#the real fruity four as far as i’m concerned

[wlwlwlwlwlwlw]

if jonathan were wishing on a shooting star, he would wish for his brother to always be safe and happy

if steve were wishing on a shooting star, he would wish for the party to be successful in killing vecna and, if someone had to die, for it to be him

if robin were wishing on a shooting star, she would wish for a softer world and a less doomed life

if nancy saw a shooting star, she would wish she still believed in sacred childhood magic

[charzard-lord]

You’re The Mystery I Need To Solve (Doctor/Reader) Part Eight END

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Drama, angst, fluff, language, brief mentions of blood and needles, minor moment of negative self talk but nothing too serious

Key: 🎭💣😋❤☂️

Pairings: Eleventh Doctor/Reader

Summary: You've had several dreams about a madman with a box and when you finally meet him in real life, you realize that something is very wrong. For some reason, the TARDIS doesn't react well around you. In fact, it seems to completely stop working and turns into a regular police box. The Doctor is terrified yet fascinated, and completely determined to solve this mystery.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight (you are here)

Taglist: @iloveangstposts​

A/N: AHHHH!!!! IT’S FINALLY DONE!!!!! And I’m posting a little early as a special treat. I’m so excited for you guys to read this chapter! I’ve really enjoyed writing this story. I might come back and edit these parts eventually, just to make the syntax and grammer better, but no promises. Thank you so much for reading this far and for all your support! I hope you enjoy reading this part as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sending you lots of love! (P.S. I will start working on the last requests I got now that this story is finished. I still won’t be taking any new requests for the time being, but I will work on the ones I was sent.)

You toss and turn. Vivid, nightmarish images greet your eyelids each time you close them. Terrifying creatures, big needles, excessive amounts of blood, and all other kinds of violent things are all that you see. Sleep will be nearly impossible at this rate. 

With a defeated sigh, you move to get up, only to realize that you are still in massive pain. A silent whimper escapes your throat as you realize how helpless you truly are. You want to call out for someone, but you’re afraid the Doctor will show up, and that would be way too awkward right now. 

Seeing no other viable option, you decide to take a chance and call out for Amy, hoping she is somewhere nearby. Lady luck must be smiling down upon you, because no more than 30 seconds later, she comes running into the room. 

“Is everything alright?” she looks a bit frantic, obviously concerned for your wellbeing, and you smile. It’s nice to be cared about. 

“Yes and no,” you reply, as Amy moves to take a seat next to your bed. 

“How so?” she asks.

You explain the troubling images that you see every time you try to rest your eyes, and the way your whole body still hurts like hell. You purposefully leave out your conversation with the Doctor, not wanting to think about that at the moment.

She listens intently and nods, thinking hard, before an idea seems to pop into her head. Her eyes light up and she stands quickly, saying she’ll be right back. She exits the room in a hurry and you’re left sitting there, completely dumbfounded. 

She returns a few minutes later with a small glass bottle, filled with a strange liquid. She pushes the bottle into your hands and you take it, examining it curiously. 

“What is it?”

“It’s this incredible medicine the Doctor bought for me at an alien market. It doesn’t heal you instantly, but it speeds up the recovery process a lot. I had forgotten about it until now. I once broke my wrist during one of our trips. I drank a bit of this and I was completely healed in a week! It was amazing!” she grins with excitement, clearly wanting you to give it a try as well. 

“How much do I need to drink?”

“Just a small sip will do,” 

You unscrew the lid and sniff the contents. It smells surprisingly fruity. 

You glance at Amy, who is still smiling encouragingly, before taking a small swig. It’s sweet, with just a hint of bitterness at the end. It’s not bad, for a supposed medicine. 

Almost instantly, you feel some of the tension melt away. You still have some pain, but it seems a bit duller than before. You also notice how much more relaxed you feel. 

“Wow, I feel…” 

“Really chill, right?”

“Yeah, super chill,”

“That’s one of the side effects. It makes you relaxed. Also, some people have good dreams as well. I thought it’d be worth a shot,” 

“Thank you,” 

“Of course! Anything for a friend,” 

A warm feeling builds in your chest. You’re not sure if it’s the medicine or just knowing that you have a friend as amazing as Amy, but it feels almost euphoric. 

You smile at her and she returns the gesture, before suddenly, you feel very sleepy. Amy seems to notice and gently takes the bottle from your hands, says goodnight, and leaves the room, just as you fall into a pleasant dream. 

***

You wake feeling happy and refreshed. You’re not nearly as sore as you were last night and your thoughts are in a much better place. In fact, you don’t feel any pain at all. You make a mental reminder to thank Amy again when you see her. 

You get up without any hindrance, a huge smile on your face. Throwing on a light sweater, you make your way down to the console room. There is a definite pep in your step, so much so, that you’re almost skipping. You feel incredible! 

“Good morning!” you exclaim, greeting both the Doctor and Amy, your smile still ever present. 

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Amy says, walking over to you. The Doctor gives you a passing side glance but remains silent. 

“Yeah, that medicine you gave me is wonderful! I feel completely fine! No more soreness or pain anywhere,” you bounce happily before the Doctor is suddenly in front of you. 

“May I?” he asks, reaching out for the bandage on your neck. You are slightly surprised at his abrupt appearance, but you nod your head in confirmation. He avoids your gaze, instead choosing to focus intently on studying your neck. 

He tenderly removes the bandage and examines the area, his eyes widening in shock. He moves back slightly before coming closer and running his fingers gently along where your wound was. You shiver involuntarily at his touch, causing the Doctor to briefly meet your eyes. He looks away just as quickly and steps back, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“You’re healed. Completely. No trace of the wound at all,” he makes his way back to the console and continues working on whatever it is he was working on when you entered the room. 

“What? But how is that possible? I mean, I know the medicine I gave them is powerful, but there’s no way they could’ve healed that fast,” Amy is astonished (as are you) but the Doctor seems mostly unfazed. 

“I don’t know. I’m guessing it has something to do with their extraordinary abilities,” he turns to look at you as he continues with,

“You keep finding new ways to surprise me,” his expression is almost melancholic, but he looks away before you can get a good read on him. 

The next few days pass rather uneventfully. The Doctor monitors your condition and you spend time with Amy, reading, talking, and drinking lots of tea. 

You’ve just finished having a ‘tea talk’ moment with Amy, when the Doctor calls out your name, beckoning you to the console room. As soon as you enter, he starts rambling like mad, still refusing to look you in the eye. 

“And so basically, I think I’ve created a way to keep you off the radar,” you really weren’t listening to anything he said, but his last line catches your attention. 

“Off the radar?” you repeat and the Doctor nods his head, grabbing something from the console and making his way over to you. 

“Yes. I still don’t fully understand your powers, but I think I’ve learned enough to create a dampener of sorts that will prevent other ‘interested parties’ from tracking you down,” he looks up at you for a brief moment while simultaneously reaching for your hand, as if silently asking for permission. You nod in approval and he delicately slips a silver band on your ring finger. 

“Oh,” is all you can say, heat rising to your cheeks at the implications of him putting a ring on your finger. 

“And I’m sure now,” he continues, meeting your gaze, “I’m in love with you,” his words make you draw in a sharp breath. You’re certain your face is as red as a tomato at this point. 

“Oh,” 

Is that really all your brain can muster up? He just confessed his love for you and all you can say is ‘Oh’? You want to smack yourself. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, seeming to sense your shock. “I don’t expect you to return my feelings, I just wanted you to know,”

You simply nod your head, not trusting your own voice. The Doctor gives you a small smile before returning to the console to work on… whatever it is he does at the console. 

For a moment, you’re frozen in place, unsure what to do next. Bless the stars that Amy decides to make an appearance at this very moment. 

“So,” she says, as soon as she walks in, “where are we going next?” 

***

For the next three weeks, you train intensely to hone and manage your powers. The Doctor works with you to make a specialized training routine and it’s actually helping a lot. You have a lot more control than you did when you started. Now, you can do almost anything with ease. You’ve even traveled in time on your own and navigated your way back safely. 

