that he didn't get the chance to meet everyone else in the room before other logistical things started happening. Aside from Emma and Jefferson, there was also Leroy, who looked like he wanted to be there about as much as Gold did; Aurora, a student who'd had to get up at half-past three in the morning to get to the location on time and couldn't stop yawning, and a worryingly enthusiastic redhead named Zelena who instinctively made Gold want to run three miles in the opposite direction. It was far too early to be scouting out potential competition, but Killian-And-His-Leather-Jacket kept looking over at him through narrowed eyes.

Once all the contestants were miced and had their photos taken, there was a quick health and safety briefing whilst Astrid rushed around taking lunch orders, and then they were off, down towards the Baking Tent of Destiny wherein dreams could be made or broken with a single mispiped buttercream rosette. It took them a couple of attempts as the runners kept rearranging the order in which they would enter the tent so as to stop them running about madly trying to find their assigned workbenches. Gold found himself towards the back, nicely out of the way, behind a young woman with very pale, almost white, blonde hair whom he'd not had the chance to speak to in the room before they started. Emma was behind him and she gave him an encouraging wave as they put their aprons on. Gold tried to smile in return, but he feared that it might have come out more like a grimace. He had been nervous many times in his life and would freely admit to being a naturally nervous person, but he didn't think that he'd ever been so anxious about the outcome of a cake before.

"Good morning bakers!" Ella's voice pulled everyone's attention back to the front of the tent. Gold didn't know what make-up had done to her eyebrows, but he couldn't detect any change in their starkly painted thickness to when he'd seen her before. His gaze wandered from Ella and Ursula over to the judges. This was the first time that the contestants had seen them in the flesh, and Gold suppressed a small sigh. Belle French, the nation's favourite baker, was even more lovely in real life than she was on the TV. Dressed in a bright yellow dress that could rival the sun outside for radiance, and the most ridiculously high heels he'd ever seen, she was casting a practised eye over them, already sizing up who she thought could go the distance. Over the course of the programme's run, Belle had picked up the reputation as 'good cop' to Granny's 'bad cop', but her comments could be devastating if something wasn't up to her standards. Gold shifted sideways a little in the hope of concealing himself behind the woman in front of him.

"Welcome to cake week, and your very first signature challenge!" Ella continued.

"Today, Belle and Granny would like you to make a Swiss roll. You're free to use whatever ingredients you like, but it must be a roll and you'll get extra points if it speaks French," Ursula added.

"You have two and a half hours on the clock. On your marks!"

"Get set!"

"Bake!"

Gold tore his eyes away from Belle and focussed on the workbench. There were three chances to prove himself this weekend and he didn't want to throw away the first one because he was too busy making moon-eyes over one of the judges. All around him, people were moving around, measuring out ingredients and switching ovens on, and Gold tried his hardest to tune them out and concentrate on his own work. Swiss roll. He could make Swiss roll. He'd been making Swiss roll for years; it was Bae's favourite sweet treat and they'd both laughed when he'd received the instructions telling him what they would have to bake each week. He could do this. Just as long as he didn't do something completely stupid.

Behind him he heard Emma swear violently as she dropped a heavy mixing bowl on her foot.

"Don't worry, we'll edit that out," Ursula called from the front of the tent.

Gold gave a snort of laughter and concentrated on measuring out his ingredients. Sponge in the oven first so it had enough time to cool and didn’t melt the decorations, then temper the chocolate to make it look pretty, whip up the cream...

"Good morning Raymond."

Gold looked up from the melting chocolate and gave a squawk of alarm on finding Ella, Belle and Granny standing in front of him expectantly with a cameraman.

Belle gave him a sympathetic smile. "Shall we go away and do that again so you're more prepared?"

Gold nodded, grateful for the reprieve and mentally kicking himself before remembering to check the temperature of the chocolate and hastily taking it off the heat. This time he looked up in time and was not taken by surprise.

"Good morning Raymond," Ella said brightly.

"Good morning."

Gold glanced over at the camera before Ella waved surreptitiously to get him to focus on her.

"So, tell us all about your Swiss roll," Granny said. There was something rather challenging in her gaze and Gold felt himself practically wilting.

"It's a black forest Swiss roll," he said, deciding that it was easier to address Ella than either of the judges who were making him tongue-tied for entirely different reasons. "Chocolate sponge with cherry jam and whipped cream, and chocolate decorations."

"I love cherry jam," Belle said wistfully, and Gold allowed himself a small smile of victory. At least he'd started out in her good books. If she'd come along saying that she couldn't stand cherries then he'd be in for a bumpy ride.

"It sounds very interesting," Granny said, evidently reserving judgement. "Just make sure that the cream doesn't ooze too much."

Gold could only nod dumbly, feeling like he was back at school and had just been reprimanded by the headmaster, and the two judges moved on to their next victim, the cameraman following them. Ella lingered for a while.

"You know, if you're nervous, just imagine the judges naked," she said, her voice completely matter-of-fact. Gold felt his face flame as he watched Belle's shapely legs make their way across the tent to Jefferson's workbench. That would have the opposite effect to the one intended and would not help in the slightest.

Ella just raised an eyebrow and patted his hand, leaving him with a conspiratorial grin.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Gold groaned, resting his head against the bench. He knew that time was ticking away and he really couldn't stay like that, but the idea of having to actually face the world again was not a welcome one.

"Are you all right?"

"I've completely made a fool of myself on national television but yes, I'm fine." Reluctantly he raised his head a little to see who was addressing him. The white-blonde girl from in front was crouching down at the end of his bench, her eyes peeping over the top of the wood.

"Elsa," she said, holding out a hand covered in icing sugar which she quickly wiped on her apron.

"Gold."

"It'll be fine. That's why it doesn't go out live. And you can't be worse than me. I mean... look."

It was then that he noticed that her entire frame appeared to be coated in icing sugar.

"Yeah, at least you haven't filled the swear jar," came Emma's disembodied voice from where she was sitting on the floor gazing into her oven. "I keep telling myself that this is a family show and my ten year-old's going to watch it but I can't help it. This equipment's so bloody heavy! There I go again."

Somewhere in the tent a timer was beeping, and Gold knew that he had to get a move on. Elsa rose as well and went back to her own station, which looked like the centre of a blizzard. Maybe that was the intended look; a winter wonderland themed Swiss roll perhaps?

Across the tent there was a torrent of expletives from one of the other bakers that far surpassed Emma's. Peering through the bustle of people and cameramen, Gold saw that someone had dropped their sponge whilst getting it out of the oven.

Well, he couldn't say that it was a boring experience. If he got to the end of the day without having a heart attack it would be a miracle, but there wasn't any time for pondering the state of his nerves when there was a black forest gateau Swiss roll to assemble. He was vaguely aware of the cameras moving around, and Ella and Ursula passing on the occasional word of encouragement, but ultimately he pushed it all to the back of his mind. He was at home in his own kitchen, there was nothing to worry about...

"Bakers!" Ella yelled at the front of the tent. "Fifteen minutes remaining!"

Ok, perhaps having nothing to worry about wasn't entirely true. Gold's hands were shaking as he piped whipped cream swirls onto the top of the roll, topping each one with a chocolate dipped cherry and dusting the whole thing with chocolate shavings, shoving it down onto the end of his bench with five minutes to spare. He breathed a sigh of relief. Just the moment of truth to come.

Waiting for the judges to come around was the very definition of a nightmare. It took a lot longer than it did on the TV as there was a lot of running around cleaning up the tent and making it look presentable, and taking lots of elegant shots of the bakes before the judges cut into them and disturbed the finished beauty. Even once the judging finally started, there was no way of knowing who was going to be next as they zig-zagged all over the tent. At least for this first challenge the judging was somewhat private. Sure, the rest of the tent occupants were deathly silent and all eyes were on the current victim, but being judged at bench was slightly less nerve-wracking than having to transport one's work up to the front like they would have to do tomorrow.

Emma's chocolate orange Swiss roll was universally praised; Elsa's white chocolate and marshmallow confection was criticised as being very messy and sticky, but apparently it tasted amazing. Gold tried not to think about Belle's very pink lips as she took a forkful of his own creation.

"I love cherry jam," she repeated, a smile in her eyes. "The flavour here is really good, you've captured the essence of a black forest gateau really well."

"Yes, the flavour is good," Granny agreed. "The sponge is a bit dry, probably left in the oven for a minute or so too long, but it looks very neat. I was worried you'd have cream oozing everywhere. All in all that's a very decent Swiss roll."

Gold was too relieved to pay any attention to the rest of the judging. Elsa gave him a sugar-dusted thumbs up.

So far, so good.

X

After giving soundbites to camera about how they thought it was going so far, the contestants were left to their own devices during the lunch break back in the reception room; Astrid hung around long enough to distribute the little lunch bags and then rushed off to do something else, stopping to exchange a few words and a kiss with Leroy.

