#especially today it was horrible a normal line is in construction so instead there was just this tiny bus to fit everyone in 😩

[adore-gregor]

worst feeling

[nikethestatue]

Meet Me in the Silence

Elriel Month - Day 5

 Continuation of ‘Forbidden’

Honestly, tooth-rotting fluff, some Nyx, stabbing Cassian with fork, Azriel singing and relationship stuff

Azriel loved Nyx. He didn’t love him because Nyx was cute and pudgy, or because he was his nephew, or because he was a fun, if demanding baby, and not even because spending time with him was a private relief for Azriel. A time to let go, a time where he could spend rolling around on the carpet, helping Nyx with blocks, rattles and the construction of pillow forts, watching Nyx sneeze little whiffs of starry night.

Nyx, unbenounced to him, showed Azriel some truths that Azriel couldn’t face before. The thing with Nyx was that he was a baby and he didn’t care—he didn’t care about Azriel’s scars and his ugly hands, he didn’t care about Azriel’s cruel ways, or the services that he provided to the High Lord. Nyx didn’t care about how many people fell under Truth-Teller’s deadly edge, or what Azriel had to do on the battlefields or during the Blood Rite. Nyx didn’t judge. As an infant, he wanted the same thing from Azriel as he wanted from everyone—warmth and comfort, kindness and love. He wanted to be rocked to sleep, fed, changed and played with. He didn’t care that the bottle was held by the same hand that tortured the Night Court’s enemies, or that the man who held him to his chest did some unforgivable things in his life.

As the last nine months rolled by, Azriel had to do some re-evaluations of his life. He had time on his hand, to be sure. Instead of courting Elain, like he wanted to, he thought. There was nothing much else left for him to do.

He thought that perhaps, despite his internal denials, Elain was much like Nyx—she accepted Azriel for what he was. Scars and all. Her acceptance did not stem from naiveite, though, but love. The realization hit Azriel like a sledgehammer. He crawled towards it, slowly, but surely, rethinking every touch and every smile, recalling every smirk and sparkle of the caramel-brown eyes, all the jokes and jabs, and gentle touches and finger brushes. Recalled the worry on Elain’s face when she knew that he went on his missions—even if they weren’t particularly dangerous. The pain that was etched on her features, when he returned in a particularly foul mood, and she knew that it was because he did things that marred his soul. He remembered her casually handing him a whiskey, which he’d gulped down in one go. Or a cup of tea, with honey and lemon, just like he liked. The gooey caramel cakes that she made—they were his favourite—and they began making a frequent appearance on the dessert menu. The past nine months of their forbidden love—is that what it was?—were the time when Azriel finally felt loved. For the first time in his life. Mor never really loved him, not like he needed to be loved. His brothers—well, they were his brothers, so that was that. Elain loved him. Of that, he was now certain. Elain loved him without touching. Without kissing. Without romance. Without courtship. Without gifts or presents or flowers. Without promises. Without expectations. It’s like she couldn’t help herself, even if she tried. She needed to love him, as much as he needed to be loved by her. All her tiny gestures of comfort and care created a glittering mosaic of love and devotion, which he only now began to piece together. And it pained him that she was not free to express herself as she wanted to, because loving him came with a hefty, unreasonable price.

For her, he’d fight. For her, he’d be the person she deserved. When she began choosing him, it was the first time in his life when someone actively chose him, despite all his shortcoming. And he wanted her to continue choosing him, every day, making the decision to love him.

Azriel had a lot of time to think about it, in silence.

 Azriel was a good cook. One of his may hidden talents. He spent much of his time alone, or in places that were foreign and unfamiliar, or in the army, and necessity being the mother of invention, he had to learn how to cook. And then, he became quite good at it. He had to draw the line at baking, but he could make a steak like nobody’s business, and eggs every way were his specialty. Tonight though, he was tired and distracted. It was the first time in a very, very long time when he and Elain were alone, so he didn’t particularly want to waste it on cooking. What’s more, with Nyx being the raging little monster that he was today, Azriel wanted to put the kid to bed as soon as possible and just relax. For a meticulous planner, tonight, he had no plans at all…and it both excited and frightened him, because it would just be the two of them and they’ll have to figure it out.

“Breakfast for dinner?” he offered, while Elain set Nyx’s food in front of him. He was too quick for her and immediately jammed his whole fist into the vegetable mash, soliciting a groan from her, as he began licking his palm and fingers with gusto.

“Whatever you want to make,” she agreed, as she began wiping the mess that Nyx made, while Azriel smirked, shaking his head. He tossed two slices of ham in the skillet, and allowed it to crisp up and caramelize.

He came behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, burying his face in her hair. She smiled, momentarily lost in the sensation of closeness and comfort that he always offered her, so effortlessly too.

“You know,” warned Azriel, using his ‘stern’ voice, looking at Nyx, “for your behavior, you should be sent to an Illyrian training camp. Just so you know what’s what. There, there won’t be 10 people looking for Brute for you, or uncle Cassian swimming with you in the pool, or Elain feeding you lemon cakes, or aunt Nesta reading to you the same book over, and over, and over, and over again. No aunt Mor taking you on a pony, and no Varian building sandcastles with you, only to watch you destroy them.”

Elain, tucked against his chest, was laughing. Especially because Nyx was glaring at Aziel unhappily and suspiciously.

Then, she said, softly, almost to herself, “I am happy that he is happy. That we can give him the childhood that none of us had. Let him be a little bit spoilt, because he is so loved.”

There was longing in her tone. Longing for something that she probably desired for herself. Those conversations have never been had between the two of them. Gods, they’ve never even been together in public, let alone had conversations about the future, and a future that included children. It was never something Azriel even thought of, considering his ‘luck’ in love, and his line of work. But he heard her. So he gave her a little kiss on the cheek and returned to his cooking.

Elain was feeding Nyx the last of his food, when Azriel placed two plates on the table, and poured both of them a glass of ale.

“Beer with breakfast,” she giggled. “I like the way you think, shadowsinger.”

He laughed, loving how easy it all was. How easy the banter came, how relaxed they were together, how there were no pressures at all when it was just the two of them. Well, three.

“Alright, you’ve taken enough of everybody’s time today,” he decided, as he fished Nyx out of the highchair and went to wash his face and hands again. Elain remained seated, watching the two of them, with her chin propped on her hand.

Was it normal to be that enamoured with a man? When he did mundane things? She had to admit—Azriel was indescribably beautiful. That alone would attract anyone. The gargantuan wings, ticked tightly, but not tensely against his back didn’t hurt either. The span of his enormous shoulders, the movement of those thick muscles around the arms, over his back, which moved and bulged as he wrestled with Nyx, who was refusing to get his hands washed, were mesmerizing. She knew that she shouldn’t be so dazzled by his looks, but she couldn’t help herself. But it was more than just admiring the elegant cut of his body, the well-fitted trousers that did very nice things to his thighs and his long legs, or the enticing forearms that were exposed from his haphazardly rolled up sleeves. The tattoos, in fact, snaked lower than she anticipated. She’d never seen him undressed—Cassian, strong, beefy and powerful, and the leaner, thinner Rhysand—plenty of times. But not Azriel. He’s been annoyingly timid. All three were tattooed, but apparently, Azriel’s reached all the way to his scars. She smiled to herself, amazed and bemused. Who would’ve thought that she, Elain, would be so attracted to a winged and tattooed male? What a far cry from the ordinary, plain Greyson.

Azriel plopped Nyx down on the floor, tossed him Brute and some toys and then quickly threw a shield around them, so Nyx was contained and didn’t attempt to wander from the kitchen.

“You should’ve started,” he nodded to her untouched plate, as he sat down.

“Not without you,” she said. “Looks very good!”

“I try,” he said bashfully and they tucked into to the scrambled eggs, ham and vegetables.

“Oh, gods, it’s really good,” she almost moaned.

“Baby, it’s just eggs,” he reminded her, secretly very pleased with her reaction.

“Well, baby likes them!” she giggled, cutting into the ham. Azriel watched her, watched the movement of her hands and she asked, “What?”

He chuckled and said, sipping his ale,

“I recall when you were planning to kill Cassian with a fork.”

Her brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Oh, you don’t remember?” he was laughing softly.

“I don’t think it’s even possible to kill Cassian,” she noted.

“I’d agree. But you were ready and eager.”

“When was I planning to kill Cassian?” she demanded.

“First time we met—at dinner. I remember Nesta…well, being Nesta. And Cassian—Mother save me, the moment he had her eyes on her, he was just dripping with this hideous arousal,”

Elain almost choked, eyes wide.

“What?”

“It was horrible,” he gave an exaggerated shudder. “Rhys and I were traumatized. Those two were going at it, as usual, fighting, sniping…whatever they do, and all we could smell was him getting hotter and hotter. That dinner,” he shook his head at the memory. “It was something else.”

She was laughing, nodding.

“And you?” she asked, at last.

He gave her a long thoughtful look. A tender, loving look that made her throat bob, and suddenly she was hot…much like Cassian.

“Honestly?” he asked quietly, not taking his eyes off her.

“Yes.”

“I thought that I saw the most human and the most beautiful girl in the world. Utterly unattainable. Engaged to another man. But surprisingly unafraid of us,”

“I was very afraid of you!” she argued. Azriel smiled.

“You three were huge!” she cried. “With these enormous wings,”

He raised his brow suggestively and she smacked his arm,

“Oh, shut up,”

“I didn’t even say anything,” he shrugged, “but please, tell me more about our huge wings, and our generally superior size,”

“I am not telling you anything,” she snapped, her cheeks red, and he was delighted.

“But you do admit that you tried to kill Cassian?”

“I didn’t try to kill him. Just defend myself, if there was need,”

“Pretty sure Nesta would’ve unmanned him with her bare hands,”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

“And me?” he pressed, “you didn’t want to stab me with a fork?”

She gave him a cool look of nonchalance and recalled,

“You suddenly turned into a poet!”

“Did I?” it was his turn to be confused.

“Something about hearing the wind song, or something,”

“I don’t even remember that,” he confessed, a slow blush spreading over his cheeks.

“I do. I guess we remember different things about that evening.” She glanced at him from under her lashes and added, “I just remember thinking that you were the most handsome man—male—I’d ever seen. I didn’t even think that people could be that beautiful,”

Azriel’s blush deepened and Elain secretly enjoyed watching him squirm a little. She was well aware of the fact that he was always uncomfortable when people mentioned his appearance. He knew that he was handsome, almost unnaturally so, but whatever horrible words and deeds he’d experienced in his childhood warped his perception of himself. At times, she wanted to assure him that no one paid much attention to his hands…she certainly didn’t. She always found his hands, the scars on them just as attractive as the rest of him. They were simply a part of him, just as his beauty was. But he struggled. She knew it.

And as she always did, when she wanted to reassure him, she took his hand and brought it to her lips. He stilled. She kissed. Kissed the inside and outside of his palm. Watched him. Watched him tense, but not pull away his hand. Kissed each long, strong finger. Kissed the rough skin. Kissed the pain and the doubt. Not away, but at least temporarily.

Bored and tired, Nyx fell asleep on the floor, sprawled on the rug, clutching Brute.

“We have to take him upstairs,” muttered Elain, releasing Azriel’s hand.

She didn’t know how to deal with the intimacy of their relationship. Her feelings were raw and exposed, and she was painfully aware of her own inexperience. She didn’t know how to be seductive. Had no idea how to play games—wasn’t really looking to learn either. But she wasn’t dazzling or mysterious, and had no inkling of what Azriel expected, of what he wanted. He was so unbearably difficult to read, while she was stupidly, obviously in love with him. She was the Cassian to his Nesta. She was the one dripping with arousal, unable to stifle her need, or dampen her desire. He probably saw her as the fool that she was.