You’ve also discovered a number of other things you can do, from teleportation to creating new matter from nothing. You can even manipulate objects with your mind. On top of all that, you have a ridiculous amount of stamina and you’ve become extremely agile, strong, and incredibly fast. You’ve discovered that you can lift up to 230kg and run up to 96 kph. Basically, you can do just about anything. If you can think of it, you can probably do it. 

It’s another full day of training, this time back on Earth, and things are going well. To be honest, you really don’t need to do any more, but you like the routine and the way it distracts your mind. 

“997, 998, 999, 1000!” you finish the last push up and collapse onto the ground, feeling accomplished, yet hardly tired. You’ve barely broken a sweat. 

“Wow, you broke your time record too. 1000 pushups in 30 minutes. Good job!” Amy congratulates you as she hands you a water bottle. 

“Where’s the Doctor?” you ask, before taking a long drink.

“He went to get snacks. He should be back any-” Amy is cut off by the sound of an explosion nearby. The ground shakes, causing both of you to momentarily lose your balance. You share a look with her for only a moment before you take off running, telling her to stay put. 

You round the corner just in time to see the Doctor being forcefully taken away by some strange looking creatures. He struggles in their hold, trying to assure them that it’s all just a big misunderstanding, but they pay him no mind. You hide behind a nearby wall, watching as they load him into the back of what looks like a military truck, with a dull green canopy stretched over the trailer. 

You close your eyes and imagine all four tires popping, all the air quickly being sucked out of them. Not even a second later, you hear the sound of rubber bursting and you open your eyes to see that your manifestation was successful. You smirk as you watch the aliens scramble to figure out what happened, using the opportunity to sneak over to the back of the truck. 

Just as you are about to look inside, the Doctor pops his head out. You both shriek in surprise before shushing each other. You stare at one another for a moment before suddenly bursting out in quiet laughter, giggling in glee as you make your escape. 

You are able to find your way back to the field undetected, and you all decide to call it a day. You head back to the TARDIS, ready to kick your feet up and relax. 

“Well, I’m gonna go catch some Z’s,” Amy says and yawns. You say goodnight and she retreats to her room, leaving you and the Doctor alone in the console room. 

The two of you sit in heavy silence for a long while. You haven’t really been alone with him at all since… well, since he put that ring on your finger. 

Your emotions have been all over the place since then and you’ve thrown yourself into training to avoid thinking about it. Honestly, you think you feel the same, and that terrifies you. You’ve never really been in love. Not like this, at least. This love is overwhelming and all consuming. It’s almost too much to bear. 

“You alright, love?” the Doctor’s voice breaks you out of your trance and you jump slightly at his close proximity. He is standing right in front of you. When did that happen? 

“Uh, yeah, yeah I’m fine,” you try to brush him off, but he doesn’t move away. 

“You sure? Because you seem on edge lately. I’m worried about you,” he reaches out to gently caress your face. Without even thinking, you lean into his touch, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. 

You meet his eyes and suddenly, something comes over you. You reach out, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him down into a passionate kiss. He seems a bit surprised at first, but quickly melts into you. 

By the time you pull away, you’re both gasping for air. Neither of you says anything for a while, simply enjoying each other’s warmth. Finally, the Doctor breaks the silence. 

“Where did that come from?” he asks, still slightly out of breath. 

You struggle for a moment to find the right words, simply gazing at him in awe. 

“I- I think- no- I know that,” you start, stumbling over yourself. You pause and take a deep breath before blurting out:

“I love you,” 

The Doctor just stares at you like a deer in headlights before a smile slowly spreads on his face. 

“Do you mean it?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. 

“Yes,” you whisper back, and this time it’s his turn to capture you in a kiss. 

The two of you kiss for what feels like an eternity, before he finally pulls away to look at you. 

“Say it again,” he says softly, and you instantly know what he means. Even still, you want to tease him a little. 

“It again,” you smile and stick your tongue out at him, causing a small laugh to bubble up in his chest. 

“No, you know what I mean,” he lightly pinches your sides and you giggle, deciding that you like this game. 

“You say it first,” you swear you see a blush rise to his face, but his smile never falters. 

“I love you,” he says it with ease and you feel your heart soar. You resolve to let him get what he wants, just this once. 

“I love you, too,” you say and his smile grows, shining as bright as the sun. 

You and the Doctor. Your Doctor. Forever and always.

< Previous Part

[thatslikely]

Fred Weasley’s Day Off (Part 1) - F.W.

Fred Weasley’s Day Off- Fred Weasley x Gender Neutral!Reader [Ferris Bueller’s Day Off AU]

Warnings: only occasional mild language

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: this is Part 1 of my new 5 part series, Fred Weasley’s Day Off! You can find the series masterlist here. This part is going pretty similar to the movie, but as the story unfolds, I promise it isn’t a carbon copy of John Hughe’s masterpiece. Hope you guys enjoy :)

Just a reminder: Y/N is Your Name, Y/L/N is Your Last Name, and thoughts are in italics.

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @anchoeritic @probably-peeves @horrorxweasley @weasleywh0r3s​

if you want to be added to be added to my general (or this series!)’s taglist, send me a dm or ask!

If you haven’t seen Ferris Bueller’s Day off or just need a refresher, HERE all all the scenes included in this part in chronilogical order! I HIGHLY reccomend giving these a watch, for they make the situations a lot easier to understand (and they’re hilarious).

----

It’s a beautiful day today, temperatures in the upper 70’s. You can expect plenty of sun and not a cloud in sight. Right now, it’s 75 at lakefront, 74 at Midway, 73 at the O’hare.

“Arthur!” Molly Weasley screeched, beckoning her husband to Fred and George’s messy bedroom. The walls were plastered with large posters of their favorite bands and sports teams (mainly Fred’s), and an expensive computer sat on the desk in the corner. The door to the room was ajar, a frantic mother feeling a haggard Fred Weasley’s forehead.

“What's the matter?” Arthur asked, briefcase in hand.

“It’s Fred, for Merlin’s sake look at him!”

Fred laid slumped under the hand-knitted quilt like a corpse, his hair tousled and his chin unshaved. She continued, “he doesn’t have a fever, but his stomach hurts and he’s seeing spots!” Fred peeled his pained, umber eyes open, his weak gaze pointed to his suit-clad father.

A sympathetic Arthur reached for Fred’s cold and clammy hands, feeling them with a shudder. He’s got a bad cold, he thought, poor boy needs to stay home and rest.

“I’m fine, I’ll get up. I have a test today.” Fred leaned up slightly, his stuffy nose attempting to breathe. His baggy eyes drifted around the room, glazing the empty bed parallel to his’. “No!” Molly and Arthur Weasley stated firmly in unison, pressing his aching chest into the soft bed.

“I have to take it. I-I wanna go to a good college, so I can have a fruitful life.” Fred kept attempting to get out of bed, only for Molly’s gentle hands to guide him back down.

“Oh fine, what’s this? What’s his problem?” Ron leaned against the untidy bedroom’s door frame, his arms crossed, his face donning an unamused expression tinged with jealousy. He was looking daggers into Fred, who reciprocated nothing but a wink.

“He doesn’t feel well,” Molly stated, not pleased in the slightest with Ron’s distasteful demeanor.

“Yeah, right,” Ron rebutted with a scowl. The tips of Ron’s ears seared with resentment for his brother and anger at his naive and biased parents.

“Ronnie? Is that you?” Fred asked, his blurry vision making the outline of his brother near indistinguishable from the rest of his room. “Ronnie? I can’t see that far.” Fred leaned up in an attempt to see his brother, before falling backward with a dramatic moan.

“Dry that one out, you could fertilize the garden,” the younger ginger spat, tapping his toe furiously.

“Ronald, you get to school!” Molly demanded, vehemently gesturing for him to leave.

“You’re letting him stay home? If I was bleeding out my eyes you’d still make me go to school! This is so unfair.” Jealousy oozed from Ron’s clenched jaw like venom.

“Ron, please don’t be upset with me. You have your health, be thankful,” Fred said coolly. His eyes remained glinted with mischief, causing a furious Ron to storm off in a huff.