"Do you think there's some kind of conflict of interests there?" Emma observed. "May I?" she added, indicating the empty space on the sofa beside Gold.

"Be my guest. I know what you mean, but I really don't think that Astrid is in a position to be influencing the outcome of the judging. I'm not sure what her role is but it seems to be general dogsbody."

"Yeah. I do think it's cute. Ever since we were first introduced I don't think I've seen Leroy with an expression other than wanting to kill someone, so it's nice to see him smiling now."

Gold looked around the rest of the contestants, gathered in groups around the room with their own lunches.

"These are sweet," Emma continued, unpacking her own lunchbag. "I think everything about this entire venture is designed to be as happy and sweet and fluffy as possible so that all the nervous breakdowns and screaming fits are confined to the tent and the cameras." She glanced sideways at Gold. "Wondering who everyone is?"

Gold nodded.

"Ah, the curse of amended train timetables. Well, you've met Leroy and Zelena; he's a builder, not sure what she does but then she's the kind of person who's got that sort of repellent aura about them that makes you want to get away as quickly as possible without the small talk. Jeff you know, he's a tailor. Did you see his joconde sponge for the Swiss roll? It was amazing, all patterned with hand drawn strawberries. Aurora's studying medicine, Elsa works in publicity for an ice-cream company and used to be a Disney princess in Paris; can't remember which one. Over there you've got Archie, he's a psychiatrist, and Regina, who does something important in local government. Killian does something to do with boats, I kind of zoned out whilst he was talking to me."

Gold gave a snort of laughter.

"The others are Lance and Mal but I haven't really met them properly yet," Emma concluded. "And I'm in the police. It's been a logistical nightmare trying to sort my shifts out so I've got weekends free. What about you? What do you do when you're not baking?"

"I have a sheep farm. The income comes from wool mostly, my aunt and I hand-spin it, but we make small amounts of artisan cheese as well."

Emma's eyes lit up.

"You have a spinning wheel? Like Rumpelstiltskin in the fairy tales?"

Gold nodded, amused.

"That's cool. My son Henry would love to meet you. He's obsessed with fairy tales at the moment."

"How old is he?"

"Ten, but you never really grow out of fairy tales, do you? Do you have kids?"

Before Gold could reply they were interrupted by the arrival of Jefferson contemplating a banana.

"Don't look now but I think something interesting's about to happen," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, perching on the arm of the sofa beside Gold and continuing to study the banana whilst sneaking surreptitious glances over at Killian, who was chatting to Aurora and Elsa and getting slightly too close for comfort.

"Sheesh, does he flirt with anything that moves?" Emma asked.

"Quite probably," Jefferson replied. "Should I go over and flirt with him? You know, give him a taste of his own medicine?"

Jefferson was saved the effort by the arrival of Lance on the scene, seamlessly interceding.

“Killian,” the tall black man said calmly, “leave the ladies alone.”

Killian turned to the perceived intruder, giving Aurora and Elsa the chance to slip away, and Gold could see him squaring up, but there was something in Lance’s solid build and unimpressed expression that made him back down. Probably wise; Gold wouldn’t put money on Killian winning in a fight against the other man.

“I wouldn’t mind but I practically told him outright ‘I like girls’,” Aurora was muttering as she and Elsa passed the sofa.

Elsa laughed. “Don’t put ideas in his head, he’d probably get off on that.”

“Lord preserve us from leery men in leather jackets,” Jefferson said before glancing at his pocket watch. “It must be time for the next challenge now or there won’t be enough time to finish, get the judging done and get all the chatty bits afterwards filmed.”

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “Cake’s usually a pretty short technical. They get longer as they get more complicated. The souffle one the other year was nasty; I hope we don’t get one of those.”

“I’d be quite happy to do without the chatty bits,” Gold said, helplessly aware of how hopeful he sounded. Jefferson raised an eyebrow.

“You do realise what you signed up for when you signed up for this?”

Gold nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately I didn’t technically sign up for it. My son signed up on my behalf and once that was done, well, I couldn’t bear to let him down.”

“He sounds both terrifyingly intelligent and incredibly sneaky,” Emma observed. “Put him and my Henry together and they’d rule the world.”

Gold sighed. Although he still didn’t know quite what he’d let himself in for, he was trying his utmost not to make Bae regret his actions. It was fear of letting Bae down that was his main driving force in this competition. Well, that and a fear of letting Belle down, but no-one else needed to know that just yet. He glanced around the other contestants and he wondered if any of them had guessed his secret from the way he’d interacted with the judges. That would be… awkward.

He was spared the cringeworthy train of thought by the arrival of the production runners in the reception room. It was time for the most nerve-wracking part of the competition - the technical challenge.

X

Gold was under the distinct impression that he was going to drown in cherries. After his black forest gateau Swiss roll, their technical challenge was to make a perfect cherry cake. Gold liked cherries, but one could have too much of a good thing sometimes. The main problem in a cherry cake, one that Gold had never quite been able to master himself, was stopping all the cherries from sinking to the bottom of the baking tin. Or the top, in this case, since they were using ring moulds and the finished cakes would end up upside down. There were various different tricks to it, he knew - washing the cherries, drying the cherries, coating the cherries in flour or a combination of all of the above - but no matter what he had tried in the past, he always ended up with a thick layer of cherries on the bottom of the cake and not much in the middle. Despite having got off to a relatively good start, this might be the thing that broke him.

Conferring with the others was forbidden and he felt like it was cheating to take a look around the room to surreptitiously see what the others were doing, so he cut his losses and decided to do all three methods of ensuring even cherry floatation and pray that at least one of them worked. Making the cake itself wasn’t going to be all that difficult, but the entire point was that the easier a cake was to make, the fewer places there were to hide in it and the more likely it was that any mistakes would be picked up by the eagle-eyed judges.

This was one of Belle’s recipes, so she’d be judging even more critically than usual. She had a great eye for detail, as evidenced by all her years judging showpieces, and if his cherries were not perfect, she’d be sure to let him know. At least she wasn’t going to be wandering around the tent during this one providing visual distraction.

The technical challenge was judged blind, with Belle and Granny only finding out whose cake was whose after they’d ranked them. It was the part of the weekend everyone unanimously dreaded because they had no way of knowing beforehand what they were going to be making, and as the weeks went on the technicals became more and more obscure, with very few people ever having heard of the weird and wonderful confections they were being asked to bake. At least everyone knew what a cherry cake was and what it was supposed to look like.

Hoping for the best, Gold shoved the cake in the oven, set the timer, and set about making the icing that should ‘drip softly down the sides without being runny’, according to the recipe. Nope, that wasn’t going to be difficult at all. He chanced for a glance around the tent. They’d all swapped places for the afternoon and he was now nearer the front, sandwiched between Aurora (still yawning) in front of him and Zelena behind. She gave him a slightly too bright smile when she caught his wandering gaze and Gold quickly looked away; there was something in her eyes that gave him the creeps. Killian was at the bench directly opposite him, and the younger man was making no effort to hide the fact he was trying desperately to copy what Elsa was doing. Elsa for her part just rolled her eyes.

He glanced out of the window, over at the other little tent where Granny and Belle would be ensconced, filming their piece and getting ready for the judging, and he found his thoughts wandering away from cherry cake and towards Belle. There were worse reasons for wanting to do well in this challenge than just to please her, weren’t there?

“Eh, Gold,” Aurora said tentatively, bringing him back to the present. He looked down to find that he was on the verge of pouring his icing sugar out over the workbench instead of into the bowl and quickly corrected his mistake.

“Thanks,” he muttered, feeling his face begin to flame at having been caught daydreaming, although he knew that Aurora had no way of knowing exactly what he had been daydreaming about.

“Seriously, I’m the one who’s supposed to be zoning out all the time.” She laughed and leaned back against the workbench. “Did you wash your cherries?” she asked before bursting into a fit of the giggles. “Sorry, that sounds really dirty. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Behind him, Gold could hear Zelena giggling as well and he began to feel somewhat outnumbered.

“Heaven help me,” he muttered. “Besides, I thought we weren’t allowed to confer?”

“Yeah, but the cakes are in the oven now so there’s not a lot of harm in it. I washed mine, but then when I was chopping them up a load more syrup started coming out of the holes where the pits had been and I had to wash them again. At least they’re going to be really clean, even if they do all sink.” She glanced across at Killian and Elsa. “Can he please do really badly?”

The fact that Killian seemed to have gained the universal loathing of the rest of the tent should not have given Gold a spark of happiness, but it did. Since the man had gone out of his way to be intimidating and antagonistic he couldn’t think of a better retribution.