Frustrated, she made to get up from the table, but he caught her wrist and clasped it gently, as always reigning in his terrifying strength.

“Come here,” he murmured and pulled her to him, until she settled on his lap, feeling both awkward and happy. “Lainey,”

“I like baby,” she blurted.

He nodded, and said, “Baby, you don’t need to pretend with me…I…” he swallowed, thinking how to continue. “You might be surprised, but it’s new for me as well. I’ve had,” ugh, he really didn’t want to discuss his past lovers with her, not right now. “I am not inexperienced,” he said diplomatically. No, he wasn’t. “But this,” and he waved his hand between them, “this is new for me as well. I’ve never felt this much…for anyone. Ever,”

“What becomes of us, Az?” she asked softly.

“Whatever you want,” he stated simply.

“But,”

He shrugged, “there will always be obstacles,”

“Rhysand is more than just an ‘obstacle,’” she reminded him.

“Rhysand, frankly, can go and fuck himself,” Azriel said flatly.

The new, Fae Elain wasn’t scandalized by the coarse language. The three brothers, Nesta and Mor cursed like sailors, and Elain found herself throwing an occasional ‘shit’ and ‘dick’ in her speech. So it made her smile when the usually controlled, polite Azriel unleashed his mouth.

“He is your High Lord,” she reminded him.

“He is technically everyone’s High Lord, but it doesn’t mean that he gets free reign on doing whatever he wants. If I am not asking him to give up Feyre—remember how he snuck her out from Tamlin’s clutches—then he doesn’t get to tell us what we ought to do.”

The thing that he’s been carrying in his pocket was burning through him, a constant reminder. He shifted and then looked straight at her and tucked an errant strand of her hair behind her ear. For someone who didn’t crave or enjoy touch, the desire to touch her was constant. He didn’t even need anything sexual at this point, but feeling her skin against him, in whatever way, was beyond satisfying.

“Did you promise him anything?” she inquired, moving even closer to him, loving the heavy warmth of his arms around her.

“Absolutely not!” he spat. “He is completely overstepping, and I’ve been humouring him up until now, but it seems to be that he is a little too comfortable with the status quo,” he looked at her, his voice grave, “I hope you didn’t promise him anything either?”

She shook her head,

“No. I didn’t say anything.”

A whoosh of breath escaped him. “Thank the Cauldron.”

Elain stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers and said, sharply this time, “Everything’s been taken away from me once already. I wasn’t prepared to give you up. You are the only thing that I want, and Rhysand wasn’t going to take that away from me. From us…” she glanced at him, “if you feel the same…”

“Do you need to ask?”

She smiled.

Azriel exhaled deeply and then cupped her face between his hands. He was going to do it. He needed to do it. She devoured his gaze, the look of intent in his forest-green golden eyes, the determined set of his jaw. He left her, once, waiting…Waiting for him to take the next step, waiting for him to act and he didn’t. Not today.

“Elain,” he swallowed audibly, and she felt that he was nervous. “Will you permit me to court you?”

Azriel wanted to do this properly. Elain deserved it—deserved to be treated with kindness and respect, but he deserved it as well—he wanted to do what so many others took for granted. It never came naturally to him, the normal things, and for once, despite everything, he was going to make this one thing happen.

Nyx moved on the floor, woke up and let out a scream. Confused, he looked around and began babbling tearfully ‘ma, ma, ma’.

Elain slipped off his lap and gently cooed “Shhhh, come…come, my sweet boy,” and picked him up. Azriel watched them, not even upset at the interruption.

Nyx was crying in earnest now, and not even Brute was enough to console him.

“I am going to try to put him to bed,” she whispered, rocking the baby against her chest.

Azriel opened his arms and said, “hand him over.”

“But,”

He carefully took Nyx from her and the move did not result in silence or calm, and Nyx cried just as sadly, looking for his mom. As Azriel made his way down the hall and towards the stairway, with Elain trailing him, he began to sing. In a language that Elain did not know, but understood innately to be Illyrian. The way the sounds rolled off Azriel’s tongue was natural, the melody lulling and sweet. His voice was soothing and pleasant, with a gravelly note that came from the back of his throat. Nyx stilled, blinking at him. As they slowly went up the stairs, Azriel rocked and cuddled Nyx, stretching his wings so they covered them in a dark canopy, the words of the lullaby muffled, but just as beautiful. Elain wished that it didn’t end…There were just a words that she picked up ‘warrior’ and ‘sleep’—something she learned from Cassian, who was teaching Nesta some Illyrain phrases, now that they spent a decent amount of time in their Illyrian bungalow.

In Nyx’s nursery, Azriel put the baby down in the crib and covered him with a blanket, rocking the crib lightly, as he continued his song, quieter now, seeing that Nyx’s eyelids drooped.

Wordlessly, he lifted his arm and Elain slipped to his side, and wrapped her arm around his torso. They never needed words.

Sleep, warrior heart

Sleep and know that you are loved

Sleep, warrior heart and meet me in silence

Find dreams and peaceful slumber, my little warrior heart

 Azriel quietly translated the song, without her prompting. He knew that she’d want to know what the words meant. He, however, did not explain the history of the song and where and how he’d learned it.

“Yes.”

He looked down at her, a silent question on his face.

“The answer is ‘yes’,” she repeated. “You may court me.”

“Thank you,” was all he said.

They left the nursery and stopped in the hallway.

He put his hand on the back of her neck and stroked.

“Then I’d like for you to have this,” he said at last. He took something from his pocket and laid it in her palm. It was a key.

“We will have to meet in silence.”

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Whumptober 27: Okay, Who Had Natural Disasters On Their 2020 Bingo Card?

Earthquake

This one was an absolute delight to write. I just love this type of fic. Thanks to LovelyStressedPrincess for feeding me ideas and writing a couple of the paragraphs.

Summary: MK wakes up to an earthquake. At first he writes it off as paranoia, but as the day progresses, he can't help but feel like he's been here before.

Trigger Warnings: serious injury, mild self harm

2537 words

MK woke up to the world shaking. Books were thrown from his shelves, various trinkets going everywhere.

Oh shit, was this an — earthquake. The word left a gross sense of deja vu. 

The earthquake stopped almost as quickly as it started.

Warily, he dressed himself, praying there wouldn’t be another one. This had been rather tame for an earthquake.

He hurried downstairs, not wanting to be late for work.

When he saw that the shop, too, was a complete and total mess, he couldn’t help but be a little bit relieved. 

In the calabash, nobody but him had been affected by the “earthquakes”. This meant that it had actually been real.

Thank god.

“Kid, are you okay?” Pigsy asked.

MK snapped out of his thoughts. “What?”

“The earthquake, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said.

Pigsy seemed satisfied. “Good. Let’s get started on cleaning this mess. I won’t have customers thinking we’re slobs!”

MK laughed breathlessly. Yeah, that was definitely Pigsy. There was absolutely nothing to worry about! Everything was all good.

An hour later, the shop was totally spick and span. Luckily, the earthquake hadn’t done too much damage.

From there, MK went on with his job, delivering noodles to people all across town. Rush hour had traffic, and there were no free samples.

Still, the earthquake had him on edge. But there was nothing to worry about. He was sure there was nothing to worry about.

The day proceeded to be almost painstakingly average. No horrible demons attacked, and he didn’t have to deal with any Karens at work. It was just… normal.

Almost suspiciously so.

At the end of his shift, Mei showed up. That was odd, wasn’t she supposed to have been busy? He could have sworn she was doing something today.

“Are you ready?” She asked, bouncing on her heels.

“Uh… ready for what?”

Mei laughed. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Forgot…?”

“That event the arcade is holding? You know, the one we’ve been talking about for weeks?”

MK’s blood went cold.

There was no event. He’d never made plans with Mei. He was sure of it.

He would have remembered if he had, which meant… no, no, this was the only strange thing that had happened, it didn’t mean anything…

But what if it did?

What if he was trapped again? What if this was all fake? The earthquake, the complete and total perfect normalcy of the day… 

Okay. Alright okay, there was an easy way to figure this out. He just needed to check for his staff.

Mei watched, looking somewhat concerned, as he reached for the staff. Only… it wasn’t there.

“Where’s the staff?” He asked, panic beginning to set in. 

“Locking away DBK,” Mr. Tang supplied from across the room as he slurped down his noodles. “Are you feeling alright, MK? You look a little… ill.”

He had never done that. He’d never defeated DBK, not for real. It wasn’t true. They were lying to him, none of this was real.

“I’m fine,” he squeaked, backing away very, very slowly. 

“Kid?”

He snapped around, coming face-to-face with Pigsy, who looked just as concerned as the other two.

Oh god, he was being boxed in, they were going to hurt him, they wouldn’t want to let him leave.

He forced his breathing to slow, and he gave the most natural smile he could muster. If he could convince them that he wasn’t onto them, he could buy himself some time.

“Everything’s good!” He said. “Sorry, I dunno what got into me! Anyways, I should probably make this last noodle delivery! I’ll be back soon for our thing, Mei!”

“If you’re sure…” Mei finally said, looking unconvinced.

“Please, I’ll be as quick as a bunny! You know how great I am at noodle deliveries, after all,” he said, as if he thought the concern was him not making it back in time. If he just kept playing dumb, everything would be fine. He just needed to get away.

He grabbed the bag of food, getting into his cart as calmly as possible. 

Almost there almost there almost there.

Finally, he deemed himself a good distance from them. He didn’t know to what extent the demons had control over this… realm? Pocket dimension? Illusion? But he had to figure this out quick, before they realized he knew what was up.

Still, he couldn’t stop the panic from growing. Everything was so much more natural than last time. Had he not been here before, he probably would have just written it all off as a bump on the head.

But he knew better. He wasn’t stupid.

He came to a stop on the side of the road, putting his head on the steering wheel.

He needed to go. But he needed to stop. Why was he freaking out so much? He’d been here before, this would be a piece of cake. 

But his breathing refused to calm, and he was pretty sure he was going to vomit.

Deep breaths, he demanded of himself. Deep. Breaths.

“MK?”

He looked up, his knuckles going white from how hard he was gripping the wheel. 

“Monkey King,” he greeted stiffly, swallowing down his fear.

“Well that’s a little formal,” he laughed.

MK just looked at him, ignoring his comment in favor of trying to determine what to do. Fake or not, Monkey King was too strong for him to fight. Especially without his staff.

Monkey King frowned. “You seem—”

Agitated, MK thought with a growing sense of dread. He was going to say that. Jin and Yin were just taunting him, they were playing with him, they were letting him know—

“Worried.”

Instead of comforting him, MK only felt the sense of nausea swirling in his stomach get worse. They had gotten smarter.

That wasn't good.

“Mhmm,” he agreed, not trusting himself to speak.

“Did something happen?”

Besides being trapped in an evil artifact again? Besides the fact that the world around him was completely and utterly fake? Besides knowing that everyone here was nothing but a lie?

“Nope!” He forced out. “Just had a long night!”

He needed to get his staff he needed to get out he needed to run.

“Anyway, I’vegottodeliverthesenoodlesbye.” He didn’t give Monkey King a chance to stop him, speeding off in his cart as fast as it would take him. By the grace of the heavens, he didn’t follow him.

Okay. Tang had said his staff was on the mountain. He found it a little odd that the demons would put it right back where it had been last time, but hopefully that would make it easier for him. If last time’s experience had taught him anything, it was that he would have to be fast.

He didn’t know how quickly Jin and Yin would send his “friends” after him. He glared at the street. Friends. They were nothing but empty shells, puppets on strings. That may have been the most cruel part of all. Trying to make him believe that the people he loved were real.

Focus MK. Just get to the mountain.

He could do this.

He continued to drive, trying hard to force all other thoughts out of his head. It was hard to not think about things when you were thinking about not thinking about them.