The concerned mother and father turned back to a wheezing Fred. Molly tucked him in tighter, cooing, “Now listen, I’ll be showing that new family some houses today, so I’ll be in the area. The office will know just where to find me if you need anything, okay?” A wave of gratefulness swept over Fred’s face.

“It’s nice to know I have such loving, caring parents. You’re both very special people.” Molly caressed Fred’s ashen cheek before planting a compassionate kiss on his warm forehead.

“G’bye champ,” Arthur said to his son before carefully shutting his door and walking to the garage.

They bought it.

Incredible. One of the worst performances of my career, and they never doubted it for a second. Fred peeled back the curtains blocking the beautiful view from his large windows with a smirk. He looked out the panes, admiring the gorgeous weather. How could I be expected to go to school on a day like this?

This is my ninth sick day this semester; it’s getting pretty tough coming up with new illnesses. If I go for ten, I’ll have to barf up a lung, so I’d better make this one count. Fred carefully adjusted his extortionate stereo, his fail-proof plan slowly piecing together.

Fred then stepped over to his desk, reaching for an old, hefty soccer trophy of his and some rope. The key to faking out the parents is the clammy hands. He started knotting the rope around the shiny golden award methodically. A lot of people’ll tell you to go for the old ‘phony fever’, but if you’ve got a nervous mother, you could wind up in the doctor's office. That’s worse than school.

“It’s a little childish and stupid, but then, so is high school.”

He scrupulously placed the trophy contraption behind his door with a satisfied nod, proceeding to the bathroom dressed in his grey and maroon striped bathrobe. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Fred undressed and stepped into the steamy shower, quickly shampoo-ing his ginger mop into a spiky mohawk. He gave some thought about his plans for the leisurely day before removing the showerhead, gripping it like a microphone, serenading an imaginary audience, “I recall Central Park in fall. How you tore your dress, what a mess, I must confess…”

----

“Spinnet?” A greasy Mr. Snape drawled, spectacled eyes darting around the dingy classroom, illuminated with corporate fluorescent lights. “Spinnet?”

“Here!”

“Smith?” Silence. “Smith?”

“Present.”

“Weasley?” Snape asked, scanning the room for any signs of the irresponsible redhead.

“Weasley?” he repeated, uninterested and monotone. “Weasley?”

“Um, he’s sick,” a perky Cho Chang cut through the tense silence with a smile, “my best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend heard from this guy, who knows this kid who saw Fred pass out at Florean’s last night! I guess it’s pretty serious.”

“Thank you, Cho,” Snape said impassively.

“No problem, whatsoever!”

----

A robotic ring emitted from the phone next to Lee Jordan’s bed, disturbing the perturbed ambiance of the inert bedroom. The hypochondriac occupying the sheets clicked the silver ‘answer’ button with a shallow sigh.

“Hello?” George Weasley asked, his voice deep and groggy.

“Georgie, babe, what’s happening?” Fred’s exuberant voice questioned from the other end of the line, starkly contrasting his twin’s nonbelligerent energy.

“Very little,” he responded in a trance-like state, eyes spacing out at the blank ceiling, his mind nearly detached from his aching body.

“How do you feel?”

“Shredded.” Half-empty pill bottles and antihypertensive drugs lined the bleak nightstand to his left.

“Get dressed and come on back home. I’m taking the day off,” Fred imposed. He sat in a lounge chair, next to the turquoise pool, soaking in the bright morning sun, which starkly contrasted George’s dark atmosphere. He held a Brick to his ear, sipping an iced Hawaiian drink from a swirly straw. The only thing covering his body was a pair of floral swim trunks; plastic sunglasses rested in the ginger nest atop his head.

“I can’t stupid, I’m sick. I think I got food poisoning from Lee’s awful cooking.”

“It’s all in your head, George, come back home,” Fred said more firmly, taking another sip of the fruity drink in the souvenir cup.  

“I feel like complete shit, Fred. I can’t go anywhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Now come on over here so I can have a fun day off!” Fred demanded, hanging up the phone promptly. “Sheesh.”

George remained stiffly on the sheets, still as a statue, muttering, “I’m dying.” The phone chimed again with another call. Click.

“You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do!” Fred’s voice echoed through the dimly-lit room before the tone of an ended call took its place.

“Pardon my French,” said Fred to no one in particular, “but George is so tight, that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks, you’d have a diamond.”

Fred quickly abandoned the pool deck, instead continuing random antics around the vacant house, whether it was (horribly) playing his centuries-old clarinet, or prank calling gullible freshmen claiming he had an impending kidney transplant. This was the life.

“I’m so disappointed in George. Twenty bucks says he’s sitting in his car debating whether or not he should go out.”

Fred had hit the nail on the head. George sat in his four-wheeled hunk of junk for minutes, muttering to himself, “He’ll keep calling me. He’ll keep calling me until I go home. He’ll make me feel guilty. This is ridiculous! Okay, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go.” He turned the key of the run-down car, only for the engine to cough and heave. “Goddamn it!”

----

“Molly Weasley,” Molly introduced herself to the caller from her desk at the local real estate office. She held the landline phone in one hand, the other scratching numerals and figures onto some spreadsheets.

“This is Dolores J. Umbridge, Dean of Students. Are you aware that Fred is not at school today, Miss Weasley?” she asked punctually, her voice laced with irritation.

“Yes, I am. Poor Fred is home sick.”

“Are you also aware that Fred does not have what we consider an exemplary attendance record? He has missed an unacceptable number of school days.” Umbridge looked icy and collected on the outside, but deep down she was fuming with anger. “I have no reservation whatsoever about holding him back another year.”

“This is all news to me,” Molly replied, taken aback by Umbridge’s blunt threats.

“It usually is.” Dolores turned her attention to the hunky computer opposite her, ready with Fred’s academic profile, scanning the pixels signifying his number of absent days. When she finally opened her jaw to announce the number to Mrs. Weasley with a devious grin, she was horrified to see the number of days slowly ticking down to two.

“I asked for a car, I got a computer,” Fred said with an unamused but smug smirk as he typed lines of code into his computer back at the Weasley household, “how’s that for being born under a bad sign?”

“I can appreciate how this time of year, children are prone to taking the day off. However, in Fred’s case, I can assure you, he’s a very sick boy.” And with that, Dolores hung up on a sympathetic Molly, her tight brunette curls gradually frizzing from aggravation.

“I don’t trust this… Fred Weasley,” Umbridge confided to her secretary, Augustus Filch. “What’s so dangerous about a character like Fred is that he gives good students bad ideas. The last thing I need is fifteen-hundred Fred Weasley disciples running around these halls. He jeopardizes my ability to effectively govern this student body.”

“Well, he makes you look like a bitch is what he does, Dolores,” Filch said with a smirk.

“You’re wrong,” Dolores asserted, fiery gaze piercing through Filch’s soul.

“Well, he is very popular. The sportos and motorheads, geeks, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adore him. They think he’s some righteous dude,” Filch said astutely.

“That is why I’ve got to catch him this time. Show these kids that you can’t just skip school nine times a semester like he has and get away with it!”

----

Mr. Binns, a prehistoric-looking man with novel-thick glasses, stood at the head of the classroom, giving his usual dull lecture. While he etched utter nonsense onto the chalkboard, you couldn’t help but release a bone-cracking yawn.

After years of sitting in your uncomfortable plastic chair, drowning out Mr. Binn’s boring babble, your saving grace arrived in the form of a grave Nurse Pomfrey.

You quickly slipped on your pale, leather jacket and stuffed your blank notebook into your backpack at the sight of the frail woman donning white scrubs like a dove, eager to escape class. Nurse Pomfrey had on a solemn face as she quickly whispered something into Mr. Binns’ ear before announcing to the uninterested class, “Y/N, Y/L/N, may I have a word with you?” You painted a look of surprise on your face before stepping into the hallway with the disturbed grey-haired woman.

“My dear, I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad tidings,” she said sorrowfully once out of the earshot of the small lecture hall, “your father called. Your grandmother has just passed.”

Your eyes welled with artificial tears, face drenched with heartbreak.