“All right, Gold?” Ursula asked. Gold jumped but recovered himself in time and nodded. The presenters really needed to stop sneaking up on him like that whilst he was lost in thought. Perhaps he shouldn’t spend quite so much time lost in thought, that would help.

“Well, it’s in the oven, so there’s not much more we can do now except pray,” he said.

“That’s the spirit. Besides, you’re good with cherries, you should ace this one,” Ursula said. She sounded a lot more confident about that fact than Gold felt and he just raised an eyebrow in disbelief, not quite trusting himself to say anything yet. Ursula patted his arm gently. “You need to have a little faith, Mr Gold. Just remember that no matter how bad it gets, there is always going to be someone somewhere who’s done a worse job than you.”

“Yes, but if that person isn’t in the tent then that doesn’t exactly help me.”

The cameraman had moved on to go and observe Aurora for a bit as she began to make the cake icing, but Ursula hung back.

“Between you and me,” she hissed under her breath, “you’re definitely doing better than some others who shall remain nameless.”

Gold had no idea if that was true or not, but it made him feel marginally better as he got on with his icing, listening to Aurora’s happy pattering chatter in front of him.

From the back of the tent there came a loud exclamation.

“Bugger! I forgot to leave some cherries for the decoration!”

All eyes in the tent turned to Mal, who had been the one to speak. She sighed, running a hand through her mass of curly blonde hair, and shrugged in despair. Lance and Regina went to reassure her. It was strange how they had managed to get a sense of camaraderie in such a short space of time, Gold thought. None of them had really known each other for that long, and despite the fact that they were all in direct competition, there was still that spirit of community and helping out. Aurora didn’t need to have mentioned his earlier slip and could have let him ruin his icing completely, but she’d saved him at the last minute. Zelena on the other hand… She was smirking cruelly as she continued with her bake, and Gold had to wonder whether he ought to watch his back. Literally.

He bent over to look through the oven door. It was not uncommon for people to sit in front of their ovens watching the bakes inside until the last moment, but Gold knew that if he did that then he wouldn’t be able to get up again, and he’d already received more than one funny look because of the cane hooked over the edge of the workbench. There was a wolf-whistle from behind him and he straightened sharply, looking around for the culprit. Zelena was looking worryingly innocent, and whilst in any other circumstance he’d blame Ella, she was over on the other side of the tent trying to console Mal, who’d already had one disaster that morning and with the absent cherries on top of everything else didn’t think she could handle any more. He looked back at Zelena, opened his mouth to say something along the lines of “don’t you have more important things to watch than my arse?” and decided against it, turning back to his workbench and trying to think no more about it. It was almost time for the cake to come out and then it was a question of making sure it cooled in time not to melt the icing. There were a few laments from around the tent about icing consistency - too stiff, too runny, or in Killian’s case ‘it’s setting like cement! I can’t get the spoon out!’

“I don’t think that anyone’s ever been this stressed about icing before,” he muttered to the cameraman, who laughed.

“Oh, believe me. I’ve been filming for the last three seasons. When it comes to stressing about icing, this is mild compared to some of the things I’ve seen.”

Ella and Ursula were making their way back to the front of the tent and Gold knew that time was up before they’d announced it. Once again, there was a long pause between the challenge finishing and the judging beginning, and as they took their places sitting in the middle of the tent, Gold couldn’t help thinking that they looked like they were about to face the firing squad.

At least with the firing squad it was all over quickly. This judging was going to be torture.

Belle and Granny entered and began to attack the cakes with vigour, and Gold tried to distract himself from impending doom by thinking about how pretty Belle looked when she pouted at Killian’s icing-less cake; the fact she could still look so lovely whilst also being the picture of disappointment really defied belief.

“There’s no icing,” she said. “The cake just looks a bit sad without it, don’t you think? And thanks to the fact that there’s no icing, I can see a very large concentration of cherries on the top here. It just doesn’t look pretty at all.”

At least all of the others apart from Mal’s had all the correct components in them, even if cherry distribution was a sore point. Despite his best efforts, Gold’s had indeed sunk, which Belle attributed to their not being chopped small enough. He could have kicked himself, but it was too late to change things now. He could only hope that the next time she judged his work, Belle’s disappointed pout, however lovely it looked, would not be directed at him.

When the time came to rank the cakes, Gold’s was ninth, ahead of Killian, Mal and Archie, who’d had similar cherry sinkage issues. Aurora came first with Jefferson a close second, and really, Gold knew that his own bake couldn’t compare with theirs.

It was time to give soundbites to camera again, and they all hung around in the tent whilst Astrid and the other runners rushed in and out grabbing people to talk to under the particularly picturesque trees outside. The judges stayed in the tent with them this time, since there was no more judging to be done. Some people were heading out after they had said their pieces; those who lived locally enough to go home at the end of the day rather than staying overnight in a hotel nearby. Gold stayed, trying to catch glimpses of Belle and maybe, just perhaps, exchange a few words with her that were not in the context of her critiquing his baking skills. He sighed and shook his head, staying sitting on his stool instead of seeking her out. What could he even talk to her about? They had nothing in common, apart from baking, and it seemed crass to talk shop. Inane and obvious. He would only make a fool of himself, so in the end he settled for just watching her from afar. She was gracious with all the contestants, even those that he himself did not enjoy interacting with.

“Hello there.”

Gold turned to find Zelena leaning on the bench beside him in a manner that would have looked nonchalant had it been anyone other than her leaning there.

“Hi,” he said. He didn’t think that he’d ever met someone who instinctively raised his hackles as much as Zelena did.

“So, we didn’t really get the chance to chat before the competition started,” she said. “I’m so interested to hear all about you. You’re like an enigma, so quiet and stoic. A nice little mystery to be solved.”

“I’m really not that interesting,” Gold protested, leaning away from her as much as he could and looking for some kind of escape. “I’m a sheep farmer, there’s really no profession more boring than that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Listening to Killian going on about reef knots for half an hour at lunch makes me think that sheep farming could be extremely interesting.” She quirked an eyebrow, leaning in a little closer, and Gold almost fell off his stool, grabbing his cane for balance, and possibly to use as a weapon to fend her off with.

“Zelena!” Astrid was calling her from across the tent. “You’re up next.”

The red-head gave a sigh of protest and pulled herself away from Gold’s workbench. “Shame. Just as things were starting to spark.”

“No sparks there except in your malfunctioning machinery,” Gold muttered. Perhaps it was time to leave the tent and seek safety elsewhere. Although it felt bad to be leaving so suddenly, he desperately did not want to be cornered by Zelena again. Maybe next week he ought to source some pepperspray from somewhere.

“Leaving so soon?”

Another voice made him turn, and he saw that it was Killian who had flagged him. There was a challenge in the words, and Gold sighed. Why Killian felt so threatened by Gold’s presence he had no idea, but there was something in the hostility that the younger man was constantly showing that made Gold think of blustering alpha males of a species doing their utmost to impress the females.

None of the females in the tent, however, seemed to be having any of it, Emma and Elsa just looking at Killian with distinctly underwhelmed expressions.

“Yes,” Gold replied simply, and he turned to leave the tent before he could get drawn into a confrontation that he really, after such a nerve-wracking day, did not have the energy for. He had long since learned that he had to pick his battles, and this was one battle he did not have the strength for.

Tomorrow was another day, and he would take whatever the tent and his fellow contestants threw at him.

(Hopefully not anything literal. Having witnessed Mal in action, he strongly suspected that she’d have an amazing overarm with an overcooked bread roll and could well knock someone out with it.)

X

Gold crawled down into his hotel room bed, astounded at just how exhausting baking anxiety could be and half-tempted to stay there for the remainder of the weekend, but movement was necessitated by the persistent buzzing of his phone telling him he had a message.

How'd it go? Bae asked.

Gold had to wonder at that. How had it gone, really? He could quite happily tell himself that it had all gone terribly, but in reality it hadn't been that bad. Apart from his first slip in the morning when the judges had taken him by surprise, he didn't think he'd disgraced himself that badly. He hadn't come last in the technical, at least.

After due consideration, he replied with the thoroughly uninformative not awful and closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was to go into the second day on no sleep.

Sleep, however, had other ideas.

X

Gold was one of the first into the reception room the next morning, having woken feeling not exactly refreshed, but having had enough sleep not to make a fool of himself and knowing that he would never get to sleep again. Since filming was going to be beginning comparatively early so that everyone could start making their way home in the afternoon, the production team had provided a breakfast of fruit and pastries. Elsa and Lance were already there and Gold hung back a little, picking at a chocolate croissant whilst he tried to work up the courage to go and join them.

"Thanks for making Killian back off yesterday," Elsa was saying. "Is it bad to hope he really messes up his bake today so he'll go home and we don't have to worry about him?"