It was hard not to focus on the fact that he was trapped in a tiny world controlled by two people who were intent on destroying him, who were holding his life in their hands, who were manipulating and playing with it like putty, who wanted him to suffer and not know it until the very last moment.

Tears pushed at his eyes. It wouldn’t be like last time. He’d figured it out way faster, and now he was going to put an end to it.

This didn’t help to calm the panic.

Jin and Yin had done a better job this time. They were smarter. This could only mean horrible things for him if he let it go on any further.

He pulled to a stop again, squeezing his eyes shut. He just needed a minute. He just needed a quick minute. Everything was gonna be fine.

He covered his eyes with his hand, as if it would block the tears. It really only served to make his hand wet.

Shakily, he ran his other hand through his hair, flinching when a sharp burst of pain came from it. 

Carefully, he touched that spot again. There was a large, really fucking painful bump. When had that happened? He didn’t remember hitting his head… 

Whatever, he could worry about it later. Right now, he needed to pull himself together and get the hell to the mountain before he was caught.

He couldn’t manage to stop crying, but the tears had at least slowed enough that he felt he could drive again. His vision was only slightly blurry.

Just as he pulled up to the construction site, his phone rang.

“Um… hello?” he asked, cursing himself when he choked up. Fuck, now they would know he’d been crying.

“Kid? You okay?” Pigsy asked from the other end of the line.

“I’m—” so scared “fine.” He forced down a bitter laugh. They really had gotten smarter. A worried phone call instead of all his friends randomly showing up to stop him from taking back his staff, yeah, that was clever. But he wasn’t stupid. He was going to get out of here, and he was going to go home.

“Okay, great, care to tell me why this tracker app says you’re hanging around at that construction site instead of doing your job?” Pigsy asked, sounding somewhat annoyed.

“I’m not stupid!” MK yelled, unable to hold himself back. He all but flung himself into the elevator, directing it down. “You can’t keep me in here this time!”

“What?”

“You can’t trick me that easily again!”

“Kid, hold on, I’ll be right there—”

“Don’t even try it!”

He hung up, glaring at his dark phone screen as the elevator continued to descend.

And then, out of nowhere, it stopped.

“Come on, you stupid piece of junk!” he begged, “Work!”

Oh god. He’d given himself away, and if he didn’t get to the ground in time, they’d catch up with him. Fuck fuck fuck, he was so stupid, why had he done that?

He looked down, weighing his options. He couldn’t jump, not without his staff. He’d break something for sure.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He kicked the wall of the elevator as if that would do something. 

He was a sitting duck. For a few, dreadful minutes, he sat there, contemplating his options. He was going to throw up.

“MK?” he heard.

No.

“Are you here? Pigsy sent me since I was already nearby.”

No no no, he wasn’t letting not-Mei ruin everything.

“MK?”

He covered his mouth, hoping it would quiet down his breathing. He couldn’t make a sound.

He heard Mei fiddling with the lever of the elevator. “Move, you stupid…” she gave it a kick, and then it started to move. Up.

No!

He didn’t have a choice. He forced the gate open, tumbling out and to the ground. 

The resounding crack echoed loudly.

“MK, oh my god!”

He scrambled to his feet, whimpering through the pain, limping frantically for the staff. Almost there, almost there—

“Kid, stop! What is he doing?”

“He’s going crazy, he just jumped from this thing!”

“Holy shit, MK, stop!”

He tuned out their words, forcing back the tears and the pain. Almost there. Just a little closer—

Someone grabbed him.

“No!” he screamed, wrenching himself from their grip. They only grabbed him again.

“MK, bud, take a deep breath. Can you do that?”

Monkey King was here why was Monkey King here he wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t all fake. 

“Let me go!” he screamed, twisting out of his mentor’s hold once more, barely making it two steps before he fell to the ground.

His not-friends were surrounding him.

He couldn’t breathe, they weren’t going to let him get to that staff, he could barely even think through the pain, he needed to move, but he couldn’t.

“Give him some air!” Pigsy demanded, pushing Monkey King to the side as he kneeled beside MK. “Kid, look at me.”

MK squeezed his eyes shut tight. “You c-can’t trick me, not again,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb! I know! I told you I know! Give it up already!” he sobbed, clutching his leg.

They were trying so hard to save this, it was almost pathetic. They’d gotten Pigsy just right this time, too.

He loosened his grip on his leg, slowly sitting up.

“Hey, hey, be careful—”

He bolted. He shot to his feet and ran for the staff, holding back every scream and every sob. He could hurt when he was free.

His fingers brushed against the staff—

He was yanked back.

Mei was there, holding her blade. “We can’t let you do this,” she whispered.

“You can’t stop me this time!”

He threw a punch, actually managing to land a hit on her. She looked shocked and horrified and scared all rolled into one.

“MK,” Tang said, approaching him with his hands up, as if to show that he wasn’t a threat. “You need to calm down so we can look at your leg.”

MK had to give the demons props. Tang really did look scared. 

“Stay. Away from me!”

Mei put a hand on his shoulder. “We just want to help,” she insisted.

Without thinking, he kicked her with his bad leg, nearly falling to the ground himself with the pain. Still, he scrambled for the staff once more.

Monkey King forced him to the ground. “Enough!” he shouted.

MK didn’t listen to him, crying so hard from the pain that he couldn’t see straight. He kicked, and screamed, and fought, but Monkey King, real or not, was so much stronger than him. He was helpless.

“Just kill me!” he sobbed, thrashing in Monkey King’s grip. “Just kill me!” he begged again. “I know that’s what you want! Just do it!”

Monkey King recoiled. “Where would you even get that idea? Kid, it’s me. I would never want you to be hurt. But you’re hurting yourself by doing this.”

MK thrashed harder, his sobs making his whole body shake and tremble. His leg twisted in the wrong way.

He screamed, the sound ripping from his throat painfully. His breathing picked up, he was hyperventilating again, get off him get off him get off him he needed to get out please let him go he wanted to go home he wanted to be in reality again.

“We need to get him to a hospital,” Tang said, from somewhere to his right.

“Mei, call an ambulance,” Pigsy said, looking over MK worriedly.

“No!” he sobbed, weakly fighting back. It hurt so much. He was beginning to get tired. “Let me go, kill me, please…”

“Help is on the way, bud,” Monkey King said.

In one last attempt, MK reached weakly for the staff, even as darkness began to overtake his vision.

He had been so close.

[great-jenna-bake-off]

Season 3 Episode 9: Fraisier Cake

I thought working from (and spending literally all my time at) home would give me more time to bake, but then I got a puppy and my life got turned upside down. She's very cute, but man does she take up a lot of time that I could otherwise be spending baking. Or eating. So maybe it's for the best that I got a puppy.

Anyway, I finally managed to get my act together long enough to make my next bake: a Fraisier cake. We're getting toward the end of the season, so the technical bakes are getting harder and more esoteric. I have certainly never heard of a Fraisier cake, let alone eaten one, but at first glance it didn't look... that hard? It's basically a sponge cake with some creme patissiere, decorated with fresh strawberries and marzipan. How hard could that be? (Famous last words...)

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/fraisier_cake_75507

The first step was to make the actual cake portion of the Fraisier cake. The recipe calls for "self-raising flour", and after a few recent improvisations with less than ideal results, I decided to just shell out for the actual ingredient. However, this new strategy hit a speed bump when the recipe called for an "electric hand whisk", which, as mentioned previously, I do not own. No matter; surely I could kick it old-school and rely on my own brute strength to mix the cake ingredients by hand as they heated on the stove top.

This will definitely not create any problems for me down the line...

Editor’s Note: If you’re thinking to yourself, some of these pictures seem smaller than usual, you would be correct. If you’re also thinking to yourself, Jenna is probably too lazy to figure out how to resize them and make them consistent, you are also correct. 

According to the recipe, I would be done when the mixture had doubled in volume and was pale in color.

Looks pale to me?

Next, it was time to add the all-important self raising flour.

Gently folded in as to keep in the air that I painstakingly whipped up by hand.

And voila; cake batter was ready to go into the oven.

Looks good so far!

I thought I was off to a good start, but as soon as my cake came out of the oven, I realized I was in trouble. The recipe specifies that the cake should be about 2 inches in height, as you need to slice it in half to make two layers. Mine was... not.

It's like... half an inch, maybe?

Uh oh. Maybe that hand whisking didn't do the trick after all. Still, the cake looked reasonably tasty, so I decided to just move on and start my creme patissiere. First, I had to boil my milk and vanilla pod.

This smelled really nice.

Then it was time for some more whisking: this time of eggs, cornflour, sugar, and kirsch, which is a cherry-flavored brandy.

Fun fact: kirsch is pretty disgusting on its own. Wilson volunteered to drink what I didn't use in this recipe, which was fine by me as it tasted like nail polish remover. Do not recommend.

Finally, I had to whisk the egg mixture and the hot milk together.

My whisking arm is getting a workout today.

Then, I needed to put the mixture back on the stove and watch it very carefully, as in about four minutes the mixture would thicken very quickly. Well, four minutes came and went, and nothing happened. I diligently kept my eye on it, but it definitely did not appear to be approaching a texture that was "thick enough to pipe", per the recipe.

Nothing happening yet...

So finally, I committed a cardinal GBBO sin. I took my eye off the stove for JUST A MINUTE to wash the dishes. And when I came back, my creme patissiere had turned into this:

Uh oh.

I have never made a creme patissiere before. But I have eaten it, and I know it's not supposed to be THIS thick. It's supposed to be velvety and creamy and delicious, while this was more of an... eggy gloop? But hey, it was certainly thick enough to pipe. Maybe the next step of adding butter would help.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t!

So my creme patissiere looked like mashed potatoes. If I were on the show, this is where I would realize I had gone horribly wrong and would toss this creme in the bin before starting over. But, given that I would not actually be serving my food to Paul and Mary, I decided to soldier on. After all, at least my creme was thick enough to pipe. Maybe this was what I was supposed to do after all? So I stuck the creme patissiere in the fridge to cool and crossed my fingers that I would somehow have a delicious, smooth creme when it came out.

Maybe this doesn’t look so bad??

The final step before assembly was to make a lemon syrup, which thankfully was pretty simple after all the missteps I’d already made in this recipe. However, I soon found myself facing another problem: I needed to roll out a layer of marzipan to put on top of my cake, but I had left my rolling pin at Wilson’s house (we made a chicken pie). Luckily, I had a substitute:

When in doubt, break out the wine.

And hey, it actually did the trick.

Who needs a rolling pin?

Finally, it was time to put my cake together. First, I faced the problem of slicing my extremely thin sponge into to layers. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best...

Not actually that terrible.

With some creative construction work, I was able to get two fairly even layers.

No one will ever know.

And now, it was time to stack. In an ideal world, I would have had a strip of acetate plastic to line my springform pan with and had a beautiful, clean surface to work on. But I didn’t even have a rolling pin handy; obviously I don’t have acetate lining around. So plastic wrap would have to do.

If it works, it works.

Then it was time to turn my attention to my strawberries. I picked out the prettiest, most evenly sized ones I could find, and halved them.

At least these turned out pretty. 

And then, it was construction time. First, I put in a layer of cake, brushed it with lemon syrup (my pastry brush was also at Wilson’s, so really I spooned on the syrup), and then added a “little crown of strawberries”, as per the recipe.

Regal.

Next, it was time to see if my creme patissiere had magically transformed into the right texture in the fridge.

Nope, still lumpy. But at least it was pretty solid...?

I added some more chopped strawberries on top.

At least the strawberries will taste good.

Then it was time for the rest of my “creme patissiere”, if you can even call it that at this point.

So lumpy. 