----

The landline echoed through Umbridge’s dreary, pale pink office.

“Dolores Umbridge,” she said pseudo-cheerfully into the handset held by her thulian claws.

“This is Phil Y/L/N,” a middle-aged man said, his voice slathered with a thick Chicago accent.

“How are you today, sir?” Dolores asked suspiciously.

“Well, today we’ve had a bit of bad luck. It’s been a tough morning,” he croaked, “now if you wouldn’t mind excusing Y/N, we have a lot of family business to attend to.”

“I’d be happy to, just produce a corpse and I’ll release Y/N. I want to see this ‘dead grandmother’ firsthand.” She peeled the phone away from her face, smiling valiantly at a mortified Filch, saying slyly, “It’s okay, it’s Fred Weasley. I’m setting a trap for him.”

“Dolores, I’m sorry, did you say you wanted to see a body?” an ill-tempered Mr. Y/L/N questioned in disbelief through the speaker.

“Yes. Just roll her old bones up here and I’ll gladly retrieve Y/N for you. That’s school policy.” Dolores looked so pleased with herself, a devilish smirk resting on her lips. The telephone in Filch’s office chimed, and he quickly dashed to answer it.

“Hello, Dolores Umbridge, Dean of Students’ office,” his gravelly voice answered.

“Hi. This is Fred Weasley. Can I speak to Miss Umbridge, please?” Filch’s mouth went desert-dry in horror, his aged, grey eyes bulging out of his skull. He dashed to a taunting Umbridge, jumping and waving for her to shut up.

“I’ll tell you what, if you don’t like my policies, you can come down here and kiss my-”

“Fred Weasley’s on line two, Dolores!” Umbridge’s eyes went as wide as saucers; her whole face, even her bright fuchsia lipstick, turned as white as a sheet.

She was quick to switch to line two, listening to Fred Weasley’s voice which filled the otherwise silent room.

“Miss Umbridge, I’m not feeling too well today,” Fred started, a smug and valiant grin on his face. He adjusted his clean and gelled hair, which perfectly complemented the perfectly-tailored suit he donned. “Would it be possible for Ron to bring home any assignments from my classes? Have a nice day.”

The only sound left in the office was the droning disconnect tone.

The ‘line one’ buttoned flashed bright red like a siren. With a shaky, wrinkled pointer finger painted with a coat of magenta nail polish, she hesitantly pressed the button, sucking in a breath.

“Mr. Y/L/N, I-I think I owe you an apology,” she said, mortified.

“I should say you do!” the deep voice on the other line boomed. Umbridge peeled open her lips for an apology, only to be cut off with, “Well I think you should be sorry for Merlin’s sake! A family member dies, and you insult me! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“W-well I really don’t know. I didn’t think I was talking to you, I thought you were someone else,” Umbridge barely managed to spit out. “You know I would never deliberately insult you like that!”

“Find out where she is!” Umbridge hissed to an idle but nervous Filch, her palm covering the phone’s mouthpiece. He promptly scrambled around the surrounding metal filing cabinets, reaching for various binders and manilla folders.

“This isn’t over yet, do you read me?” The infuriated voice’s threat yelled into the frantic principal’s ear.

“Loud and clear, Mr. Y/L/N!” she responded while scouring the various sets of drawers for Y/N’s schedule.

“Call me sir, goddammit!”

“Yes sir!”

----

“That’s better. Mind your P’s and Q’s buster, and remember who you’re dealing with!” an exasperated George Weasley shouted into the kitchen’s phone, his voice at least an octave lower than usual. His look of fury was soon replaced with a smile from ear to ear, quite proud of the convincing-ness of his impression.  

A dashing, suit-clad Fred Weasley soon strutted into the lemon-yellow kitchen, charismatically introducing himself, “Weasley, Fred Weasley.”

George held his palm over the mouthpiece of the phone, asking, “I’m scared. What if she recognizes my voice?”

“Impossible. You’re doing great.”  

The self-conscious redhead brought the phone back to his ear, shouting “Umbridge!” furiously. Groaning echoed from the other end of the line. “Umbridge, calm down!”  

“I don’t have all day to bark at you, so I’ll make this short, and sweet. I want my child outside of the school in ten minutes by themself!”

Fred gave George a harsh tap on his shoulder, hissing, “That’s too suspicious! She’ll think something’s up!”

“You do it then!” the other twin whispered back.

“Talk.”

“You!”

“Talk.”

“Fine!” he fizzled. “Umbridge! Pay Attention!” The magenta-suited principal was scuttering around her office, frantically searching for your schedule and something to repair the escalating situation.

“Umbridge! Changed my mind. I want you out there with them, I’d like to have a few words with you!” Fred swiftly slapped the phone from George’s clutches, causing it to fall on the tile carelessly. The identical gingers both scrambled for the phone, ending up in George’s grasp once again.

He yelled to the mouthpiece rapidly, “On second thought, we don’t have time to talk right now! We’ll get together soon and have lunch!”

Fred kicked George’s rear hard, causing a small yelp to escape George’s lips. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he spat at Fred, who quickly slammed the phone back to the base.

“Where’s your brain?” he harshly asked his irritated brother.

“Why’d you kick me?” George retorted, hurt.

“Where’s your brain?”

“Why’d you kick me?”

“Where’s your brain?”

“I asked you first!”

“How are we gonna pick up Y/N if Umbitch is out there with them?” Fred rhetorically asked, seething.

“I- I said for them to be alone and you freaked,” George stated, reverting back to his timid tendencies.

“Now, I didn’t… I didn’t hit you. I lightly slapped you.”

“You hit me.” Tension sliceable with a butterknife filled the kitchen.

“Look, don’t ask me to participate in your stupid antics if you don’t like the way I do it. You make me get out of bed. You make me come over here. You made me make a phony phone call to Dolores Umbridge? That woman could expel me, expel us, and then, you deliberately hurt my feelings!”

“No… I didn’t deliberately hurt your feelings,” Fred said, his words tinged with guilt. “What’re you doing?” George grabbed his red hockey jersey and keys that previously laid on the island.

“I’m going back to Lee’s, Fred. I need some rest. Have a nice life.”

“No, no, c’mon. Don’t do that, George,” Fred pleaded ruefully, “George, come back. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. I’m sorry.”

“You serious?”

Fred gave a slow and sincere nod. George swiveled back around, setting his belongings back on the counter, his face lightened slightly.

“Now, to fix the situation, we’re gonna have to do something you’re not going to like.”

----

Fred and George peeled the sliding glass doors of the luxurious garage apart, revealing the interior, which was mainly lined with thousands of dollars worth of vintage car memorabilia, save for the treasured vehicle in the center.

“The 1961 Ford Anglia 105E Deluxe,” George said, his eyes pointed down at the prized pompadour blue car resting idly in front of the duo. Fred's eyes were also fixed on the vehicle, though his’ were illuminated with awe and mischief.

“Dad spent 3 years restoring this car,” he continued, hands behind his back, not daring to leave fingerprints on its shiny surface, “it is his love, it is his passion…”

“It is his fault he didn’t lock the garage,” Fred smirked, sauntering around the exterior of the automobile, slobbering all over the surface like a dog with fresh meat.

“Fred, what are you talking about?” George asked nervously, already knowing what Fred was plotting, “Dad loves this car even more than he loves you!”

“Fred, no.” Fred swiped his fingers over the perfect coat of paint, occasionally posing with the car as if he was a model on the front cover of a magazine.

“Que Bella!” he said with a chef’s kiss, still drooling over the car’s magnificence.

“Remember how insane he went when I snapped my retainer? And that was a tiny piece of plastic!” Fred paid an anxious George no mind, instead continuing his admiration for Arthur’s most valuable possession.

“George, I’m sorry, but we can’t pick up Y/N in that piece of scrap. He’d never believe Mr. Y/L/N would drive something like that!”

“It’s not a piece of scrap.”

Fred opened the driver’s side door, slowly sitting down in the comfortable cushioned seat, his umber eyes never breaking contact with George’s identical ones.

“He knows the mileage, Fred.”

“Look, this is real simple. Whatever miles we put on, we’ll take off.” Fred said, barely giving George the time of day.