Lance chuckled. "It's not the worst reason for wanting someone to go home," he said, and he waved to Gold, inviting him over to join the conversation. "But what about you, Gold? Zelena appears to have taken something of a shine to you."

"Yes. It's unfortunate that there's something about her that just makes you immediately uncomfortable," he said. "I'm sure she's a lovely person really, I just have no desire to find out."

"I'm not so sure," Elsa muttered. "She's the type I really wouldn't put it past to sabotage someone else's bake and make it look like an accident. Everyone watch your mini-cakes like a hawk!"

"Sadly I think we might have to put up with her for slightly longer than Killian," Lance said. "She is actually a pretty decent baker. I sampled her matcha Swiss roll yesterday; it was very good even if it was a disturbing shade of green."

"Stranger things have happened," Elsa commented optimistically, but Gold did not share her enthusiasm. "Still, miniature cakes." She sighed. "I really wish we didn't start with cake, it's really not my strong point. I'm better on pies and puddings. And ice-cream."

"We're expecting perfection from your baked Alaska then." Emma had joined them, hoarding breakfast pastries into her bag.

"I have to survive that long first. Bread's not my forte either."

"Nor mine," Lance admitted. "Pastry's my best subject. What about you two?"

"Well, cake's my strength," Emma said, "so I'll have an excellent first week and just go downhill from there."

Gold smiled, thankful that the arrival of a large group of the others into the reception room prevented him from answering. He quickly moved behind Lance to try and save him from Zelena's attentions, but it was to no avail. She seemed to have some kind of homing instinct and considering they'd only known each other for about a day, he thought it quite a remarkable, if slightly unnerving feat.

“You scuttled away quickly last night,” she said. There was a smile on her face but Gold did not see it as a particularly friendly expression. “When I got back into the tent you’d vanished. Really, anyone would think that you didn’t want to spend any time getting to know me.”

“Anyone would be right,” Lance muttered under his breath, but Zelena did not appear to have heard. Or if she had heard, she wasn’t paying any attention.

“And I’m so interested in getting to know you,” she continued. Gold took a step back, out of touching distance, still trying to put Lance between himself and Zelena. He felt a bit sorry for the other man; to be called upon as a shield for young women fending off predatory men was one thing, but Gold couldn’t help thinking that he really ought to be able to fend for himself against Zelena. He didn’t really fancy his chances though; her blood-red nails were long and talon-sharp, and for a moment he felt them digging uncomfortably into his arm. He looked down to realise that they actually were digging into his arm; she’d grabbed him in a vice-like grip to prevent him escaping her clutches this time.

“You know, I think it’s so wonderful to find a nice, mature man here,” Zelena purred, and Gold raised an eyebrow.

“Nice way of saying ‘old’,” he snapped. Her grip lessened slightly and Gold tried to shake her off, but it was to no avail.

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” she said hastily. “I was just meaning that you must have so much experience.”

“Still sounds like you’re calling him old,” Emma pointed out. “Also, we were in the middle of a conversation here that you rudely interrupted.” She gestured to herself, Elsa and Lance. “We’re standing right here, you know.”

At last the talons let go of his arm; Zelena was positively fuming and although Gold was infinitely grateful that she was no longer clinging to him and doing a passable impression of a barnacle, he was slightly worried about what kind of revenge she might wreak on his new-found friends. With any luck she’d be too worried about her own bake to try sabotaging anyone else’s, but Elsa’s words from earlier echoed eerily in his mind. He hoped that the others would keep a very close eye on their work.

With Emma unyielding and it being obvious that she was not going to get Gold to herself, Zelena flounced away in a huff, going over to talk to Mal and Regina, who seemed just as disinclined to talk to her as the rest of the bakers were; but Gold couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for her friendlessness. She ended up chatting with Killian, and Gold thought that they deserved each other. He tried to put her to the back of his mind and focus on the coming challenge, but inevitably, that brought his thoughts full circle back to Belle and her opinion of his baking, and the butterflies in his stomach increased tenfold.

It was going to be a very long day.

X

Although the judges were supposed to stay segregated from the contestants in the time before the challenges and only talk to them afterwards when the pressure was off, Belle could not help but tiptoe down the corridor and peer into the break room where the twelve possible candidates for star baker were gathered, attempting to enjoy their breakfast before filming began. Well, that was a lie. There were not really twelve candidates for Star Baker. Some of the bakers were definitely skating on thin ice. She looked at Killian, loud and aggressive and dominant, and her eyes narrowed. It was a good job that he was one of the ones that Granny agreed was on their shortlist for leaving the tent, as she might have had some unsavoury thoughts about rigging the results to get rid of him as soon as possible. He was the kind of personality that could easily become a bully in the competition, if he wasn’t already. Hopefully coming last in the technical challenge and the comments he’d received for his lacklustre signature bake had been enough to curb his ego a little going into the second day, but she was not so sure. He still appeared to think that he was God’s gift to women. Mal was on shaky ground as well; her Saturday seemed to have been plagued with disaster, but she still had the chance to pull it all back today as long as there were no more accidents or incidents. If she was the most accident-prone baker, then Elsa was definitely the messiest, but her bakes were solid and there was no danger for her. She moved around to peer at the other side of the room through the slit where the door did not quite meet the frame. Jefferson and Aurora were both strong contenders for the crown, with excellent performances in both challenges the previous day. Gold had had a good signature but let himself down in the technical. She paused; there was something about the nervous man that endeared him to her, and she smiled, hoping that he would increase in confidence and get used to the cameras during his stint in the tent. And she hoped that he’d be able to avoid Zelena. Belle’s eyes narrowed. Like Killian, she was definitely another one to watch. You could always tell the ones who seemed to delight in the misfortunes of others when things went wrong.

The trouble with Zelena was going to be that she was actually very good at what she did, and being mean to the other contestants and needling them wasn’t really something that could get her disqualified. She and Granny could only comment on their baking ability and Zelena’s was good; not the best but by no means the worst. It was a shame that she had given such a bad impression to start with, and bitterly, Belle wondered if perhaps the network would play up the volatile relationships that she was beginning to build with the rest of the competitors in the name of better ratings and more drama for the viewers. She sincerely hoped not. The entire point of the show for all its seasons had been that really, it was quintessentially British and that was what made it stand out from a lot of the other culinary shows out there. It wasn’t cut-throat, it didn’t lend itself to drama among its contestants, only drama when their individual bakes went wrong. As long as everything focussed solely around the cake, then it was all right, but Belle could see sparks flying between the people before the run was out.

She caught Ursula’s eye where she was peering through the crack, and the host rolled her eyes on seeing Belle peeping in, surreptitiously shooing her away. Ursula and Ella, for all their antics, were incredibly good at reading people, and with any luck, she could rely on them to be her proxy in the tent where she herself had to take a step back and remain impartial.

She moved away from the door as the runners came in to start setting up mics and getting everyone sorted out for the day’s filming. Only time would tell.

X

Soon enough, they were being ushered back down into the tent, donning aprons and waiting patiently for the announcement that the challenge could begin. Gold looked around him. Zelena was, thankfully, on the other side of the room, but unfortunately her eyes met his and she smiled a predatory smile, making Gold want to dive for cover behind the nearest fridge. He looked away quickly, busying himself with making sure that all his ingredients were in the proper place on his bench. His nervousness was showing and he knocked his cane over; the clatter and thud as it slipped and tumbled to the ground was deafening to Gold’s ears in the quiet tent, and he could not look up as he bent to retrieve it, trying to avoid the weight of everyone else’s eyes on him.

Ella saved him by beginning to speak, and he fixed his gaze firmly on her, not looking around at the other contestants.

“Good morning bakers. For today’s showstopper challenge, Belle and Granny would like you to make thirty-six miniature cakes. Specifically, thirty-six classic British cakes. They can be shape or flavour, decorated in any way you like, but they must all be identical.”

“Good luck to you all, please ignore Ella’s requests for gin until the sun is over the yardarm. You have three and a half hours on the clock. On your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake!”

With that one encouraging command, Gold’s world was once more reduced to his workbench and the ingredients on it. He had a plan - Elvira had made him write one down - but now that he was here, he was rapidly losing confidence in his ability to stick to it. He had just about managed to complete the challenge to time when he was practicing at home (Mr Dove had gone home with several miniature cakes that week, but he had accepted them all with good grace, claiming that he was passing them all on to his several cousins who were enjoying them immensely.)

It was just a question of continuing to go through the motions, and trying to ignore the noise and bustle going on around him. He could not lose his cool now, at this stage of the proceedings.

This time when Belle, Granny and Ursula arrived he was prepared for them, and he looked up, smiling with a confidence he didn't feel and hoping that the expression didn't come out looking too much like a grimace.

"Good morning," Belle said, giving him a reassuring smile. "So, tell us all about your miniature cakes."