And then finally, I put on the other half of the cake, spooned over some more syrup, and topped it off with my marzipan. The recipe specified that I should melt some chocolate and make “pretty” decorations, and honestly I kind of wanted to call it a day given all my struggles and just forgo the chocolate. But in the spirit of the competition, I gave it a go anyway:

There is no design to this chocolate, this is the epitome of winging it.

I left the whole godforsaken mess to cool in the fridge overnight. In the meantime, it was time to check in with the bakers to see if they’d fare any better than I did with this Fraisier cake.

***

Mel starts off by referring to a Fraisier cake as a well-known celebration cake, which is certainly news to me.

Must be more popular in the UK, I guess.

The bakers start off by making a genoise sponge, and surprisingly, James chooses to whisk his by hand as well.

Dedication.

However, after seeing Dani’s batter, I can see that I have clearly not even come close to whipping mine for long enough.

This explains the lack of volume in my cake, I guess.

Dani struggles with the creme patissiere, though - she says that hers has “cellulite”.

It’s lumpy like mine, but I never thought to sieve it. 

As always, James seems to know exactly what to do.

Such smooth creme. 

All the bakers, however, struggle with setting up the acetate.

This makes me feel better about my plastic wrapped cake.

When it comes time to assemble, I can see that my creme is indeed thicker than the bakers’, even Dani’s.

Much more pipeable.

However, this may not be such a bad thing after all - Dani’s cake starts falling apart as soon as she takes it out of the pan, as the creme isn’t set.

Melty cake is never a positive.

In the end, James takes home the gold in yet another technical, with a perfectly risen sponge and a nicely set creme patissiere. 

That does look pretty celebratory.

***

It was time for the grand unveiling of my own cake. Would my thin cakes and lumpy creme prove to be my downfall?

First, here’s Mary’s perfect Fraisier:

And here’s mine, complete with chocolate decor:

You can definitely see that the creme isn’t the perfect smooth texture, and my bottom cake especially is a little narrow. But maybe it’s not quite so far off? As always, my judges would be the final arbiters. 

***

Matt’s Review: I get the sense that, as time goes on, the bakes are getting harder and harder to transport. So upon Jenna’s arrival I was already impressed that the cake was holding together as well as it did. And that turned out to be important, because the pairing of the layers was the key to this one. I’m always impressed when a food can take a flavor I normally don’t like and recontextualize it in such a way that I become a fan. In this case, that flavor is almond. I really struggle with that flavor normally, and this bake doesn’t disguise it at all. Instead, it pairs it perfectly with the other layers. I think Jenna did an excellent job with all the ratios — this could easily have become a “dislike” for me, but instead it was a joy to eat. All in all, two thumbs up. The cake, and Jenna, made my quarantine a little sweeter. 

Wilson’s Review: Well, the consistency is a little off on the creme patissiere. That can be a bit tricky, but the cake is a bit flat, looks like something went wrong with the mixing. Really should be past those kind of errors by now. I like strawberries, and the chocolate added an element of richness that contrasted brilliantly. As for the sponge, while not the prettiest I’ve ever seen, it does taste good - nice and airy. Overall a nice treat for a mid summer snack, once one gets past the first impression.

***

Final Thoughts: The creme patissiere was definitely a bit eggy, which was less than ideal. But all in all, this cake tasted pretty good and looked pretty fancy. The cake layers still felt airy and yummy even though they were thin, and the fresh fruit made for a nice treat. I will absolutely need to practice my creme patissiere though, and remember to NEVER take my eye off the stove. Rookie mistake. 

[hiddendreamer67]

The Dragonfly Curse

Summary: Roman often gets hit with small curses by the Dragon Witch- little things being forced to speak only in rhyme or becoming incredibly clumsy for a day. He hides this from the others, as to him they’re punishment enough for his failures. They’re small measly problems- which makes this latest curse ironic in that he’s reduced to a four-inch tall dragonfly-winged fairy.

Words: 4,780

This is a commission piece for @i-will-physically-fight-you! Thank you again for commissioning me, this was so much fun to write. :) My commissions are open! More information available on my blog.

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Roman treaded through the forest, footsteps light as he fought to keep his presence unknown. Uneasily he twisted his wrist, the handle of his blade recognizing the familiar movements as he gave the sword a small twirl to calm his nerves. It grounded him, reminding him that even in this vast expanse Roman still had strength. A strength he had to wield if he intended to protect those he loved.

Imagination could be a fickle thing. Once upon a time, Thomas was young. His dreams were filled with puppy dogs and rainbows (the symbolism ever present in his gay subconscious), and Roman was happy to traverse the magical paradise that had appeared through a portal in his room. Back then it was a magical place, so full of laughter and cheer. Roman had always wished he could bring some of that wonderous joy into his own room so that he could let his fellow sides in on the fun.

Now, Roman’s greatest fear was exposing his family to this hell.

As Thomas had grown older, the Imagination had become overgrown with negative creations, a side effect of the dark sides no doubt. For far too long Roman had blamed Virgil for the shadow figures that now crept behind every tree, or the inky dark marshes that threatened to swallow unsuspecting villagers whole. Now Roman knew better; the horrible demons lurking around the Imagination had appeared on their own, independent of a single creator, instead representing something far darker than the embodiment of anxiety himself.

Roman chuckled darkly to himself. Maybe Virgil would be amusedly offended at the idea of something having a more terrifying aesthetic than his hundred layers of black eyeshadow. The image was nice to chuckle at, but Roman knew it would never be a reality. He couldn’t let Virgil, or anyone else he cared about for that matter, ever learn about these invaders. They were Roman’s problem alone, his burden to bear. Why else would the portal into Imagination only exist in his own room? Clearly this was his purpose as a knight- to protect those he loved, even from fear of danger itself. Ignorance was bliss, surely.

Of course, Roman was unable to hide everything from the sides, much as he wanted to remain covert. There were times when Roman would… lose. The Dragon Witch was a formidable opponent, much as Roman loathed to admit it, and she took pleasure in laying curses upon Roman for her amusement. These curses were hardly permanent but would carry into the mindscape. Perhaps this was the Dragon Witch’s way of trying to affect the world beyond this accursed land, knowing she herself could never get past the portal. Sending back a defeated and hexed Roman was the closest she could get to throwing something of her own into the mindscape.

Thankfully, these curses had never been particularly threatening to Roman’s physical form, just his pride. That only made them hurt worse in Roman’s mind. Was it not enough to be defeated in his own realm? Must she bruise his fragile ego? But in this way, she knew his weaknesses. Stabs wounds healed. The echoing laughter in his mind did not.

Roman thought back briefly, recounting some of her more memorable curses. One of the first had been upon his tongue, turning it a dull silver in mockery of the phrase ‘silver tongue’ and forcing the princely figure to only speak in rhymes. The others thought he was just being dramatic as ever, putting up with his antics as Roman attempted to compliment Patton’s cooking skills and ended up launching into an eloquent soliloquy about the talent of the heart to bring such “delectable, respectable, selectable treats to the table, how my dearest Patton have you proven yourself so able-“ and so the rhyming continued. Roman had even enjoyed that one, leaning into it to test his own feats of poetry. He challenged Logan to a rematch of their rap battle, this time proving himself a worthy opponent.

The Dragon Witch had been less than pleased when he returned the next week, whistling a nameless tune and declaring how “your devious plan backfired; I’m feeling rather inspired!” Perhaps it was his jesting that had earned him the next hex, cursing him to become unstable on his feet. Roman had spent the day tripping over himself, spilling water any time a cup was placed in his hands and falling flat on his face on more than one occasion. Roman could only play those instances off with the line “I’ve falling for you, my fairest Virgil!” so many times before it was clear that this behavior wasn’t going to end. Virgil told him to snap out of it, and Roman was forced to spend the rest of the evening in his room willing his boots to stop making a fool of him.

So the curses continued, slowly accumulating through the years to remind Roman of his failures. Each lasted only a day, gone by the time he woke the next day. Never the same curse- after all, being part of the Imagination, even the Dragon Witch had standards. Unoriginality wouldn’t stand. Normally Roman would appreciate this creativity, but used against him it was less than pleasant having to bravely face his punishments. Which is why Roman made it a point not to lose often.

Roman paused, his feet stopping atop the large carpet of leaves painted in beautiful golden hues. It would be a beautiful sight, if the stillness in the air did not make the hairs on the back of his neck stand so unpleasantly.

“I was almost thinking you would not show.” Roman spoke up, raising his voice. He kept his gaze straight ahead, giving no other indication he knew there was a trespasser amongst the woods. “Or rather, if you’re attempting to be sneaky, you need to work on your dramatics, you son of a birch.”

There was a giggling through the air, as though the trees found this insult particularly amusing. Roman thought they might, and he gave a small smirk, radiating the essence of a casual hero who was sure of his blade. Perhaps if he imagined himself as such, it would prove true.

“Son of a birch?” A tree, darker than the rest, appeared insulted off to the left a few more paces down the path. The foliage shifted, the tree shrinking and curling in on itself as a woman emerged from the wreckage. She looked annoyed, the atmosphere immediately darkening as she stepped forwards. “I was an aspen, you royal twig!”

“Well you’re certainly as-pain in my butt.” Roman retorted. The trees merely groaned at that one, a few of the younger saplings muttering amongst themselves as though trying to figure out what exactly he meant. Roman rolled his eyes. “Alright peanut gallery, I get it, not my best work.”

“Peanut gallery, now there’s an idea.” The Dragon Witch put a finger to her chin, as if considering an idea. “Perhaps when I beat you today I’ll turn you into a peanut plant. Or better yet, I’ll trap you in a peanut gallery comic, so you will be forced to watch everyone laugh at your antics.”

“I’ve already been a comic book character.” Roman groaned, pretending to be bored as he stretched out a crick in his neck. “And you did a strawberry bush only a month ago. Have you really run out of curses so soon? You seem a bit lost for inspiration. How about I do you a favor. After I kick your butt, you can spend the week thinking up better ideas.”

“You make me laugh, Prince Roman.” The Dragon Witch said, but her mouth was still a flat line. “But perhaps you should save the theatrics for your stage.”

“Gladly.” With no more fanfare, Roman charged, sword at the ready. He took a swipe at the Dragon Witch. Unsurprisingly, she disappeared in a cloud of dark smoke. Knowing this trick, Roman wasted no time in bringing his elbow reeling backwards, satisfied by the ‘oof!’ of pain that came as he painfully elbowed her in the stomach. Roman had no qualms against playing dirty against a girl, especially because gender is a social construct and she started it.

“Why, you little-!” Before she could wrap her claws around Roman the prince rolled to the side, coming up to face her head on again. The Dragon Witch growled, a ball of green flame appearing in her hand.

“You wouldn’t.” Roman squinted, trying to gauge how far his opponent would go.

“Oh, I would.” The Dragon Witch sneered, tossing the flame to the ground. Instantly the golden leaves began to catch fire, the flames spreading as quickly the entire scene became ablaze.

Roman’s eyes widened only momentarily before he began to frantically dash back down the path, the flames licking at his heels. He knew that the trees themselves would likely be protected, mere puppets designed by the Witch who wanted an audience (she always was one for theatrics), but everything else in this forest was fair game.

“You’re insane!” Roman yelped, shaking his leg briefly as his pants briefly caught fire. The Witch cackled at this, giving chase through the path as the green flickers did nothing to harm her. If anything, they curled around her ankles, hugging their creator gently.

“Liar liar, pants on fire!” The Dragon Witch seemed to only find humor in this scenario, grinning manically.

“What are you, twelve?” Roman huffed, his breathing becoming heaving as he fought to keep running. Why didn’t Thomas go to the gym more often? Probably due to Patton’s love of cookies. Even if Patton was a fluffball, at this particular moment Roman was wishing he could change a lot of the heart’s habits if only to gain a little more endurance for these aggravating chase scenes. When he got back to the Mindspace, Roman was certainly going to fill Thomas’ dreams with more eye candy muscled men in the hopes of inspiring him to exercise even once.