“How?”

“We’ll drive home backwards.”

“No,” George said firmly, almost like a mother. Fred turned the key of the Anglia, its restored engine roaring ten times better than George’s hunk of junk’s.

“How about we rent a nice Cadillac, my treat!” He yelled as Fred slowly drove away, the revving of the vintage engine drowning out his voice. George stood frozen in disbelief, before Fred slowly backed up, beckoning George to join him.

With a heavy heart, George warily climbed into the back seat of the vehicle. And with that, Fred floored the gas, speeding off towards the Shermer High.

----

“I had a grandmother once,” Umbridge awkwardly stated, in an attempt to soothe your heart overcome with (fake) grief. “Two, actually.”

The suburbs outside of the Windy City lived up to their name today; Umbridge’s frizzy brown curls swayed in the strong breeze. The temperature today was the best it had been since last Autumn; it was a given that Fred would skip.

You patiently waited on the concrete steps outside the school, Umbridge continuing her “comforting” words, attempting to stitch the wounds caused by your grandmother’s staged death. You weren’t focused on the thulian tyrant, however, instead, your eyes waited on the road for the sight of a ruby-red-haired boy.

“Between grief and nothing, I’d take grief,” Umbridge said flatly.

“Great,” you replied softly, eager to shut the toadish old lady up. She opened her magenta-tinted lips to add something else, but she decided against it, promptly shutting her mouth without a sound escaping.

The stentorian roaring of the engine residing in cerulean Ford Anglia filled the silent air and idle parking lot, lightening your spirits instantly. While you didn’t doubt that Fred would’ve shown up eventually, his timing was impeccable. It didn’t hurt that he showed up in a killer ride, either.

A tall, lanky man drenched in a long beige trench coat, horn-rimmed sunglasses, and a businessman-looking fedora, which masked his fiery orange hair, emerged from the car, leaning against its body.

“Oh Y/N honey, hurry along now,” the stranger in disguise bellowed, his voice slightly higher pitched than ‘Mr. Y/L/N’s’ from the phone, a thickly-slathered Chicago accent present nonetheless.

“I guess that’s my dad.”

You grabbed the annoying principal’s wrinkly, cold hand, reciting, “Miss Umbridge, Dolores. You’re a beautiful woman, I wanna thank you for your warmth and compassion.”

A furious Ron watched from the scene play out from the large front windows of the school, immediately recognizing Fred and his infuriating antics with a scowl. Why should he get to skip while the rest of us have to stay? I’ve gotta catch him.

Umbridge looked near disturbed at your counterfeit words on thankfulness, before you eagerly stepped down to the car, giving ‘Mister Y/L/N’ a quick hug.

“Do you have a kiss for Daddy?” Fred jokingly asked with a smirk.

“Are you kidding?” you replied, leaning into his soft lips for a passionate kiss, which maybe would have escalated a little further if he didn’t drag you in the passenger seat of the Anglia.

“So that's how it is in their family,” Umbridge uttered as she watched the nearly-French kiss perched from her spot at the top of the stairway. She swiftly pivoted around walking to the front entrance to the school, when Fred floored the Ford again, its loud engine roaring off into the distance.

“Hi Georgie, you comfortable?” you asked, eyes towards the crampted back seat.

Once the three of you were out of Umbridge’s eyeline, a compact George sprung up from the lonely backseat, saying, “Hi, Y/N. No.”

“So, what're we gonna do?” you asked the dashingly handsome driver next to you with a smile.

“The question isn’t: What are we going to do? The question is: What aren’t we going to do?”

“Don’t say we’re not going to take the car home. Please don’t say that we’re not going to take the car home,” George mumbled, hopeful that Fred would comply, though he already knew that Fred would be doing the exact opposite.

If you had access to a car like this, Fred mentally narrated, gesturing to the amenities-rich Anglia, would you take it back right away? Me neither.

And with that, Fred recklessly rounded the bendy road, speeding off towards downtown Chicago.

[skellebonez]

Smoke, Flasks, And Unfinished Tasks: Chapter 3

AO3 Link!

Chapter 1 Link!

Chapter 2 Link!

Summary: MK starts to realize things are a bit too familiar right now, an unspoken event is revealed, and someone else realizes other things. There is a lot to unpack.

Warnings: Mild violence and smoking at the tail end.

Chapter 3: Big Words Traveler, But Can You Back Them Up

Something felt... off. That's the only way MK could describe it. Off.

It reminded him of the Calabash when he thought about it, but was it even possible? When Jin and Yin had trapped him in that weird mechanical gourd thing they had tried to make everything perfect, barring those odd earthquakes and the glitches that his mind made excuses for ignoring at the time. Really, they were actually pretty bad at their scheme and he should have picked up on it a lot sooner. This time nothing felt perfect, however, everything felt... mostly normal.

The Monkey King kicked his butt in scheduled training and then lost matches in Monkey Mech and refused to stop until he had best out of 15. Mei and Red Son seemed to be acting like normal. No earthquakes. No glitches.

But his time in the Calabash had made him more observant of his surroundings and his mistake with Macaque had made him less trusting. The fact the weather station called for rain and it had not rained? That was just odd enough to catch his attention when the weather station hadn't messed up a forecast without someone attacking it or really messing something up, something that always got local news alerts sent to their phones and would have had Mei making fun of the poor sap who messed up by now, in the entire time he had a phone.

Something didn’t just feel off. Something was off. And just in case he was right he needed to play his cards carefully. Do something that wouldn’t raise suspicion.

“Hey, Monkey King?” He smiled, knowing that his expression was just fake enough that if the other were real he would call it in an instant. He would raise his eyebrow or ask him what was up or ask him what the look was for. “We have any snacks?”

“Yeah, bud, coming right up!” He just... smiled. Stood. Walked into the kitchen.

This was not The Great Sage Equal To Heaven.

This was not his mentor.

Well... Shit.

----------

“Wait, back up,” Mei turned from where she sat at the boat wheel. “What does that even mean?”

MK had gotten her to stop before they were nearly back to the City, feeling bad they stopped in such a poor spot for Red Son but determined to talk when they were seemingly alone. He’d played along and only grown more certain in his deduction that the person they were with was not the Monkey King. The more he paid attention the more certain he was that they weren’t on Flower Fruit Mountain either.

The mountain always smelled of four things. Flowers, peaches, dirt, and the slightest undertone of molten rock and ash from close by the Flaming Mountains. The more he tried to pick up the normal scents that would hit him they just seemed... muted, somehow. Like smelling them through a mask or like they were artificial. The rock and ash was nowhere to be found at all.

And there was more. He tried so hard to remember how he got to the mountain. Logically he knew they took a boat, they had to do that. There was a boat on the shore. But that was the first thing he remembered seeing. He could not remember the boat ride over, could not remember the walk to where they docked the boat at all, could barely remember anything past leaving Pigsy’s Noodles at all. Gaps in his memory were not an every day occurrence for him (despite Pigsy teasing him about forgetting to do his job, that was not the same thing).

The only things he knew for certain were real were Mei and Red Son. He’d almost let his anxiety get the better of him, memories of summoning monster trees with his stress being the thing that made him focus long enough to test the waters.

He knew that burying his face in their hair and smelling them was weird as hell, even given their close relationship that was pushing it way too far in comfort, but given scent was the most telling sense giving him pause he had to try once Monkey King was distracted. If it had been any other situation Mei and Red Son’s disturbed and confused faces (and the muffled “what the fuck dude” from Mei) would have been hilarious, but when he could clearly smell Mei’s tea tree shampoo mixed in with the ever present scent her bike’s motor oil he was certain she was real. He was almost certain when Red tensed up and flushed when he repeated the action, but the scent of slight burning and his overly expensive coconut oil and jasmine shampoo cemented the fact he was real as well.

He’d make up for making them uncomfortable after all this was over.

“Exactly what I said, that wasn’t Monkey King,” MK repeated, looking over the horizon at the city-scape. Still no rain. No clouds. It was half an hour until sundown. “I don’t... this is going to sound crazy... but I don’t think this is real.”