"They're coffee and walnut," Gold said, and Granny gave a nod of approval. Thank goodness for that. "Coffee and walnut cakes with coffee buttercream icing and walnut decorations.”

"Are you using brewed coffee or coffee essence?" Belle asked.

"Both. I've got filter coffee in the cake and coffee essence in the icing.”

"Do you find that the coffee makes the cake rather wet?" Granny commented, but Gold refused to be cowed.

"Not at the strength I'm making it."

"So it's a five to one ratio of coffee grounds to water?" Ursula suggested, and Gold nodded with a chuckle. The host tried to surreptitiously take the cafetière off his workbench.

"Ursula, put that back!" Belle laughed, pulling the other woman away as they went to move on to their next victim.

"But it's early!" Ursula protested. "I need to stay awake! Can I have any leftovers?" she asked Gold.

He shook his head in good-natured despair as the camera crew moved away across the tent to speak to Lance, who was zesting lemons with an ease that suggested he'd been zesting lemons every day for his entire life. For all this was the last chance of the weekend to prove himself, Gold felt a little more relaxed this time. He was getting a bit more used to the idea of the cameras tracking his every move and he didn't feel quite as in danger of making a fool of himself, and with Ursula and Ella's antics providing the comedic relief, the attention was more focussed on them than his nervousness. Perhaps that was the whole point. Ella and Ursula had always proved themselves very adept at calming down stressed out bakers, and diverting the audience's gaze away from the more nervous ones, like himself, was all part of that process. He would have to thank them later, once he was no longer feeling quite so incredibly highly-strung. At least he felt slightly more confident coming into this challenge.

Of course, it could all go horribly wrong, Belle could hate what he baked and he could be sent on the first bus home, but that was a chance he was going to have to take.

“Jefferson, why do you have a pineapple on your workbench?”

Gold looked up on hearing Ella’s incredulous voice across the tent, and saw that Jefferson did indeed have a large pineapple sitting on one corner of his workbench.

“I thought that it would be a talking point,” Jefferson said with a wink. “Always bring a pineapple to a party, you never know what might come of it. And we can always make pina coladas later to celebrate our successes. Or commiserate our failures.”

“Oooo! Pina coladas!” Ella clapped her hands together in anticipation. “Perfect. I mean, I prefer a good G&T but I’m game for anything.”

“And don’t I know it,” Ursula chimed in from where she was talking to Emma.

Gold snorted with laughter and returned his attention to the task at hand. It was his last chance to prove himself. Nothing could go wrong. He seriously wished that he’d brought earphones with him so that he could drown out the rest of the sounds of the tent, but he supposed that a lot of the pressure in the competition came from having the constant noises and distractions around them in the tent, putting them off in the most non-malicious way. He blocked as much of it as he could from his mind, ignoring the other bakers, ignoring the pervading scent of pineapple coming from Jefferson’s bench, ignoring Killian attempting to flirt with Belle, as if sweet-talking her would make her give him a higher mark for his work.

Three and a half hours had never gone by so quickly, and the minutes of clean up and rearranging in the tent had never gone by so slowly. Looking around at his rivals, Gold’s eyes widened at the spectacular feats of baking engineering that he could see. Showstopping was definitely the right word, and for a long time, whilst the others were being judged, all Gold could think about was the growing sense of panic, that he really wasn’t good enough to be here and next to all the others, he was a complete fraud and they were going to pack him on the next bus home...

“Raymond,” Belle called from the front. “Would you like to bring your cakes up please?”

“D’you need a hand?” Emma asked under her breath, but Gold shook his head. Transporting several delicate cakes was easier said than done when one only had one free hand, but he’d thought of that, taking the handle of his cake stand and carefully lifting it off the bench. It seemed that the entire tent was watching him with bated breath, waiting for his ankle to give out and his offerings to be sent sprawling across the floor whilst he landed in a heap on his ass, but none of them seemed to realise that Gold had been living with his injury for almost fifteen years and adaptation was key to survival. If he didn’t want to drop something, then he didn’t drop it, and he certainly didn’t want to be accepting aid with cake logistics on the first week of the show. Gold wasn’t proud of a lot in his life, but he did retain an ounce of dignity, and he would not lose it yet.

The cakes were safely delivered to the judges’ table and Belle and Granny took a moment to admire the presentation before each taking one of the cakes and cutting into it. Gold was very glad that he’d coated the outside of the cakes in chopped walnuts, it hid a multitude of sins.

Belle was smiling as she popped a piece of cake into her mouth, the swirl of coffee buttercream on the top smearing at the corner of her mouth. She giggled, a soft, beguiling sound, and swiped the confection away with her thumb, sucking it off. Her eyes met Gold’s as she did so, and she gave a little smile.

Gold blinked; was she flirting with him?

In a split second, the private little smile was gone, and she was back to the business of marking up his cakes, leaving Gold to flounder helplessly as he tried to work out her intentions. It couldn’t be anything, could it? Could it? He was reading far too much into this, it was only cake for crying out loud.

“This is wonderful,” Belle said, bringing him back to the present. “You’ve really managed to capture the coffee essence properly, normally it gets cooked out. It’s a very difficult balance to achieve and you’ve mastered it well. This definitely makes up for yesterday’s mishaps in the technical.”

Elsa gave him a double thumbs up as he passed her workbench on his way back to his own before she was called up to present her own miniature lemon and raspberry batternbergs. She’d tried to hide the ones with the messiest marzipan coating on the bottom of the stand but Granny’s eagle eyes still found them, and she heaved a sigh.

“You’re very consistent with flavour, Elsa, but your presentation is… eclectic,” Belle said.

“You can say messy, it’s all right,” the younger woman said with a shrug. “But I reckon that as long as they taste good, then that’s the main thing really isn’t it? You know. Baking’s all about taste.”

Gold had to agree with her there and the judges conceded the point, but stressed that the bakes really ought to look appetising as well as being tasty. Elsa gave Gold a shrug as she returned to her station, and he tried to give her a reassuring smile in return. He really didn’t think that she would be sent home on the grounds of her presentation; not when there were definitely worse bakers in the tent than she was. Killian was taking his Victoria sponge cakes up to the judges’ table and despite them being neatly presented, Belle announced that they didn’t taste of anything at all. For the first time during the weekend, Killian actually looked perturbed by the judges’ response to his offering, as if it was just dawning on him that this was his last chance to prove himself and that he had definitely failed to make the grade. Gold knew that it was uncharitable to wish failure on his fellows, but this was a competition after all, and as friendly as the show was, a little bit of rivalry was natural. Especially towards someone with as domineering a personality as Killian’s.

The last person to be judged was Jefferson, whose miniature carrot cakes had been baked in the shape of actual carrots.

“You know, Jefferson, I was sceptical when I saw the pineapple but I believe I may have been converted,” Granny said. “It makes the cake so wonderfully moist and adds a lightness to the flavour.”

Belle agreed. “I was worried that the taste would be too strong and it would drown out the other flavours in the cake, that it would lose something in the process and become a pineapple cake rather than a carrot cake, but I can still taste the quintessential carrotness in there too. Well done.”

Jefferson looked justly proud as he made his way back to his workbench. It was clear from the expressions of the other bakers that they were mirroring his thoughts - if Jefferson did not win the crown for Star Baker this week, then the judges might not have their heads screwed on properly.

There was a ridiculously long wait before the results were announced, as the cakes were cleared away out of sight of the cameras and the tent was rearranged ready, but then the runners were shepherding them away from each others' cakes and back to sit down on the high stools in the centre of the tent. Gold nabbed the one of the end so that he could hook his cane over the workbench beside him and wouldn't need to worry about being sandwiched between Zelena and Killian. The runners seemed to have some kind of sixth sense and ushered Zelena over to the other end, for which Gold was extremely grateful, and he found himself next to Elsa, swinging her legs and lamenting her flour-covered shoes with a sigh.

"I think I've definitely got the reputation as this year's messiest baker," she said, looking down at her raspberry-stained apron. "I swear I'm not normally this untidy at home. Then again I live with my sister and she'd feel at home in pigsty so maybe I just don't notice until I'm here where everyone else is incredibly clean. She glanced over at Gold. "Seriously, how come you're not covered with coffee?"

Gold just laughed and then the runners were ushering them to be quiet as Belle, Granny, Ella and Ursula came back into the tent.

"Darlings," Ella began dramatically, "the time has come. Today we crown our very first star baker of the season, in the hope that they will continue to amaze us with inventive uses for pineapple. This week's star baker is Jefferson!"

Everyone applauded and Jefferson gave a little bow from his perch. When there was quiet again, Ursula spoke.

"Unfortunately, since Ella decided to get in quick, the less pleasant task falls to me. As you know we can't take everyone with us into next week and so we must say goodbye to one of you."