Too distracted by thoughts of shirtless men, Roman was oblivious to the branches reaching out for him until it was too late. The wooden limbs wrapped around him, forcing his sword to clatter to the ground as one of the tree spirits tugged him into a tight grip.

“No fair!” Roman pouted, watching the Dragon Witch approach with a devious smirk, her flames coming with her.

“What’s wrong, Prince Roman?” She feigned ignorance, lifting her hand to direct the flames to begin climbing the tree, getting closer and closer to his legs which were desperately trying to kick out of their way. “Come now, surely you haven’t been bested by a few candle flames and a tree? Get up, Prince Roman. Fight. Where’s that courageous hero who dared to march into myrealm just hours ago, dressed in regal colors and claiming ownership of a land he can never hope to control?”

“I YIELD!” Roman suddenly declared through gritted teeth, his knees tucked up to his chest as the fire licked at his boots. To declare himself unsuccessful hurt more than their burn, and as the flames disappeared Roman felt the own fire of determination dying in his heart.

It seemed recently it had burning out quicker with each battle, these losses slowly taking a toll on even his resolve.

“Aww, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The Dragon Witch teased. Roman gave her a defiant glare.

“I already yielded, there’s no need to drag it out.” Roman huffed, slumping back in the tree’s embrace. “Just get it over with, do your thing. Give me your curse and I’ll be on my way. What will it be, the comic or the plant? Well? What are you waiting for?”

The Dragon Witch paused, her expression for once perfectly blank. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Why should I be?” Roman shrugged, feeling a bit proud that he could make her scowl even in her victory. A conversation was still a battle when it came to the Dragon Witch, and at least Roman could win this. “Your little curses are nuisances at best. Your strongest has only ever left me cowering under a blanket for a day. Just a day, nothing more. Nothing sticks. You can’t hurt me, not in any real way at least, because everything you do is temporary. Your magic is just little parlor tricks.”

“Little parlor tricks?!” She screeched and spat. “How dare you! You insufferable pest, you incompetent sprite, you infinitesimal thorn in my side!” The Dragon Witch’s eyes blazed with a fury unmated by any Roman had ever seen, and for the first time in forever Roman really did feel afraid. She struck her hand across his face, leaving a scorching mark with a familiar tingling feeling of magic.

“There.” The Dragon Witch hissed, letting the tree drop Roman into an unassuming pile on the ground. “How’s that for a parlor trick?” Without another word she spun on her heel and left. The fact that she didn’t stick around to watch her spell take effect was a sure sign that Roman had pissed her off more than usual, which likely didn’t bode well for whatever unfortunate hex had just been quite literally slapped upon him.

Roman groaned, his body feeling like it was collapsing in on itself as Roman curled up into a tight ball. A searing pain had begun just along his spine, and Roman heard the fabric of his shirt begin to tear. Rude; he was particularly fond of this ensemble. But even Princey couldn’t lament the ruination of his garments for long, instead letting out a gasp as another round of fiery discomfort shot through his back. Was this the curse? To be in misery for a day? It certainly made Roman regret being so mouthy.

Thankfully, the pain slowly began to ebb away, leaving only a dull ache in its wake. Roman felt as though something was laying across his back, and new nerves connected to these new appendages. Cautiously Roman opened his eyes, looking back for confirmation.

Wings- he had wings. Dragonfly wings, to be exact. It seemed the Dragon Witch was still just as fond of draconic irony as always.

“Well that’s not so bad.” Roman decided. Sure, they were painful to grow, and they would certainly be impossible to hide, but Roman had stayed in his room during a curse before. He gave them a cautious flutter, wincing as one wing smacked him in the face. Perhaps this would take a bit more practice.

Roman stood up, gaining his footing on the slippery leaf below him and prepping for a test flight. Wait… yes, that was leaf, singular. Roman stared down at his feet incredulously, not believing his eyes. That had to be a very large leaf, unless…

The princely figure let out a groan, looking up to see his suspicions were confirmed. The dark trees now loomed over him, appearing to be hundreds of feet tall. It wasn’t just wings, then. The witch had cursed Roman to become a fairy of all things, reduced to nothing but a poor copy of tinkerbell.

At this size, Roman was even more wary of Imagination land, picturing all the horrible creatures that could make quick work of him. He had to get back, now.

“Alright, faith and trust and all that jazz.” Roman psyched himself up, scrunching his face and giving his body a shake to let out his nerves. He focused on getting his wings to flap properly this time, nearly crying out in relief when his feet left the ground.

“Don’t look down.” Roman instructed himself, firmly keeping his gaze forward as he shot through the air, beginning to get the hang of flying as he dodged the various brambles. More than once Roman nearly went headfirst into a spiderweb, skidding to a stop at the last moment. Thankfully he reached the exit on the other side of the forest without becoming prey to any of the shadowy demons. He was relieved that the door still recognized his presence in this form, swinging open wide. Roman wouldn’t have been able to open it himself.

“…woah.” Roman floated inside, momentarily shocked by how unfamiliar his own bedroom looked at this size. He settled down onto his desk, thrown off by the way he had to look up to see the bristled tips of his paintbrushes. How odd.

A knock came at the door, so loud and intimidating that Roman nearly jumped out of his skin. “Kiddo?” Patton’s voice was clearly gentle, but still it rumbled with an unnatural quality. “Do you want to join us for lunch?”

“Ah, no thanks, Pat!” Roman called back, hoping his nerves weren’t heard in his voice.

There was silence, and then another knock. “Kiddo? You in there?”

Oh, of course- an impulse to hit his own forehead overcame Roman. If Patton’s voice was so loud, it only followed that Roman’s voice must be quiet in comparison. He’d have to commit if he wanted to be heard.

“NO THANKS!” Roman called again, this time cupping his hands to his mouth to be heard.

“Oh, okay!” Patton sounded relieved, if not a bit disappointed. Roman deflated slightly, knowing this was another consequence of the curse. He hated letting Patton down. “Well, uh, I’ll check in on you again later!”

He would, of course, the little puffball.

***

Roman tried not to let the knot of guilt twist in him too tight when Patton came back to ask at dinner, then again at breakfast, and a third time at lunch the next day.

This was the longest day of his life. Roman groaned, collapsing back onto his pillow. It only took a few moments for him to realize this was a terrible plan, nearly getting stuck as he sunk into the overly plush surface. Why wasn’t he back to normal yet? It had been 24 hours, hadn’t it?

Patton came back again at dinner. He was more insistent. Roman snapped at him, and it hurt.

What was he meant to do? Roman couldn’t sleep that second night, his wings beginning to twitch anxiously. A curse had never lasted this long before. Should he tell the others?

The new fairy quickly shook his head. No, he couldn’t do that. Going to them meant admitting defeat. He would have to come clean about his rivalry with the Dragon Witch, letting them know of all his countless failures. What would they think of him? What sort of creativity was he if he couldn’t do his one job of keeping Imagination in check? Roman had to protect his family, not the other way around. Besides, he could only imagine the jests he would receive in this form:

“It seems you are incapable of even performing your own tasks adequately-“

“You tried your best, Kiddo, but leave it up to the real sides next time-”

“What’s the matter, Princey? A little thing like you couldn’t possibly help-“

A knock on the door jolted Roman out of his thoughts, the fae rubbing at the wetness on his cheeks. When had he started crying?

“Roman?” That was Logan’s voice, so cool and calculating and pleasant in tone. “We have been sent to retrieve you for breakfast. Are you alright?”

Roman couldn’t even work up the energy to respond. He just let his head loll to the side. Sooner or later the others would learn to leave him alone. Maybe they’d even forget about him… if he was going to be stuck like this, it might be for the best. Roman was useless.

“I can feel the sulking from here.” A third voice muttered, Roman’s sensitive ears picking up Virgil’s annoyed tone. “I say we just break in.”

Roman quickly sat up. What? Them, here? No, they couldn’t see him like this! He flew into the air, eyes scanning for any place he could hide.

“I thought you were against barging into bedrooms?” Logan spoke.

“Nah, just my room. Call me a hypocrite.”

Roman panicked, hearing the doorknob begin to turn. Without hesitation he dashed out of sight, settling onto the top of his wardrobe. Just in time, too, as moments later his fellow sides came barging into the room.

“PRINCEY, GET UP!” Virgil’s volume made the tiny side cringe, Roman pressing his hands firmly to his ears. “…princey?”

“It appears he’s not here.” Logan sated, the two gazing at the bed with conflicting amounts of bewilderment.

“Yeah, thanks, Sherlock.” Virgil’s facial features had turned decidedly blank, trying to process what was right in front of him.

“You do not sound thankful.” Logan murmured.

Virgil ignored his quip, throwing the blanket off the bed. Of course, the entire thing still looked untouched. The anxious side began to run his hands through his hair, seeming conflicted before he rushed back to the door. “PATTON, GET UP HERE!”

There was a frantic pounding of footsteps, Patton clearly running up the stairs before he too appeared in the doorway. “What is it? Is Roman sick?”

“Sick in the head- he’s gone.” Despite his angry words, Virgil looked frantic, and Roman felt far more than a twinge of guilt.

“This is peculiar.” Logan frowned, a hand put to his chin. “The mindscape is only so large. It contains each of our respective spaces and one communal area. Thomas is asleep, so he’s not there, and none of us have seen Roman in over 48 hours. Where could he possibly have gone?”

“Uh…I have an idea.”

The other two sides looked where Patton was pointing, the door to Imagination still ajar.

No! Roman’s eyes widened with fear. The others couldn’t go in there, they’d be killed for sure! Roman had always lied about Imagination, treating it like a magical secret only for him so that they would never know the true misery he faced every day.

“Do you think his realm would grant us access?” Logan took a step closer, making Roman tense up. “I was under the impression that subconscious domains were only accessible by the primary side.”

“Well, the door’s open.” Patton shrugged. “It’s worth a shot, right?”

“Hold on a minute, Pat.” Virgil reached an arm out, grabbing Patton’s forearm. “I don’t like the look of this. Roman’s an idiot-“ Hey! “-but maybe there’s a reason we shouldn’t go in there. We don’t know what it’s like. Maybe we’ll get corrupted just like you guys do in my room.”

For once, Roman was relieved Dark and Brooding was always so cautious. Maybe his friends would be safe after all.

“Virgil, it’s Imagination.” Patton removed Virgil’s hand with a smile, crushing all Roman’s hopes and dreams. “It’s not going to hurt us! I bet it’s got cotton candy clouds and singing flowers and puppies everywhere. “

“I take it back, that’s much worse.” Virgil cringed, but he allowed Patton to take his hand and guide him forward.

“Assumptions will get us nowhere; there is only one way to know for certain.” Logan reached for the handle-

“WAIT!” Roman cried out, his voice shrill and high-pitched as three heads whirling around to meet his terrified expression. Roman gulped, still frightened of their reactions but knowing he had made the right decision. It was better they looked down on him forever if it meant they stayed safe.

Still, having three giants focused on him was nothing to sneeze at- even with all his pomp and circumstance, Roman found himself continuing to huddle against the top of the wardrobe, knowing the jig was up.

“…Roman?” Patton called out, his voice softer than it had ever been. “Is that you?”

Roman winced. “Yeah, it’s… it’s me.”

He was thankful for his high vantage point, but he knew that if the others wanted to get him down it would be an easy enough task. He might be able to fly, but there were three of them for goodness sakes. At this size, a butterfly net could overpower him.

Roman groaned at the imagery, trying to get these thoughts out of his head. Why was he so frightened of the people he loved? Sure they were bigger now- er, he was smaller now- but they still had to care a little bit for him… right? Logan wouldn’t really pin him to a board and Patton wouldn’t really squeeze the life out of him and wow these images really need to stop right now get a GRIP, Princey!