His companions looked at each other in clear concern and MK knew he would finally have to come clean. “MK, wh-”

“There’s something I never told any of you. Not even Monkey King. Just... promise you’ll listen to me?”

----------

When he finished recounting the long ago misadventure he had in Jin and Yin’s Calabash he couldn’t look Mei and Red Son in their eyes. Despite knowing he probably shouldn’t he felt guilty for keeping something that important a secret.

“Oh MK... That’s why you were so preoccupied with us not being perfect,” Mei said softly, standing to envelop her friend in a sudden hug that barely shook the boat. “I’m sorry for losing my cool with you back then.I should have known something was weird when you said that.”

A shaky breathe MK didn’t know he was holding escaped, grateful that they seemed to believe him immediately.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” MK pulled away, giving Mei an awkward smile. Red Son had moved closer, and he shot him a smile as well when he placed a hand on his shoulder. “I should have told everyone when it happened, I just... I felt..” He trailed off, looking at the rainless city again. “We can unpack that later, right now we need to see if we’re really in another Calabash or if it’s something similar. If it is Jin and Yin again they’ve really stepped up their game.”

“I don’t think so...” Red Son said thoughtfully. He bit the end of his thumb nail, pacing the boat slowly in thought. “They seemed more preoccupied with just... having fun almost, last time. They didn’t seem to have an endgame past ‘capture the Monkie Kid’. What’s the end game? Why capture all three of us?”

“Yeah...” MK sighed, looking around carefully. “I dunno.. come to think of it, it all just feels different. This time it’s a lot closer and that is really scary if I’m being honest,” MK shuddered, not comfortable with how much better it was if he was really correct. “But it isn’t 100% accurate. Everything smells dull and Monkey King wasn’t picking up on things he normally would have.”

“Is that why you smelled o-”

“Unpacking later!”

“Why don’t we do what you did to get out last time?” Red Son interrupted, looking hopeful that he had solved the problem already. “We just have to find your staff.”

“Yeah that... that’s another problem...” MK bit his lip and held his hand up to his ear. The glow that lit from it illuminated the dawning horror on his friend’s faces as the staff materialized in his hand. They both seemed to regret not watching MK train that day when they realized what this meant. “That... may not work this time.”

----------

“You’re bleedin’ delusional!” The demon couldn’t help but groan out, pacing wildly in growing frustration. Before them both was a set of screens, watching the display of the trio’s conversation. The entire room looked like something right out of one of those American spy thrillers they’d seen, computers and monitors hooked up and showing a multitude of views. “I told you, you can’t just throw that many people in at once! It doesn’t matter how improved it is, it messes up, confuses the simulation! And-and you let ‘im keep the bloody staff! He’s-”

“Not getting out any time soon,” the other demon, seated comfortably in the only chair in the room, soothed. Their words were like poisoned honey and the first demon grimaced. How they let themselves be taken in by these words... they would never forgive themselves now, not after all of this. Not after what happened to- “Patience is what you and your brother lacked the first time. They don’t need to believe it, they just need to stay in it. Come now, you need to... relax.”

The first demon, the smaller demon, backed a step away as the seated one sat up straighter. They weren’t fast enough to get away from the clawed hand that gripped their throat, cutting off their air supply and pulling them far too close to the other’s face. No fight was given, they knew what would happen if they tried, and watched anxiously as the seated demon raised their forearm long smoking pipe to their lips to take a long drag on whatever foul concoction they had in it.

“Just rest Yin.” Their open mouth revealed colored smoke, sickeningly sweet and fruity smelling, swirling around inside before they loosened the grip on his throat to blow it directly into his face as he took a hasty breath of oxygen. "Perhaps you'll be more patient after a nice long nap."

The blue demon coughed when the other finally let him go, breathing deeply in the hopes he didn’t inhale as much smoke as he feared he did. As he tipped backward onto the ground he knew that was a fruitless thought. Now he laid on the ground with his head fuzzy and gaze filled with the equally unconscious visage of his elder brother.

The Gold and Silver demons... had really messed up...

[artificialqueens]

Down with the Recipe, Bake from the Heart, 2/10 (Multi) - Juno

Chapter summary: It’s cake week, and the bakers have to deal with a fruity signature, a tangy technical, and a showstopper that should be child’s play. Surely nothing can go wrong. Meanwhile, Aurora is looking forward to cake week, and not just to see Tayce again, and Asttina has an admirer of her own.

A/N: Thank you for your support so far on this fic!! I hope you enjoy the second part of this.

WEEK 2: CAKE WEEK

Aurora knew cakes like the back of her hand.

Cake had been her gateway into baking as a teenager. Whenever she’d had a bad day at school, she could spend a couple of quid at the local Aldi on some filling ingredients, bring them home, find her nan’s flour, and bake them into something beautiful, something that everyone would love. Baking a cake would always be available to her to ground her, and to remind her that pouring positivity into things made them seem light as air.

Arriving for filming the second week was nowhere near as daunting as the first. Biscuit week had been a little bit of a concern for Aurora, whose biscuits tended to crumble as soon as she looked at them, but she forced herself not to think about it any more, pushing it to the past where it belonged. She came in now, her cake recipes in her head and on her paper, feeling better than she had all of last week.

I survived biscuit week. But I can really excel in cake week! This is exactly what I know. I can make a Vicky sponge in my sleep with one hand behind my back and a sleep paralysis demon on my chest. It’s mine to win.

As Pip had gone home at the end of the last episode, Aurora’s side of the desks had all been shuffled up by one person to account for that. Her side of the room now had Asttina at the front, then Ginny, Lawrence, Ellie, and finally Aurora on the fifth bench instead of the back.

Instead of being opposite Tayce, she was opposite Cherry this time. Their side was unchanged - Bimini at the front, then Joe, Tia, Veronica, Cherry, and Tayce at the back. Cherry’s pillar-box red KitchenAid gleamed in the sunlight - it was starting to get sunny again - and Aurora saw that her own was in similar condition, the turquoise colour as bright as if it was the first week again. Good as new.

She managed to calm her breathing, but her fingers still drummed on the workbench, and she couldn’t stop them for more than a few seconds.

I can do this. I can do this.

——

Signature: Fruit Cake

“For your Signatures this week,” Matt began, “the judges would like you to bake a fruit cake. Any fruit is allowed - “

“ - but no vegetables. We can’t have vegetables sneaking into the tent disguised as a fruit.”

“Maybe a tomato.”

“Matt, a tomato is technically a fruit, even if no one wants tomato cake.”

Aurora giggled at Matt and Noel’s back-and-forth, but really, she wanted to get on with her bake. All her baking knowledge felt like it had lodged herself at the very front of her mind, and any slight distraction could let it tumble back down again into the abyss, lost forever - or at least until the baking time was over.

When they finally announced “BAKE!” Aurora dove into her bag to grab her ingredients. Flour, butter, sugar, eggs. Flour, butter, sugar, eggs.

“What are you baking?” Ellie didn’t even last a minute this week before she had turned round to talk to Aurora, but she kind of wished she wouldn’t, from the amount she chatted last week after getting over her initial shyness. Aurora was trying to concentrate; she had to pour her whole focus into this, or it just wouldn’t taste good.

“Apple cake,” she said simply, wondering if Ellie would take the hint.

“Oh. I’m making rhubarb and custard!” Evidently Ellie hadn’t, and Aurora bit her tongue behind her forced smile. “That was my favourite when I was a kid, did you have lots of rhubarb and custard as well? This one time me and my brother …”

“Have you got nothing better to do than prattle on to Aurora?” Lawrence’s voice from the bench in front of them was even louder than Ellie’s, her hands on her hips as she swooped in to save the day, an unconventional Wonder Woman. “She’s trying to bake a cake, and so should you!”

“I am baking a cake -“

Ellie spun back to face Lawrence, and Aurora took the opportunity to make a quick getaway to the tea tent for a break. From her experience being behind Ellie last week, the woman could talk all day, and that wasn’t what Aurora needed, much as she had warmed to her.