Gold looked up at the tent ceiling, wondering if it would look too obvious if he crossed his fingers.

"The baker who will not be joining us next week is Killian."

Gold let out a sigh of relief, and next to him, Elsa hissed "thank god for that" before she had to be polite for the cameras. Gold couldn't say that he was particularly sad to see the other man leave, but he knew he had to act neutral. The camera crew began pulling them out one by one for reaction soundbites, starting with Jefferson, who was positively skipping out of the tent in his happiness. Gold eased himself down off his stool and went over to where all his stuff was stored, checking everything was tidied away and ready to go. It was a nice little hiding place; he really didn't want to be drawn into conversation with anyone; he was already exhausted. All the same, now that the judging was over, the two judges were hanging around in the tent, socialising with the bakers. This would be his first and last chance this weekend to talk to Belle without the cameras on them. Cautiously he peered over the top of his workbench, searching her out in the sea of people. She was chatting animatedly to Emma in one corner, and Gold was loath to interrupt what looked to be a very interesting conversation. Perhaps he could sidle in? Then again, what was the likelihood of him actually getting face to face with Belle in a social situation where he didn't have to be calm and look normal for the camera and completely messing it up? Perhaps it would be best to stay hidden away down here. After all, he was coming back next week. There would still be plenty of opportunities to talk to her then.

"So this is where you've been hiding." Astrid had come around and discovered him, and Gold cursed mentally as she dragged him outside under the same picturesque looking tree he'd talked to camera under the previous day. "We've been looking for you all over. I know you don't like talking to camera but there's really no need to hide, that won't get you out of it. How do you feel about that result?" she asked.

"I don't think my honest response is broadcastable," he muttered, before turning to the camera and wracking his brains for something that wouldn't sound too schlocky. "I'm just glad to be coming back next week."

Astrid nodded. "That's good. You can go back now. We're going to have to edit Emma's a bit; she didn't realise we were rolling. It was very entertaining though. Maybe we could have an outtakes programme after the series finishes." They made their way back to the tent, and Astrid broke off to go and fetch her next victim. Gold returned to his hiding place, this time trying to avoid Zelena.  She was chatting to Regina in one corner and thankfully distracted, but then again, Regina looked like she was desperately trying to get away from the conversation so maybe he wasn't as safe as he hoped.

"All over? You can relax now, you've got a week before you have to smile for the camera again."

Gold turned to find Jefferson beside him, and slightly discomfitted by his sudden appearance seemingly out of nowhere, Gold's first instinct was to offer him one of his cakes.

"Don't mind if I do. I can't say I'm exactly surprised by that result," Jefferson said before taking an entire coffee and walnut cake in his mouth in one go, nodding to where Killian was talking to Belle and Granny. Whatever was being said, Belle didn’t appear to be too impressed by it, her mouth set in a thin line and her arms folded, leaning away. Jefferson's cake-muffled voice brought him back to his immediate environs. "This is really good, Gold. Most of the time when I use coffee I just can't get it to taste."

"Thanks. Take a few if you want, I've got to pack up and get going."

"Leaving so soon?" Jefferson raised an eyebrow. "Anyone would think that you wanted to leave the wonderful Miss French's delectable presence."

Gold was glad that he didn't have a mouthful of cake at that point, because he would surely have choked on it. He coughed, and Jefferson just smirked.

"Well, as lovely as she is, I leave the playing field open to you." He tapped the wedding band on his left hand. "Don't think we didn't see you blushing earlier. Don't think that the cameras didn't see you either."

Gold scrubbed a hand over his face. "Oh my God..."

Jefferson laughed. "Honestly though, there's still a while before they start kicking us out. Stay for a bit longer, we've hardly got to know you."

Gold shook his head. "I have to get back to my flock."

"How many?" Jefferson asked.

"One hundred and seventy-three."

"What? Children?"

"No, sheep. When I said flock I did actually mean it in the literal sense."

"Oh dear..." At least now Jefferson was looking as embarrassed as Gold had earlier. It was just a shame that the cameras weren't running anymore. "I think I'll just stop talking from now on."

Gold smiled. "It's fine, honestly." He paused. "It was nice to meet you."

"You too. Best of luck for next week."

"Likewise."

As he began to collect his things, Gold smiled to himself. The weekend hadn't been a total washout. He'd held his own, and he'd come through, and perhaps he'd even made a couple of friends in Jefferson, Elsa and Emma. Considering how terrified he had been when he'd walked into that room full of strangers the previous morning, he thought that was possibly more miraculous than the fact he hadn't made a complete fool of himself and been sent straight home.

X

Chip and Imp bounded up to Gold as he got out of the taxi, and he bent to scratch them behind their ears.

"Hello girls," he crooned softly. "Did you miss me?"

"Nah." He looked up to see Bae in the front doorway, grinning, and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you one of the girls?"

"Point taken. So..."

"So what?"

Bae rolled his eyes, waving his hands around in exasperation. "So how did it go?"

Gold straightened and finally made his way into the house, the dogs trotting along happily at his heels.

"Well, I'm going back next week," he said. "So I suppose you can count that as a victory."

"Excellent. And?"

"And what?"

"Oh come on, Dad, there's got to be more to it than that! What are the other contestants like? Did anyone throw their work in the bin? Who got kicked out? Is Ella Furrier as outrageous in real life as she is on screen? What's Belle like? Did you actually speak to her like a normal human being or did you just stand there like an idiot? I bet you just stood there like an idiot, I know you."

"I need to get the sheep in," Gold muttered.

"Dad!" Bae exclaimed.

But Gold kept his mouth shut as he moved through the house to get changed and see to the sheep. The little smile that had passed between him and Belle as she sampled his coffee frosting would remain their little secret for as long as he could help it.

====

Next time, the bakers tackle biscuits, Archie considers changing career paths, and Belle and Gold have an actual conversation!

 Technical Challenge cherry cake based off this Mary Berry recipe. 

Gold's mini coffee and walnut cakes are a variation of this Mary Berry recipe. 

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #Belle French #Mr Gold #Spinner!Rum #GBBO #GBBO AU #Fic: Love is a Layered Cake #with recipes included!

[sweetcron]

11-97

hhelllll yEAHHHHH HERE WE GO BABIE!!!!!!! THANKS FOR THE ASK!!!

i probably went too hard on all these but....one of my summer classes just finished and i was like yeahahhHhhahah

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

totally depends where i am and how much time i have, but typically ill have yogurt & something small but sweet so i dont go insane

12. name of your favorite playlist?

god right now my favorite is handle without care, which is just stupid songs im into right now

13. lanyard or key ring?

lanyard, except i always get it caught on shit so typically i just throw my keys in my bag anyway

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?

oooo hard one, my initial thought was sour gummy worms, but probably... either that or sour skittles. oh but fuck lemon & black licorice jelly beans together......im excited to have 0 followers & 0 friends tomorrow

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

percy jackson was dope. im trying to come up with another that i even read and frankly cannot

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

honestly i just sit like a fool all the time, but i like to be very reclined and almost horizontal, if im forced to sit more upright i like crosslegged or with my leg(s) pulled up to my chest

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

depends on the season or length of time, recently it’s been my black high top vans, usually it’s my docs. for a long time it was black converse.

18. ideal weather?

i like when it’s a little sunny, kind of overcast, but a little cold, like enough to wear layers but not suffer

19. sleeping position?

on my side, curled up, ideally holding pam(ela indestructable underworld), my adorable stuffed sloth

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

depends on what it is, but I have a planner sort of thing i really like for planning, a sketchbook/painting sort of notebook for more emotional shit and then my twitter that nobody follows and is private for really emotional shit

21. obsession from childhood?

i loved making like..dirt, water, and grass mixtures in an empty gatorade bottle. apparently this is not a common experience.

22. role model?

everyone to an extent, but also nobody. but to pin down a specific person, probably my therapist lol

23. strange habits?

i keep listening to shiny from moana? also i keep wanting to change my hair.

24. favorite crystal?

oh god, i love opal, but i dont know. most are pretty but some are awful. it depends, and id have to look at a million pictures for any resemblance of a legitimate answer

25. first song you remember hearing?

that’s so hard um. i dont remember very early but i do remember hearing crush, crush, crush by paramore and thinking ew crushes are gross even though i had a crush on a dumbass at the time, and welcome to the black parade and crying

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?

warm, probably a concert but past that, walking around, going to thrift stores or record shops. 

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?

a concert, again but past that going home, or getting a warm drink

28. five songs to describe you?

oh LORD!!!!! this is hard, but i did my best

1. caught in the middle - paramore

2. grow - muna

3. cool for cats - squeeze

4. cut my lip - twenty one pilots

5. tubthumping - chumbawumba

29. best way to bond with you?

share music with me, be vulnerable and share what is going on with you

30. places that you find sacred?

being in trees and being alone listening to music that means a lot to me loudly

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?

i have a mustardy yellow shirt that’s got vertical lines that are raised from the shirt, and then a flared leg jumpsuit sort of thing that’s like plaid, with black and white and grey. then docs, and yeah i love that outfit. adore it. even better with a jean jacket with fleece lining.