“Are you harmed?” Logan asked, his question surprising the creative side. Logan was often ignorant to other’s state of being.

“Just my pride.” Roman admitted.

Virgil quirked an eyebrow, but it lacked its usual sass. His expression was more shaken than it should be, and the emo looked paler than usual. “Care to tell us what’s going on?”

Not really. Roman wanted to say, but he knew it was too late to back out now.

“Will you come down from there, Kiddo?” Patton took a step forward, cupping his palms and looking ready to catch Roman. He gazed at those hands for a minute, contemplating the risk before he fluttered down to stand in Patton’s palms. This action earned a series of gasps as his wings had previously gone unnoticed.

“It was the Dragon Witch.” Roman admitted, rubbing at his arm self-consciously. “She cursed me to take this form.”

“So, you’ve just been hiding up here all alone?” Patton looked just about ready to cry. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t want you all to think any lesser of me.” Roman ran a hand through his hair. “I know you all think of me as foolish already, and I thought- if you knew how much I failed, that would just be used against me as well. I’m not the protector I pretend to be. I’ve tried to hide this from you because look at me now! A few inches tall and wings on my back like some laughable child cartoon character. I couldn’t stand the mockery on top of everything else.”

“Roman, that is preposterous.” Logan said firmly, earning an elbow to the side from Virgil that didn’t stop the nerd from continuing. “Regardless of your current stature, you are a core element of Thomas’ personality. We require your input. We function best as a cohesive team. Sharing information about your own struggles will only better us as a unit because we will be better equipped to assist you.”

“The nerd’s right.” Virgil rubbed the back of his neck, looking guilty. “Jeez, Princey, I mean… I know we call each other names, but I don’t mean anything by it. I just thought that was our thing. I’m not gonna mock you when you’re clearly hurting, that’d just be cruel.”

“Failure is normal, kiddo.” Patton reached his thumb up, rubbing it comfortingly along Roman’s side. The sensation was strange, but not unpleasant. “Just because you failed once doesn’t mean you’re a failure.”

Roman winced. “Ah, actually, it’s… it’s more than once.” The words began to spill out of him, gaining momentum. “I lose to her so often, she always has the upper hand and it’s never the same curse and I keep hiding them from you but they only last a day and this one hasn’t stopped and I don’t know what to do and I’m going to be tiny and useless forever-“

“OY!” Virgil’s shout made Roman flinch again, and the anxious side had the decency to look sheepish. “…sorry. But you need to cut it out. Panicking is my thing.”

“Roman, it doesn’t matter if you’ve failed a hundred, trillion, billion times.” Patton corrected his wording.

“That’s not statistically possible.” Logan looked confused.

“You will never be a failure in our eyes.” Patton insisted. “You are brave, and kind, and lovable, and you bring so much to the table every single day. We couldn’t do it without you, Kiddo. And even at this size you’re the same amazing Prince we know and love. You’re just… a pocket prince now!”

“Roman, I admit that curses are not my area of expertise.” Logan adjusted his glasses. “But, I believe that with our efforts combined, there is certain to be a way to reverse these effects, especially given the knowledge the previous curses all took time to wear off.”

“Let us help you.” Virgil said, his tone bordering on pleading.

Roman looked around at his family. His fantastic, brilliant, amazing family. How could he have not trusted them with this? Of course they wouldn’t see him as lesser, just because of a small curse. His failures were not what defined him.

“Okay.” Roman agreed, feeling nearly overwhelmed with the love he had for them all.

[the-quiet-winds]

You Need a Blue Sky Holiday (part one)

i love this one so much. it’s one that @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts and i did a while back - more early softness!!!!

[Part 1: I Don’t Wanna Miss a Single Thing]

it’s several weeks into rehearsals when jane shows up late for the first time. jane is always early, which is why her lateness raises some concern, especially from katherine.

jane hurries in about twenty minutes late, looking stressed and dragging a small suitcase behind her. “sorry,” she sighs. “my roof started leaking; i had to call someone round to fix it.” she indicates her suitcase. “also, if anyone knows any hotels that will have a free room tonight then i’d be really grateful. i don’t think they’re going to be able to finish fixing it today.”

the other queens immediately begin recommending places nearby, aragon even naming one next door to her own place. 

it’s later in the morning when katherine approaches her, nervously wringing her hands together. 

“you’re welcome to stay with me,” she says quietly and unsurely. “my apartment isn’t huge but i have a pull out couch.” she drops her voice. “i feel like i should return the favor after all you’ve done for me.”

jane places a hand on her arm. “there is no favor to be repaid, kat. i love having you around.” she smiles. “but if you’re serious about the offer, i’d gladly take it up.”

katherine gives her a small smile. “cool. i, um, i normally get the bus home, but there’s a parking space outside if you brought your car and need to put it somewhere.”

“thank you, kat,” jane says with a genuine, soft grin. “you’re really helping me out here.”

a sense of pride wells in katherine’s chest at that; she was being helpful, she had use. throughout the rest of the day’s rehearsal she tries her best to think of how else to help jane. she’d need to make dinner, of course, she couldn’t expect jane to cook in katherine’s apartment.

she’s practically bouncing by the time rehearsal is over, from anxiety or excitement she isn’t quite sure, though. she gives jane directions to her apartment, a half hour drive in the opposite direction of jane’s house.

they pull to a stop outside an apartment building that had obviously seen better days. katherine tries to hide an embarrassed flush as she brings jane upstairs and into her cold, slightly boring and dingy apartment. 

“home sweet home,” she says with a nervous laugh as they enter.

she fidgets her hands anxiously as jane puts her suitcase down in the hallway. “do you want a drink? tea?” she asks awkwardly, but jane smiles kindly.

“that would be lovely, thank you, kat.”

katherine nods and hurries through to the tiny kitchen, rifling through the mostly empty cupboards to find the box of tea bags she knew was hanging around somewhere. she notes with a cringe that she doesn’t have all that many ingredients for whatever she was going to make for dinner; she should have stopped at a shop or something on the way home.

she finally finds the tea bags in the back of a cupboard behind a few tins of baked beans just as jane steps into the kitchen.

“where are the mugs?” jane asks, opening some of the cabinets to try and help. she notes with a frown how barren most of them are. 

katherine blushes and points to the sink, where both of the only mugs were sitting upside down, obviously having been used. 

jane simply picks them up and gives them a quick rinse and wipes them out with a paper towel, and katherine cringes at jane doing her dishes. jane doesn’t seem to mind, however, and katherine finishes making them tea. 

only a half hour later, once all the tea has been drunk, jane excuses herself to go shower, leaving katherine alone with no plan for how to prepare a dinner for them both.

katherine takes a deep breath to calm her panicked mind before trying to make the best of what she knows she has. right, she has half a bag of pasta, which is good. on the down side, she doesn’t have any sauce to go with it. she rifles through the tiny freezer compartment in the fridge hoping desperately that some miracle had granted her something she could construct into a dinner, but all she can find is some oven chips, a tub of ice cream and an empty ice cube tray. she stares at the nearly empty fridge hopelessly, wondering how she’d let it get to this point where she actually had no food in the house.

well, katherine knew why that was. it was because she’d lived exclusively off instant noodles for the past week, but she couldn’t exactly serve them up to jane.

she’s so busy searching for foods to supplement she doesn’t hear jane behind her.

“katherine?”

she jumps and turns, knocking the half empty bag of pretzels off the shelf she’d be investigating. 

“yes?” she asks.

jane looks at her inquisitively, trying to work out the source of the girl’s stress. “you need some help?”

katherine turns bright red but fights to hide it. “no,” she says in a small voice. 

jane picks up the bag of pretzels and sets it on the counter. “what are you looking for, love?”

katherine shrugs. “anything, really,” she says in a small voice. “but it’s fine,” she adds hastily. “i’ve got it under control.”

she grabs a few things haphazardly from the cupboards and has a quick look at her findings. unless there was a recipe out there that used a pack of cookies, a tin of peas and a single stale tortilla then katherine was fresh out of luck.

jane watches katherine flounder for a second before taking pity and approaching her.

“how about we pop out to the nearest shops and get some ingredients?”

katherine internally cringes again. she was supposed to be housing jane and making her comfortable, and now she was offering to take them both to the store because katherine couldn’t even provide dinner. it’s pitiful, really, she feels, that she can’t even begin to return the kindness jane showed her day in and day out. 

jane sees katherine’s face slowly fall as she spaces out. she steps forward and puts a gentle hand on katherine’s cheek, startling her out of her reverie. she slides her thumb over katherine’s cheekbone. 

“i’ll make us my casserole, yeah?” she offers.

katherine really doesn’t want to agree. “i can do it!” she protests, wincing at how childishly petulant she sounds.

“and i’m not doubting that, kat,” jane says softly. “how about we consider this dinner my thanks to you for letting me stay at such short notice, okay?”

her tone of voice is, like always, so soft and comforting, and for a moment katherine gets lulled into the security of it and almost nods. she stops herself halfway through the movement and tries to disguise it by running a hand through her hair.

jane can see the conflict in katherine’s eyes, but she doesn’t know what the issue is. katherine was already helping enough by just letting her stay, so why couldn’t jane contribute?

“come, love,” she says, taking katherine’s hand and leading her to the door. “let’s go on, now.”

katherine is so close to just letting jane win, just going with it all and letting jane take care of her, but she feels that horrible pathetic sting and pulls back. “i can do it,” she says again, firmer but not angry.

“i know you can, love,” jane says gently. “and i don’t want to impose, but i do want to help, if i can.” she reaches out and takes one of katherine’s hands in hers; katherine reluctantly lets her. “please, kat. let me do this.”

katherine has a horrible twisting feeling in her stomach, caused by her failure to pay back any kind of hospitality to jane, who’s done everything for her over the past few weeks. she genuinely doesn’t know what else to do; agreeing would be admitting her failure and making jane take all the responsibility, but she has no idea what she could possibly create from her bare kitchen and she doesn’t want jane to go hungry either.

there’s hesitation in kat’s response, and jane takes that as an invitation to lightly pull her towards the door. katherine doesn’t argue. 

they head down to the car without katherine saying a single word. jane puts on some music, nothing particularly noteworthy, but she notices katherine quietly humming along to a beyoncé song, and jane can’t help but smile. 

when they arrive, jane picks up a small basket, which katherine immediately takes, mumbling something about wanting to help. 

jane gives her a small smile. “what should we have tonight, love?”

“whatever you want is okay by me,” katherine shrugs, clutching the handle of the basket and not quite looking up at jane. jane looks at her carefully and takes her free hand.

“casserole it is, then, kat.” she gives katherine’s hand a gentle squeeze. she’d cooked for katherine enough times to know that this was her favourite and so she guessed it was a safe bet. “come on, love, we need to start at the vegetable aisle.”

as they make rounds through the store, jane is delighted to see katherine unroll from the anxious bubble she had been in when they arrived, and by the time they were getting the chicken, she was back to her old self and jane can’t help but smile. 

they reach the checkout line and they converse as the man in front of them finishes his purchases. 

they begin setting stuff on the belt when jane sighs. “forgot the chicken stock,” she muses, then looks around. the aisle was just two down from where they were, and there was no one behind them. “you stay here, love, i’ll be right back,” she tells katherine before heading off to find the chicken stock. 

the cashier, a woman no older than jane herself, chuckles lightly at the exchange, then looks back at the ingredients. 