By the time she’d poured herself a fresh brew, Ellie and Lawrence were both at Lawrence’s desk, apoplectic with laughter, faces and hands covered in flour, while the cameras had sprinted down to record this golden television moment.

Viewers tune in for baking and get a flour fight. And that’s why the nation loves this show.

——

“I’m gonna have to start again!”

That phrase was starting to sound like a broken record from Tia’s desk, on the other side. The woman might not normally be a disaster in the kitchen, but so far they’d done four challenges, and this was the third time she’d announced she was restarting. Her normally orange KitchenAid was splattered deep purple from the blackberries she’d somehow managed to spray all over the side in an effort to make jam. Some of it had even gone into the cake mixture, and she was running her fingers through her curly hair, turning to Veronica on the bench behind her and laughing dryly.

“What have you done?” Veronica’s tone always softened when Tia talked to her. That was something Aurora had already noticed, and it was … interesting, to say the least.

“Messed up my cake mix,” Tia shook her head, still laughing. “How long do we have left?”

Veronica looked at one of the five timers she’d set up. “An hour, twenty three minutes, and fifteen seconds - fourteen - thirteen -“

“Okay, okay!” Tia waved her hand. “Do you - d’you think I have time?”

“If you’re really precise,” Veronica nodded grimly, “then you should just about do it. You’ve done the jam, you’ve done the icing … you just have to bung the cakes into the freezer straight away so they have enough time to cool.”

“Oh, good.” Tia sighed. “Let’s hope I don’t mess it up again! Thanks, Vee.”

Veronica reserved her quota of smiles for Tia alone, so it seemed, because this smile was the first real one any of them had seen from Veronica. Nervous, pinched, but there it was all the same.

“Yeah,” Aurora called over to them, hoping to join in, “thanks Vee, and can you make it for Tia if she messes up the jam again?”

She’d meant it as a joke, good-natured, to try to brighten the anxiety forming a cloud between the two of them. It had the desired effect on Tia, whose expression slackened into an ironic grin; but Veronica’s face immediately became stony, her eyes surprisingly cold as she glared at Aurora, before turning back to her KitchenAid.

“It’s just a joke -”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t very funny.” Veronica snapped. “It’s not very nice to comment on things like that. Oh great - now I’ve over-weighed the sugar. Thanks, Aurora.”

Aurora opened her mouth to protest - Veronica’s implication felt unfair - but she was taken aback by the sound of gentle, muffled laughter; Tayce was still behind Cherry, a hand over her mouth, giggling to herself.

——

“I was laughing at Veronica! Blaming you for weighing out her own sugar wrong!” Tayce exclaimed as Aurora chewed her nail during the break before Technical.

“Maybe I went too far … maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“She’s just too sensitive.” Tayce flipped her hair behind her back. “Everyone could see you were just joking! Tia saw the funny side, and I bet Veronica’s probably already forgotten it. Forgive and forget, right? It’s just baking! It’s not all that serious!”

“Yeah but …” Aurora trailed off, looking over at the two of them, by the door to the outside, hovering as if trying to decide to go out.

Tayce chuckled. “And Tia’s got a few disasters under her belt, hasn’t she? The wagon wheels last week where all the chocolate melted? Her Signature this week? It’s only week two!”

Aurora opened her mouth, but closed it again.

This is how it all starts. One misunderstood joke, and suddenly I’m an evil bitch.

Cakes were meant to calm her, but suddenly cakes were linked to this show, and now intertwined with making another contestant upset. A golden opportunity to shed her still-lingering hometown reputation as a Bad Girl; scuppered before the end of the second week.

I may as well just get eliminated now.

Aurora broke away from Tayce to go to the table of cakes, where everyone’s was laid out in a row. Ginny and Bimini were standing there, Ginny piling a slice of Tia’s cake - which she’d called “Bananadrama cake” - on top of Bimini’s vegan orange cake, but both turned when Aurora approached.

“Hey!” Bimini said, grabbing her shoulder. “That apple cake you made, with the toffee apples on the top? That looked amazing. If it was vegan I’m sure I’d love it, but Gin said it was good!”

“It was a treat for the taste buds, Aurora, an absolute treat,” Ginny nodded, their eyes crinkling up kindly.

“Congratulations on getting the first Hollywood handshake, Ginny!” Aurora smiled mechanically, but Ginny’s smile spread from ear to ear. “I bet you’re never gonna wash your right hand ever again!”

“Definitely not,” Ginny nodded, holding up their right hand to their face and wiggling their fingers. “Not after I broke the seal on the Hollywood Handshakes, first one of the season! I hope they’re all talking about it on Twitter by now -“

“Will make a change from them talking about your obsession with lemons,” Bimini nudged them, causing Ginny to glare at them with mock disgust.

“Cheeky. My lemon drizzle Signature is a labour of love. You have no idea how long I spent perfecting that recipe, Bimini Bon Appetit.”

“You know what, Gin? I believe you.”

“Is there any of your lemon drizzle left?” Aurora asked.

“Yes! Fancy a sloooice?” Ginny yelled the last word in the same way she’d yelled it when she’d initially presented it to the judges.

“Erm, yeah I do!” Aurora grabbed the knife to cut herself a piece of Ginny’s handshake-worthy lemon drizzle cake, wondering if there was nothing that Ginny wouldn’t put lemon into if given the chance. Bimini stroked Ginny’s bag, putting their plate down.

“I love your bag, where did you manage to find a bag with the non-binary flag colours on it? I kept meaning to ask you last week, I saw it and I immediately went ‘Yes, another enby, the enby gods have smiled down on me’ and I wanted to know where you got that bag so I could get one of my own -“

“Oh, I didn’t buy it, bab, I crocheted it! I couldn’t find one that I liked so I had to make one, and it’s so good for finding other enbies out in the wild, it’s like a code, isn’t it!”

“Yeah definitely - look, if you crochet a lot, would you fancy making me a scarf with enby flag colours? I can pay you or give you bakes or something -“

“Oh Bimini Bab, don’t worry about that - I can do you one for next weekend if you want -“

Aurora decided to leave them to it, looking around the room for someone to talk to. Tayce was with Cherry and Joe again, and Tia and Veronica had been joined by Asttina, the three of them comparing something on their phones. Ellie was nowhere to be seen, which was a shame as Aurora was starting to feel a bond with her more than anyone else in the room.

But is that even real in itself?

That thought persisted, no matter how hard Aurora tried to quash it.

Everything’s just really distorted right now.

The actual filming of the episodes was being done on Saturdays and Sundays, and would be every weekend from now until the end of June, so it meant that they would all go back to their normal daily lives while the weeks were going on; back to work, back to friends and family, back to their routine.

It was as if they left the real world into a fantasy land for two days a week, a frenetic rollercoaster of baking and emotions, pressure and strangers, before being dropped back into the mundane weekday world, a reality where they were forbidden to disclose how they were all doing, or what they were all doing, every weekend.

There were eleven of them left on the competition, and it was only the second weekend of them filming so far. They’d known each other for just over a week, and spent almost three total days in each others’ pockets, surrounded by cameras and production crew and editors. But it was virtually impossible to get to know everyone here, to really know them, hard to read their intentions while filming was happening, because it was such a short but busy time they all had together. Because no matter how much they all smiled, how much they all laughed together - they were all here for one reason, and that was for themselves, to win.

That made the room feel still lonelier to Aurora, even filled with eleven people.

Take Ellie for instance. Ellie was always making conversation, and Aurora hoped they’d bonded; but then again Ellie was a trainee hairdresser, and it was probably part of her job to be able to chat. Tayce, her charming accent and witty smile aside, gave nothing away, and as much as Aurora’s stomach leapt somersaults when she was around her, Tayce was a complete mystery.

Looking around the room at everyone pairing off, the community here was more important than ever. It was a long filming schedule for just ten episodes, and the NDAs they’d all had to sign bound them together, keeping a juicy secret from the outside world.

At the same time, it was surreal.

Every word was emotive. Every sensation was deeper than normal. Every movement was significant …

But until the series aired on Channel 4, everything here was only as tangible as a dream.

——

Technical: 12 Jaffa Cakes

Jaffa Cakes? Fucking Jaffa Cakes?