32. top five favorite vines?

also so hard but after doing this i think im gonna throw up from laughing so hard

1. dancing puppet

2. get outta your mind

3. cat

4. WAY TO GO PAUL

5. krispy kreme

33. most used phrase in your phone?

that’s a great question, probably me asking people what to do with my hair

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

none currently, but always “meat, it’s what’s for dinner”

35. average time you fall asleep?

depends, but usually 10ish

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?

probably some rage meme like brian or whatever

37. suitcase or duffel bag?

depends on what im doing, but usually duffel.

38. lemonade or tea?

arnold palmer babie!! but it depends, usually i’d say tea, i really like lemon ginger (especially pukka but its expensive)

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?

i dont know if i’ve had lemon meringue pie, but lemon cake sounds better i think

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

i remembered this and it is entertaining, in middle school (i was...prolly 14? 13?) someone said “someone likes uuuu” to me and i was like. “......k” and they were like..... “it’s a giiiiiiirl” and i again, was like “.......k” and so literally, i fucking spent the rest of the class being like, hm! apparently i dont care. and thats how i realized that idc about gender when it comes to liking someone lol

41. last person you texted?

max, @laetan​. follow him if u dont i love him

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?

women’s pant pockets are cursed. jacket pockets enlighten me, especially when there’s one normal and then one like, on top of that pocket but the entrance is horizontal. that’s my favorite.

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

all? but let’s rank them 

1. jean jacket, my absolute fav, i have like 5 jean jackets and it’s bad. i always want more

2. hoodie, with a jean jacket is even better, but COMFY!!!!

3. leather jacket, look like a badass with one piece of clothing!!

4. bomber jacket, dont have a lot but always make me feel cool

5. cardigan, makes me feel like an old lady, but also really comfy idk. even the worst is amazing

44. favorite scent for soap?

i love lemon, but any fruit is good. or like, vanilla

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?

sci-fi usually....fantasy is usually too much and superhero is usually annoying. unless it’s spiderman. i adore spiderman

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?

oversized soft t shirt and like, soft shorts/boxer things

47. favorite type of cheese?

GOAT CHEESE!!! also sharp cheddar and pepperjack

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?

pear. i feel like i’m not talked about a lot but people like me and nobody despises me??

49. what saying or quote do you live by?

i really like “you can start over each day” and “only skeleton bones remain” (FUCKING CLIKKIE)

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?

i feel like ive cried laughing so hard, or almost thrown up, but i dont know why, and that’s almost better

51. current stresses?

just general body things, appointments, school in the fall, graduating, etc

52. favorite font?

it depends on what im doing, but i love my own handwriting, i like times new roman, hate arial with a PASSION!!!!! brawler is nice but doesn’t bold well. handwriting fonts are cool too

53. what is the current state of your hands?

left hand’s nails is in silver glitter and right hand’s nails are blue/purple glitter. perpetual hangnails. still a hint of a scar from cutting my hand on a razor, and remnants of blisters from rowing

54. what did you learn from your first job?

that you can be kind and see change without changing the entire world, and that men are creepy as shit

55. favorite fairy tale?

i dont think i have one? max probably has a good one that i’d love. new ask game send me ur favorite fairy tales and ill read them and review them

56. favorite tradition?

my mom makes me a half birthday cake every year, it’s really cute and idk why it warms my heart

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?

fuck dude, umm this is hard and also a lot

1. my extreme self hatred!!

2. my extreme concern for other people’s thoughts, just honestly like dressing and listening to whatever and not really caring, ill always care, just not as bad as i did

3. letting go of things and trying to grow because of pain rather than viewing it as a waste of time

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

uhhhhhghaghhaghdshaghdhsaghadshg i dont know this is hard

1. finding dope ass socks at thrift stores

2. thinking creatively and trying to make something stranger than others like it

3. i can draw p well???? i guess? i designed my tattoo does that count

4. winning contests. i won like, 10 last year? like wtf

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

recently it would be life’s a sham and then ur wow, in reference to life’s a bitch and then you die and also shamwow. so that. or just constantly referring to things as bad boys, like. dishes.

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?

there’s different kinds? but ummmm i dont know, i dont want to google anime types. can i say like a miyazaki movie and be done with it

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

i dont know, can i do a song? bc i really like I’m alive in spite of me recently, also like this graffiti that i say that said 33 might mason men couldn’t put me back together again

62. seven characters you relate to?

oh boy, i asked my gf for help on some

1. nick miller from new girl

2. peter b. parker from into the spiderverse

3. dean mccoppin from iron giant for some reason

4. emile from ratatouille 

5. a mix of ben and leslie from parks and rec

6. a weird mix of chris and ron from parks and rec

7. rodrick from diary of a wimpy kid

63. five songs that would play in your club?

1. come down by anderson paak

2. send me on my way by rusted root

3. doses and mimosas by cherub

4. replay by iyaz

5. rap snitch knishes by mf doom

64. favorite website from your childhood?

WEBKINZ!!!!!

65. any permanent scars?

yeaaa got a lot, most prominent are on my legs, partially just stretch marks, and then the one on my forehead from when i got stitches

66. favorite flower(s)?

i love carnations, marigolds, roses, but really anything, fuck

67. good luck charms?

i don’t have any, i used to wear a bracelet my gf gave me but it broke. *insert gif of me trying to remember when it broke and if that’s when everything went to shit*

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

centipede jelly bean. worst thing ive ever had. it wouldn’t go away for a day even with eating other things and drinking water and chewing strong gum. horrible

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

i have no idea. truly

70. left or right handed?

i am right handed

71. least favorite pattern?

houndstooth, i really don’t like it for some reason

72. worst subject?

i am oh so bad at writing, it’s really hard for me. but honestly recently every subject is horrible.

73. favorite weird flavor combo?

this was mentioned before, but black licorice and lemon. i’ve only had it with jelly beans, so maybe it’s not as good in other formats

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?

depends on what it is, if i think a migraine is coming then i take it pretty low, maybe a 4, otherwise i can deal with it up to like a 6 or 7, unless i’m needing to focus

75. when did you lose your first tooth?

i dont know when, but i do remember where. i was at a drive through bank in a rental car with my parents and brother in oregon, and i put the tooth in the lid of a plastic water bottle.

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

jalepeno potato chips are soooo good but, honestly, tots are the best. mashed potatoes are good too

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?

depends on the direction it’s facing and climate, but i’m growing some ivy right now and it’s so pretty and cool. also a christmas cactus that my great great great grandma or something like that started and has been passed down!!!! and a ..... leafy boy

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?

absolutely coffee from a gas station, i dont trust sushi

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo?

my school id because i’m smiling. i look stoned or dead in my id.

80. earth tones or jewel tones?

i didn’t entirely know what this meant, so i googled both and went oooooooo to jewel tones so. jewel tones.

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?

i say both, i don’t know which i say more frequently because i live where there aren’t ....... lightning bugs. ore fireflies. whichever. lol

82. pc or console?

i dont game much, but i like my psp a lot, or like a joystick sort of sitchhhh

83. writing or drawing?

dRAWING FOR SURE!

84. podcasts or talk radio?

podcasts, i don’t listen to much of either

84. barbie or polly pocket?

can i throw in a third variable of bratz?

85. fairy tales or mythology?

either, but probably mythology

86. cookies or cupcakes?

depends on the kind, but i love frosting and cupcakes are fun, so cupcakes.

87. your greatest fear?

that i will lose everyone i love or push them away? eeeee

88. your greatest wish?

to be content and hopefully other people are content alongside me

89. who would you put before everyone else?

honestly my gf, max, and steph. and my mom. yeyeeeee

90. luckiest mistake?

oh god we could go deep or not. probably not. so like, buying pamela, my stuffed sloth

91. boxes or bags?

depends on the situation, but bags are fun, can put patches on them, plastic bags are boring and boxes are useful, help organize or carry lots of things

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

sunlight absolutely, i love it. i then would say lamps are better than fairy lights which are better than overhead lights. fuck overhead lights

93. nicknames?

for me? okay lets GO. delly, delly boi, dell, d, glen, glenjamin, glenny, yenaled. there’s a lot of weird/gross ones that i dont want to share.

94. favorite season?

fall in theory, summer in stability.