“what’s mum cooking up tonight?” she asks conversationally.

katherine flushes slightly pink. “oh, she-” 

she was going to say “she’s not my mum”, but for some strange reason she can’t bring herself to correct the cashier. maybe it’s the comforting sense of normality about it; if it was true she wouldn’t have to be katherine howard, ex-wife of the king and part of 500 years worth of baggage. instead she could just be kat, here to buy some ingredients for dinner with her mum, jane. it’s a slightly embarrassing thought that she definitely doesn’t want jane to ever find out about, but she allows herself to indulge in the pretense for a little while.

“she’s making a casserole,” katherine says instead, smiling slightly. “my favourite.”

“well, you’re a lucky girl, aren’t you,” the cashier gives a friendly laugh. “that sounds lovely.”

“it will be,” katherine mumbles, that same goofy grin on her face and a blush tinting her ears a bit pink. 

the cashier smiles as jane returns with the last ingredient. she rings it up and jane takes out her card to pay.

katherine can’t get her mind off what the cashier had said and what had followed. 

then, the cashier speaks again to katherine as she hands jane and katherine their bags. 

“be kind to your mum, kid,” she says teasingly.

jane doesn’t comment on it, and katherine isn’t sure if she’s relieved or worried by that fact. she didn’t correct the woman or seem offended by the comment, which was encouraging, but maybe jane was just being polite.

they take the bags back to the car and jane switches the radio on again as she pulls out of the car park and onto the road.

while katherine was looking out for jane’s reaction, unbeknownst to her jane had been monitoring katherine’s reaction. she noted the little skip in katherine’s step after the cashier mistook them for mother and daughter, and she could see the tiny grin that katherine was struggling to hide. honestly, jane thought it was very sweet.

she continues to keep her expression neutral as she parks the car outside katherine’s apartment building and lets kat lead them upstairs, but she fails to hold back the tiniest hidden grin at the thought of katherine being her daughter. 

she packs it away a moment later, not wanting to fill her head with fantasies, especially not fantasies that could hurt kat. what if they got too close and it all fell apart?

jane casts these thoughts from her head as she and katherine begin preparing dinner. they fall into a familiar rhythm - katherine peeling the vegetables as jane chops other ingredients.

the casserole goes in the oven for its thirty minute bake time and jane and katherine find themselves simply looking at the other, an odd sense of awkwardness between them.

“sorry i don’t have a tv,” katherine gives jane an apologetic look. “i could put something on my laptop, if you wanted?”

“it’s okay, kat,” jane smiles. “i don’t mind.”

the silence draws on between them for a few more moments before jane speaks again.

“so, how are you feeling about rehearsals? excited for the show?”

“i guess,” katherine shrugs. “i’m excited to tour. i didn’t get to go many places before...” she trails off and scratches at the base of her neck awkwardly.

jane presses her lips together but forces a tiny smile. “i’m sure it’ll be very fun-filled.”

katherine just nods and looks down at the floor. jane crosses to her and puts an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the couch. 

it’s a bit uncomfortable, jane finds, stiff and most definitely second hand. but jane stops thinking about that when katherine curls up and lays her head against her shoulder. habitually, jane places a light kiss in katherine’s hair as they sit in silence.

katherine tenses for the tiniest moment at the pressure of jane kissing the top of her head, and then she relaxes, closing her eyes and curling up even closer to jane. the silence is slightly less awkward now, a little more comforting instead.

jane absent-mindedly starts humming as her fingers run through the ends of katherine’s hair, the melody soft and calming.

jane feels katherine unfurls slightly, relaxing into her arms. she holds kat just lightly closer and feels the girl’s breathing slow and even out against her side as she seems to fall asleep. 

jane waits, not stopping  her humming or her soft ministrations of katherine’s hair until the oven dings.

“hey, love,” she says quietly, “it’s time to wake up, yeah?”

katherine stirs with a sleepy yawn and an adorably dazed expression on her face. “mhm?” she questions, and jane can’t help the soft smile that quirks her lips.

“dinner’s ready,” she says, standing up. katherine perks up slightly at the news and gets to her feet, still trying to wipe away the sleep from her eyes. 

jane’s smile doesn’t fade as she leads the girl to the kitchen.

———————————————————————————————————–

tag list: @percabeth15 @kats-seymour @qualquercoisa945 @jane-fucking-seymour @a-slightly-cracked-egg @justqueentingz @annabanana2401 @wolfies-chew-toy @broad-way-13 @tvandmusicals @lailaliquorice @aimieallenatkinson @sweet-child-why03 @gaylinda-of-the-upper-uplands @funky-lesbians@thinkaboutitmaybe @hansholbeingoesaroundzeworld @anaamess@beeskneeshuh @prick-up-ur-ears @theartoflazy @justqueentwo @brother-orion @paleshadowofadragon @lafemmestars @beautifulashes17 @jarneiarichardnxel @idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff @sixcago @mixer1323 @boleynssixthfinger @aimieallen @elphiesdance @boleynthebunny @krystalhuntress @lupin-loves-chocolate@bellacardoza16 @bluify

[thelastyearinmyforties]

T-Minus 25 Days: Sometimes it just all goes horribly wrong...

I fell asleep writing the post I was working on yesterday so there was no post yesterday. Maybe it will show up later, but it won’t be today because today’s post is about how my night went horribly awry when it should have been a fun evening of music, of seeing friends, and of disconnecting from the world for a while. 

I should be at the John Mayer/Matt Nathanson show in San Francisco right now but instead, I’m sitting on my bed writing this post because sometimes things just don’t go as planned.

The evening started out great. I actually left work at 4:00 like I planned - that rarely happens - and the traffic to San Francisco didn’t look too bad. I got on the freeway and heard a sound that wasn’t great. I wasn’t sure if I’d run over something or if something had hit me. A moment later my Check Tire Pressure light came on and I started to feel the effects of whatever I’d run over. 

I got off the freeway as soon as I could and nursed my clearly flat tire to the closest gas station. It wasn’t a service station mind you - those are hard to find! - but just a gas station. I parked to see what had happened and saw the horribly flat tire. Thankfully it didn’t look like the wheel or the rim was damaged but I knew it wasn’t good. I was directed to the air at the station by another customer and drove across the lot next to the machine. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that I didn’t have any quarters to pay for said air so I went inside to get change. All the while the time is just ticking away making me wonder if I’d make it to my show. 

I got the tire filled with air but could hear it hissing out so I knew I couldn’t drive far on it. I called my normal mechanic but by this time it was after 4:30 and there was no one left in the shop to take a look. They suggested an actual service station or Wheel Works, so to Wheel Works I went. I drove slowly and took side streets to avoid traffic as much as possible. By the time I got there the tire was all out of air again and I knew it was hosed. 

I told the guy what happened and he had me pull the car up so he could take a look. Once he got the tire off it was very clear that I’d run over a huge piece of metal, almost like a thick blade, and it had severely punctured the tire. Beyond that, because I’d driven on it, the tire was destroyed. Again, thankfully the wheel and the rim were fine. So, I waited while they put on the new tire and made sure things were okay. 

When I got back in the car around 5:30 the Check Air Pressure light was still on and I knew that wasn’t right, so I got back out to see what was up. I was told to “just drive around on it for a while and the light will go away.” I was about 99% certain that wasn’t true but I figured I’d give it a try and left the shop.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that driving around did nothing, and while most of me knew it was just an alert that needed to be reset, I wasn’t about to take any chances with driving to San Francisco, especially when I knew I would be coming home around midnight and that would not have been a fun time for something to go wrong. So, I got off the freeway again and went to the Honda dealership. At this point it was about 5:45 and I was hoping they were still open. Thankfully, they were.

I pulled the car up and stepped into the service center and told someone what was going on. A mechanic happened to be walking by and said he wouldn’t be able to do anything right then but he’d be happy to take it for a quick test drive. As soon as he got in he said, “They didn’t reset the [something-something-technical].” He continued to say something like, “If they’re going do the work they need to learn how to do the reset.” He showed me how to do it for future reference. We drove around for a few minutes, and he got the speed up and said everything was fine. He was AWESOME. I wish I knew his name so I could tell the service manager, but I will definitely be writing them a letter of gratitude. 

Unfortunately, by the time I left there, it was a little after 6:00 and the expected drive time to San Francisco was over 90 minutes. If that all went as planned, I would have been getting to the venue just moments before the show started and if something else went wrong - which honestly, seemed likely based on everything else - I would be late. I didn’t want to lose the money I’d spent on the ticket (over $100) but I was so stressed and exhausted I just couldn’t bear the thought of being in the car for another hour and a half or more. So, I made the hard decision not to go.

Now, the weird thing about this story and about this concert is that it was originally supposed to take place about a month ago but John Mayer had to reschedule due to illness. I had sold my original ticket due to some craziness in December but when the show got rescheduled, the buyer declined and the ticket reverted back to me, which is why I was going tonight. However, because the show had been rescheduled, they offered all buyers refunds in case they couldn’t go. I dug back through my emails and found that information and was still able to get the refund. So, at least I didn’t lose that money.

I actually sat in a parking lot for several minutes to calm down and then decided I needed a good dinner after all the drama. I headed toward Cheesecake Factory because duh, cheesecake. But I couldn’t find a place to park due to the never-ending construction at the mall, so I drove across the street to another shopping center thinking I’d park there and drive over but because it’s Thursday night and everyone apparently goes out on Thursdays now, I couldn’t find a place to park there either. Okay, fine. I decided on one of my two favorite Mexican places, the one I hadn't been to in a while. I magically found a place to park and walked to the door only to find out it was closed due to a plumbing issue. Really? Someone was kidding, right? Nothing else in that shopping center appealed so I decided to just get Chipotle and bring it home. 

I walked into Chipotle and got in the back of the line just as one of the workers was saying they were out of chips. Really?! Half the point is the chips! I couldn’t be bothered for one more minute. I decided to order Thai from my new favorite place but the delivery time was more than an hour and it was already 7:00. It was seriously a joke. Finally I went to my other favorite Mexican place, which is really my favorite anyway, and I was very happy to get seated, order my usual meal, and enjoy my iced tea. 

I got home around 8:00, just about the time Matt Nathanson would have been taking the stage. Sigh. John Mayer’s probably on stage now. But I’m sitting on my bed thankful that my car wasn’t damaged, thankful that the flat didn’t hit when I was driving a lot faster on a more crowded part of the freeway, thankful that I’m safe and that I didn’t lose any money. I hope my friends are loving the show. I’ll catch John and Matt some other time I’m sure, but for now, I’m going to watch Ellen and remind myself that tomorrow’s Friday and that I have a three-day weekend. 

I’m also going to remind myself that as bad and annoying and frustrating as tonight was, I still have nothing at all to complain about. I’m very aware that these are first world problems. Still...how do you not have chips?! 

[newstfionline]

Spain Took Them in as Migrants, but Scorns Them as Street Vendors

By Raphael Minder, NY Times, Sept. 2, 2018

BARCELONA, Spain--On sunny weekends, dozens of sidewalk vendors line up along the seafront promenade in Barcelona, offering wares like purportedly designer-name sunglasses, clothing and other knickknacks, usually counterfeit.

The vendors, known as manteros, epitomize a quandary facing the authorities: It is one thing to debate whether to allow more migrants into the European Union, but quite another to agree on what to do with them once they arrive.

Most manteros are migrants from Africa who have often risked their lives fleeing violence or poverty. But many find when they reach the European Union that landing a regular job without the correct papers is almost impossible--especially in high-unemployment countries like Spain.

To make a living, many join the growing ranks of street sellers. Barcelona has become a hub for manteros, or blanketeers, so called for their practice of spreading their goods on cloth sheets that can easily be folded into a makeshift bag.

The street vendors, who often approach tourists on the city’s beaches or promenades, have become an increasingly hot-button topic in Spain, and episodes involving manteros have occasionally turned violent.

In recent weeks, a court sentenced a mantero to four and a half months in prison and a fine of 3,500 euros, about $4,000, for injuring a police officer during a check in Cambrils, a resort south of Barcelona. The mantero repeatedly kicked the officer, who had put his foot on the merchandise cloth to stop the vendor from running away.

Also last month, an American tourist, José Bravo, was hospitalized in Barcelona with head injuries after he said he was attacked during a tussle with a street vendor.

The manteros say they are being used as a political football, and have pointed to police excesses. A union formed by the vendors recently called on the authorities to decriminalize their street selling activities. Vendors have clashed with the authorities elsewhere in Spain, including in Madrid in March, when protests turned violent after a Senegalese vendor died of a heart attack after a police check.

Leading up to municipal elections in Barcelona and other cities next year, opposition politicians have used the tensions over the manteros to accuse Barcelona’s leftist mayor, Ada Colau, of failing to maintain law and order in the city.

The street vendors have found Barcelona to be a relatively good base, largely because the city has plenty of tourists willing to buy counterfeit sunglasses and bags. But many people oppose the sellers’ presence; shopkeepers express particular frustration, saying the manteros are drawing away customers.

“It’s just horrible to have this illegal competition,” said Carlos Servidio, whose market stand offers leather belts and bags manufactured at his workshop in Rubí, a town just outside Barcelona. Born in Argentina, Mr. Servidio arrived in Barcelona 30 years ago.

“I don’t want to criminalize these Africans, because I know what it’s like to be a migrant and to have to make a new start in life,” he said. “But the authorities must decide whether everybody should be paying taxes--or instead nobody.”

No one knows for sure how big Barcelona’s network of manteros is. Estimates vary from a few hundred to almost 3,000, according to an association of shopkeepers that was formed to protest illegal street vending. City Hall said it had no official data.

Street vendors who operate illegally can face prison if caught repeatedly, but an opinion poll published in April by the newspaper El Mundo suggested that most Spaniards want the police to fine manteros rather than detain them.

In July, the left-wing mayor of Madrid, Manuela Carmena, introduced a residency permit for undocumented migrants that offers access to health care and some other basic public services. Opposition politicians have warned that such moves could encourage more illegal migration and exacerbate the mantero problem, but Ms. Carmena has said that the street vendors should not be ostracized.

“Madrid is a very large city where there are irregular activities that shouldn’t take place, but the fact that there is a certain number of people selling irregularly is by a long shot not among the main problems,” she told reporters last month.

Barcelona introduced a cooperative project last year aimed at helping vendors leave the streets and sell items at official handicraft markets instead. The project is intended to let vendors earn money and eventually obtain work permits.

Babacar Diop, from Senegal, was among the 15 vendors selected to begin the cooperative. Having reached Spain a decade ago, he turned to street vending after bouncing for several years between occasional odd jobs, including working as a security guard on a construction site.

“I thought Spain would bring money and stability, but the reality wasn’t like that,” said Mr. Diop, 38. The cooperative, he said, was “a chance to stop taking risks on the streets, where you’re always trying to get away from the police.”

In the Barcelona district of San Roque, dozens of undocumented migrants live in an abandoned factory, sleeping on mattresses around wooden stoves to keep warm.

New arrivals who turn to street vending in Barcelona normally start out with help from an established mantero. The contact usually lends enough money to buy counterfeit merchandise from one of the warehouses in the nearby city of Badalona.

One recent evening, Samba Diallo, 28, ventured out to sell his goods in central Barcelona. Threading his way between tables on a cafe terrace, he held two wooden sculptures of elephants and a large cloth bag over his shoulder filled with bracelets and other trinkets. He headed for a table occupied by three elegantly dressed women; when they saw him approach, two clutched their handbags and waved him off.

Like many other street vendors, Mr. Diallo had not aimed for Barcelona when he decided to migrate to Europe. He crossed from Libya to Italy and spent five years in different Italian cities. He said he had moved to Barcelona after friends advised him that “the Spanish are nicer to African migrants than the people in Italy.” But after a few months, he added, “I’m not so sure that it’s much better here.”

At another table, Mr. Diallo struck up a conversation with a Dutch family and got the father to hold his elephant sculpture and have his photograph taken alongside him.

The Dutch tourist later explained that he had liked the elephant but worried about buying the bulky object because of luggage restrictions on his low-cost airline ticket.

Mr. Diallo failed to find a single buyer that evening. “It’s hard to get people to trust you as an African--and luck also wasn’t on my side today,” he said. “But at least I made somebody happy with a photo souvenir.”

[mgrgfan]

Some worldbuilding for my fic - Soris region, part 1.

To put it short, Soris is a hellhole. Such a hellhole, in fact, that even Orre region looks like a paradise in comparison with Soris. The best way to describe Soris is ((USSR*Australia*Detroit)+PanzerDragoonWorld)^PokemonWorld. In fact, “Harpoon” and “Ripper” rounds (which, most of time, provide victim with quick and very painful death, or at least give it serious injuries) for firearms, the very possession of which will get you jailed for many years in other regions, are perfectly legal here and can be bought in any weapon store for a small price. And that’s for a good reason.

Even before the Ancient Soris Empire, Soris Pokemon were far from cooperative, while remaining as powerful as you think Pokemon would be, so, living in Soris was somewhat like living in the Australia. When the Soris Legendaries had gone onto rampage and Ancient Soris War began, a lot of nuclear, arcane and even biological weapons were deployed, all in attempts of humans to survive. While these attempts mostly succeeded (humans weren’t wiped out, after all, and Legendaries were killed), Soris was horribly devastated. Because of how often Pokemon in this war used dimensional-controlling abilities (Teleport and like this) and how much arcane equipment and weaponry were used to combat it (incident in Solncegorsk city, for instance, where Unown tried to take advantage of the war and establish a hold in the real world, only to be destroyed by the mix of missiles with arcane warheads, loaded with Dark-type energy, and plain tactical nuclear missiles), today’s interworld connections in Soris are... far from good. Teleport is considered a good method of suicide (because after teleporting, user of this move more often than not becomes a bloody paste) and “reflection” of the region in the Reverse World is so mangled and distorted, that Giratina, when she (its psychological gender here is closer to female) saw it, decided “Screw this!” and simply warded off this area instead of trying to restore it.

The native Pokemon of Soris are very dangerous. From even before Ancient Soris War, they, when having above-average power (Pseudo-Legendaries were normal), very rarely wanted to cooperate with humans, but, at least, weren’t very agressive either. After the Ancient Soris War, however, they, under the aftereffects of such a devastation, changed into something much, much more deadly (it’s still not clear, if those were effects of deaths of the Legendaries or simple aftereffects of biological, nuclear, chemical and arcane WMDs). Today, Ground-type Pokemon with nearly perfect camouflage, appetite of Snorlax, aggressiveness of wild Hydreigon and Pseudo-Legendary stats are nothing special in Soris and can be easily found (though “easily found” often means “you see it before it kills you”) outside of the fortified cities and corporate Enclaves and are considered low-level threat. Yes, Ancient Soris War was something special.

Thankfully, introduced Alolan Flygons - the only species of Pokemon in Soris that were truly and really cooperative towards humans and the ones with crazy adaptational abilities - changed too (they aren’t called “Spirit of Change” in both Alola and Soris for nothing!), allowing themselves to survive in Soris. Today, Soris Flygons can be distinguished from their Alolan relatives by different shape of wings (somewhat longer and sharper), slightly longer and horizontally-forked antennaes (which are crucial to their Aura abilities), minor Aura abilities (short-range communication, “radar” and “darkvision” of sort), more omnivorous digestive system (life in Soris is harsh), more power and even greater adaptational abilities, which allow them to thrive in pretty much any environment - from forever colds of Alberia to the volcanic regions of Camcilia to the swamps of the Far East to the sandy deserts of Goli and so on... They also constantly migrate from one part of Soris to another in order to keep their adaptational abilities sharp and evade fate which struck their Hoenn relatives (forever locking in one forme). However, domesticated Soris Flygons will stay with their master. Also, there are some less dangerous tamed creatures, which, however, are not true Pokemon and were genetically constructed by the Ancient Soris Empire.

The most often-used land transport in Soris are different kinds of armored vehicles. Pretty often, they are simply APC/IFVs in civilian painting (guns remain how they were), but sometimes they use so-called “mini-cruisers”, which are segmented caterpillar-driven armored vehicles with articulated hull and tank-grade weapons on the front segment (kinda like Bogie from “The Third: Girl with Blue Eyes” anime), because they offer pretty decent protection, or heavily-armored big trucks, often modded from old ICBM carriers. Also, armored trains (with very characteristic and prominent sharp pilots, which ensure nothing stands on the way of the train) are used heavily. On the Grey Sea coastal line, some people use jury-rigged (but really good) buggies with deployable soft paraglider wing, mechanized rudders and propeller, which allow them to traverse both ground and (limited) air. However, they aren’t suited for long-range travels and are require solid driving skills to survive in the event of encountering local Pokemon.

The aerial transport is dominated with different armored planes, helicopters and airships (the ones based on SaL-12 “Charizard” Assault Ship Aerodyne are among the most-used), though Soris Flygons dominate short-range travels.

The water transport... let’s just say people would like to traverse this path on ground or in air far better. Hovewer, when such a need arises, armored boats with some depth charges and heavy weapons are put to use. In more peaceful zones (which are rare ones), local gangs can utilise airboats with heavy machine guns and some laser-guided rocket launchers.

The weapon regulation laws are... wait, there are next to none such laws for weapon regulation inside of Soris. Because of how deep into time Soris history of firearms goes (some designs can be traced up to 1000 years in the past, considering all the times, when technology gets lost and rediscovered), there are some restrictions on exporting and importing guns, but almost nothing about trading and using them in the region itself. It is for a reason - without guns, Soris people barely have ways to defend themselves (not counting Soris Flygons, but hey, those insect-dragons can’t do everything! Normal, non-Soris Pokemon, don’t live too long in Soris for reasons yet to be found, while some Soris Pokemon can live outside of Soris with no problems, but prefer to stay in their home region, bar Soris Flygons - they feel themselves nice everywhere, because their adaptability is crazy), especially with how in last 100 years Soris Pokemon started to become even more agressive and powerful for reasons yet to be found and neutralized. In Soris, you can legally purchase pretty much any gun as soon as you are 21 (though you need to pass tests first. Also, handguns, including 13x55mm caliber heavy assault revolver and rifles, can be bought from 18 onwards) and use any ammo for it you want (excluding nuclear, chemical and biological ammo). Yes, you can get anti-tank missile launcher too, if you can afford it and qualify as skilled user. However, laws about reckless use of weapons (shooting people, shooting wild Pokemon without good cause, property damage and such) are still in place. Yes, Soris is a hellhole.

Because of the reasons above, life in Soris (except for the Tunguska, which is, for some strange reason, pretty similar to the normal region like Sinnoh, though not without noticable traces of Soris influence, especially at the border with “true” Soris) is... actually, not that hard. Yes, you need to be good with guns, know at least basics of first aid, be able to quickly repair tech and so on, but there are next to no influence of the Official World State (Pokemon Nation), absolutely zero danger of Legendaries going rampant (they were killed for real in the Ancient Soris War) and, while most of the non-corporate fortress-cities are being ran by shady figures, they are more-or-less safe and nice (because they are all in the same boat - better be nice with your subordinates, so they’ll be nice with you in return, than be evil to them and one night a psycho, created by your regimen, goes rampant and kills lots of people one way or another. There were such incidents, which have even resulted in destruction of several fortress-cities, including two ancient ones - the ones which were built just 200 years after the fall of the Ancient Soris Empire!). Of course, “Pokemon League” is not a thing here, but is it such a price for a chance to survive in this region?

A lot of Pokemon Hunters in other regions originate from Soris’ gangs. Most of them prefer to use firearms, just like they did back home.