95. favorite app on your phone?

wasn’t this already asked? CAUGHTCHA

96. desktop background?

switches between 3 pictures around colorado that my gf took

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?

five

98. favorite historical era?

good question, i honestly don’t know. can i say the 80s or 90s? if not like, before racism existed. yeah

#about me #ask #long post #THANK YOU #ask game #anon #was this too long #sorry #also i spent so long on this wtf?!?!?!?!???!?!!?!??!?!?!?!?!?! who am i #anonymous

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Why do so many authoritarians on Twitter have anime girl avatars? The rapid emergence of authoritarian ideologies online — both right wing and left-wing — is perhaps the biggest story of the last five years and one that has caught existing activist communities off foot. For decades radical politics was almost exclusively the domain of anarchists and other explicit anti-authoritarians. Sure there were neonazi gangs on the streets of many cities and the occasional Trotskyist or Maoist on the edges of the activist scene, but anti-authoritarianism was for all intents and purposes hegemonic. The internet eventually helped shatter this hegemony, it gave authoritarians the spaces to recruit that they weren’t capable of holding in meatspace. Movements recruit through social reinforcement, when we enter rooms where everyone is on the same page those norms are reinforced in our cheap monkey brains. The perception of having a tribe or community is a powerful one, merely knowing twelve disparate individuals with the same politics as you is far less pernicious than having all twelve of those individuals in the same space. Suddenly your ideology is not merely an idea up for discussion but rather a law, a flag, a compact, a binding sense of identity. Authoritarian ideologies have always appealed to the most vulgar of our psychological needs. The twists and turns of their arguments are often ludicrous on the face because they’re not actually about intellectual persuasion, but emotional promises. The subtext is the point: We offer you community. We offer you power. Less examined is how these authoritarian cults often promise love. Or, to be more specific, the way they tap into an existing ideology of love. Lots of hetero boys grow up to idealize and long for an ideal of human empathy, kindness, softness and connection denied us under patriarchy — wrapping it up into a distant prize or fantasy to be longed for or strived for. Patriarchy shoves young boys into a kind of brutal competition and the reward it promises at the end of the tunnel is the thing it takes away: empathy, connection, and kindness. We are told that if we can harden ourselves, learn to wall ourselves off further, we might one day stand on the top of a pile of corpses in some gladiatorial arena and be presented with love. Another human being who has been sealed off from the viciousness of the world in cryogenic storage, a crystallized remnant of everything that was snatched from us in childhood. We are then to use our great hulking bulk of scar tissue to enclose around them, to protect their small flower as though a replacement heart. In the most ideal fantasy we are thus made whole, returned to our youth to uncertainly re-start our lives as complete human beings. The picture tends to terminate here in a kind of “Happily Ever After” event horizon, because to even visualize ourselves beyond patriarchy, beyond the broken, twisted pain, isolation, and silent frantic need that has become as integral to our lives as breathing air taxes our imaginations beyond their capacity. We may daydream about particulars — white picket fence, names of children, etc — but it functions akin to dressing up a D&D character. There’s a whole absurd, magical, fantastical leap we’re distracting ourselves from with such particulars. Eventually many of us stop being able to sustain the dream. The goal — the promise — such as it still enters our life does so as a source of mitigation. A stalling tactic in a long doomed retreat. The furthest our imaginations can stretch is clinging to the faint hope of such a prize until one finally drains it and dies alone. A true return to childhood wholeness is finally conceded as impossible, we simply want to sip some nostalgia of what life was like before we became boys, before we became men, one last time before dying. Love — for many, but particularly for heterosexual boys — functions as a utopia. The last conceivable one. It’s no longer possible for most to imagine a world not riven with callous competition. And so one’s aspirations shrink to just prying away one single relationship not characterized by cruelty and fear. This concept of love is the widest spread and most powerful radical ideology in the world today. It is also one of the most silent, since its adherents have given up on trusting anyone beyond this eschaton-like figure of the lover. Men do not speak about love to other men. What would be the point? As in so many other instances the most important parts of our lives are by necessity never shared. And with the girls and women we date we are circumspect. The reward we are promised is one of innocence of what the world has done to us. By such assumption it cannot be aware of its own role. And we cannot speak what drives us. There exists, in every eschatology of this promised utopia, every ideology or narrative that wraps around it, a breaking moment. A “???” step where the chains of context that have wrapped around us disappear and we are suddenly pushed by an outside force, by the hand of god, by narrative power, by The Way It Works!, into utopia. Such a revolutionary or millenarian ideology of love has widely flourished in the last few hundred years in the west. Modern romantic love, “true love” and similar narratives  are so clearly pressure valves for revolutionary instincts. A comfortingly human-scale place to channel the hunger and frustrated aspirations of simultaneously seeing the world as it is and might instead be. Lots of people subscribe to it to varying degrees. I subscribe to it. Or at least some variant. Some days fighting for a better world is too much to ask. Some days the most you can bring yourself to imagine is a single relationship that isn’t shit. You think “If I could have a single tiny burning ember of utopia I’d be fine, I could live once again from its warmth.” Idealistic aspirations in romance and love are not the problem, and they are obviously not in any sense exclusive to geeky hetero boys. We all need warmth in our lives. We all need some kind of relief from the war of all against all. We all need to start somewhere. But what is relatively unique about hetero boys is the way their socialization and the narratives of patriarchy often frame and channel this. Many of the most virulent reactionaries online were clearly once sensitive children. The 4chan nazi who spews hate on women and calls for the establishment of an absurd Reich where women are forced into abject slavery, or indoctrinated into service as Good Aryan Women peppers his internet presence with compulsive anime waifus. Childlike enormous eyes plaintively look out from soft and comforting frills. This representation is abstracted away from any resemblance to a real breathing human, turned into a totem, a constantly invested in and revisited symbol. The internet nazi with a love for anime and other infantilized representations of girls is more than a cliche, it’s a near-constant. If we can just get through these armies of our enemies then Step ??? will happen and everyone will get a waifu. The state will force someone to love me. Without the monsters of feminism to delude and mislead women they will return to their natural state of waifus ready to love me. If only women would be enlightened to how their shortsighted approaches are leaving them unrewarded like they would be if they gave me a chance. If only women would see that fairness means everyone should get a waifu. And finally, fuck it, maybe none of those things will work, maybe none of those arguments ring true. But then where’s any redeeming value in life? Where’s any hope? Goddamn it, maybe if you just blindly rage, if you just seize enough power, maybe somewhere in there you’ll find a path to utopia that would actually work. It’s better than just giving into hopelessness. Conservative and authoritarian ideological structures make a lot more sense when you recognize them as mechanisms to validate one’s own hardening — this wasn’t a mistake! This is the only way! I can have my cake and eat it too! …Either lying about the terms of the relationships they actually have, or actual the paths ahead to other possible relationships. The racism of young white men in the west often takes the form of projecting all the uncontrollable fearful rage and pain you feel, all the brutality and nihilism, onto an animalized other. Self-recognition deferred. The middle class white boys in basements howling for the heads of feminists, posting guides for getting away with rape, and shooting up churches? This tornado of raw scar tissue is not not primal. It’s not some kind of genetic destiny that rules us like puppets. It’s ideological. A worldview beaten into us. Sure there’s sexual frustration, but mostly it’s emotional-mutilation alongside a model of How Things Work that carries such stakes we can never risk breaking from it. The more society hurts young boys and the more we hurt ourselves the more we desperately hunger for what it promises, following its instructions and hurting ourselves all the more. Success, power, toughness, the softest boys become the hungriest for the currencies we are told might buy back what the world has stolen from us. If we deviate even the slightest from the path, we will fall behind in the contest, fail forever. The lunkheads, the privileged brutes who can barely remember what was stolen from them, rarely rise as high as the true ideologues of love. The fratboy is not a true believer, the nerdy girly boy is. The fratboy will pillage, but the nerdy girly boy will kill millions in service to his religion. Every moment carrying the raw tension that this might be the last chance to win. The fratboy chortles with delight at anything that gets things back to the simplistic formula he knows, that removes the obstacles of those feminists and weird kids. He wears his MAGA cap like a party hat. But the nerdy girly boy wears it like a talisman, a crucifix, a holy pact. And just as this ideology of love closes us off from real relationships it epistemically closes us off from alternative paths. Notice what it does not allow for: It does not include the harder path of trying to build positive non-romantic relationships that can satiate some of our ever growing needs. It does not include the harder path of working on yourself to repair some of the damage. It is hard for many to even to speak of much less think of such paths. And with such shrunken aspirations it’s almost impossible to rise to the challenge of meeting another human being honestly, sincerely exploring the fullness of their being and collaboratively creating together. Deep connection — the empathy and solidarity of actual love — is, of course, an immeasurable fountain of strength. But it requires audacity and work. Atrophied and raised on a diet of utopian ambrosia, albeit a limited one, the hungrier we get the less appealing these bitter vegetables look. And as we die of starvation our vision narrows to focus on the golden promise alone. http://clubof.info/