Sure, Aurora had eaten them for years, but baking them? As far as Aurora was concerned, Jaffa Cakes were just a thing that came in a box, that probably grew on trees. The concept of baking them felt alien.

Focus. Calm.

But the basic instructions from Prue’s recipe might have been in Latin for all Aurora knew. And Aurora sure as hell didn’t know Latin.

She took less time than last week annotating, instead getting to work setting up the bain marie in a saucepan to melt the chocolate, tossing cake ingredients into the KitchenAid as she went, ignoring the crash as Joe’s baking tray went flying onto the next bench, where Ginny was glaring at her as she dramatically rolled her eyes and went to pick it back up.

She looked at the main timer she used. Twenty minutes had gone, which meant she was slightly ahead of her annotated schedule.

So far, so good.

But the issue came when the cake sponges were cooling.

“Aurora!” Ellie’s whisper was frantic as she turned to her bench, the panic in her voice making it impossible to ignore. “I’ll give you a can of my Monster if you tell me which way up these sponges are meant to be!”

As Aurora met her eyes, all memory of what a Jaffa Cake looked like evaporated, fizzing and floating away like steam.

Shit. She’s got a point. Which way up do they go?

She knew that one side was covered in chocolate and the marmalade jelly circles they’d all made, but which side?

“I don’t know, do I!” Aurora sighed, clutching her hair. “God, you just said that and now I can’t remember what a Jaffa Cake looks like and I’ve been eating them from the packets for years!”

“Same here!” Ellie muttered.

Aurora caught sight of Tayce’s head jerking up out of the corner of her eye, curiously watching them both, but she forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand.

“If we do it this way,” Ellie turned one of the sponges she’d made upside down, “there’s less room for the jelly, but the discs fit perfectly, and there’s more room for the chocolate, is that right?”

“Uhm,” Aurora murmured, wracking her brains. “I think - maybe, yeah - you’re right I think …”

Across the room, she saw Cherry, who had already turned hers upside down and was already halfway through putting the chocolate and marmalade jelly on them. Joe, a few rows in front of her, was also turning hers over and over, frowning.

But as Ellie turned her cake again, the right way up, Aurora could practically see a lightbulb light in her head; her eyes widening and her mouth dropping in realisation.

“No! It’s the right way up! Because it’s a flat tray! For the jelly! And the chocolate kind of spreads to the edges, doesn’t it? Like, over the sponge too. Right? Please tell me I’m right, Rory,” Ellie pleaded.

Aurora wasn’t sure what to think. “I’m not sure now. Some people are doing them upside down, and they look …”

“No, I’m sure I’m right,” Ellie nodded, grimly determined suddenly. “Trust me on this. They’re meant to be the right way up.” She nodded again, putting the baking tray and the sponge down again. “Here, have a Monster.”

Aurora frowned as she took it. “Mango Loco?”

“Of course! What else?”

The way Ellie was looking at her, she might have sprouted another head. Aurora opened the can and took a swig, praying to the Monster gods that Ellie wasn’t trying to trick her and that the energy drink would give her the final push.

——

“Thank you!”

Aurora had taken half a step into Carr Hall after the Technical challenge winner’s interview was over, only to be engulfed by Hurricane Ellie, all six feet of her, dragged into a very fluffy pink hug against the fake fur of the jacket she wore.

She shook Ellie off, laughing. “Oh, it’s alright love, you’re the one who figured it out without me, don’t worry - “

“I was so nervous for Technical!” Ellie’s voice was so loud that Aurora winced in discomfort. “I came eleventh last week! And now I’m third! I could cry! But you - God, you came top! Oh god I’m sorry! Congratulations on coming top!”

Aurora couldn’t hold back the grin. She had to admit, she felt pretty smug about coming top in the second Technical challenge, especially having been seventh the previous week. It just showed that she had lots to offer to the show and the judges. Her heart was hammering, although whether that was with elation or electrolytes, she was uncertain.

“Well done, Aurora.” She turned to face Asttina’s cool smile and steady gaze, accepting the handshake she offered. “Your Jaffa Cakes looked amazing. Really nice one. I can’t wait to try one.”

Aurora just returned her smile. Something about Asttina made her lose her tongue, maybe the formal, business-like way she went about her bakes, or her polite, reserved manner of speech. Aurora didn’t feel that she knew much about her yet - not enough to fill in the gaps in her head about Asttina.

“Congratulations, bab,” Ginny sidled up to her next, giving her a grin. Bimini followed them, holding the narrow bottle of limoncello that Ginny had been liberally adding to their lemon drizzle cake earlier, both of them swigging from it.

“Thanks Gin!”

“Nice one, Aurora,” Tia was next, her easy smile matching her eyes as she rubbed Aurora’s shoulder. “Your Signature was so good too, you deserved to get top in Technical this week!”

And Aurora immediately felt another twinge of guilt for her words earlier. Tia radiated sincerity, probably the only person in the room whose whole demeanour was relaxed and genuine. A lump rose in her throat and Aurora found her words stuck at it.

She just nodded, smiling, before she took the opportunity to move out the way to the cake table, wondering if she fancied another slooice of Ginny’s handshake-winning lemon drizzle cake before it was all gone, when she felt long cool fingers at her shoulder and turned to meet Tayce’s brown eyes.

“Good job in Technical today,” she murmured, a smile tugging at her lips.

Tayce’s low voice, and that accent, started off the butterflies in Aurora’s stomach once more, along with a tingling dancing up her spine. Last week it had been a pleasant addition to being here, having such a stunning contestant opposite her, but this week, Aurora found that the nearer Tayce was to her, the less Aurora was able to form coherent words.

“Thanks,” she heard herself say after what seemed like an eternity of a pause.

“Did much better than me. Seventh! Like we switched positions, eh?”

“Seems like it!” Aurora’s face was getting warmer and warmer, and she resumed prayer to the Monster gods that she wasn’t blushing -

“Anyway. Congratulations, A’Whora.”

“A’Whora! Bloody cheek!” Aurora slapped her playfully on the arm, and Tayce smiled as she wandered away, leaving Aurora to join Bimini and Ginny, as they curled up on the sofa together.

“You know who I’m enjoying seeing here every week?” Ginny muttered, dropping their voice to ensure no one else overheard.

“Who?”

“Asttina.” Ginny rested their chin in their hands, elbows on their knees as they gazed wistfully around the room.

Aurora followed their gaze to Asttina, who was chatting to Ellie, a hand on her forearm.

“I don’t really know much about Asttina,” Aurora admitted in a soft voice. “She hasn’t really spoken to me much yet, and she just seems kind of … aloof.”

But Ginny shook their head. “I’ve met her before at charity bakes in Birmingham. She does a lot of these kinds of charity bake offs, you have to put on a certain persona for that - and yeah, maybe she’d brought it to the contest here a bit - but honestly, once you get past that, she’s lovely.”

Asttina was pulling Ellie over to Tia and Veronica on the other side of the room, her smile genuine and her eyes crinkling at the corners, as happy as Aurora had seen her yet.

“Charity bakes? For contests and stuff?” Aurora asked.

“Sometimes. Have you seen her Instagram? I was looking at her page before we even all came to the show, for inspiration for something for my birthday - not that I enjoy getting older but we all enjoy cake! And she made one with some weird flavour combo - can’t remember - and I messaged her about it, and she just came back with it fell to bits after this photo, give it a miss - and I couldn’t stop laughing!”

“What kinds of things does she bake?” Bimini asked.

“All sorts, bab - anything you could ask for and more. But the flavours she was using! Oh my days - the things she’s tried and made work - she’s a genius, I’ll tell you that. She’s gonna go to the end.”

“Yeah,” Bimini murmured, their eyes hooked on Asttina as she crossed the room to the table, looking over the Jaffa Cakes for one to try. “Yeah, hopefully.”

Aurora looked from Asttina to Bimini, their chin cupped in their hand, not tearing their eyes away from Asttina, smiling a soft smile.

“Bimini,” Aurora said, but Bimini didn’t look away.

“Bim!” She nudged them, and Bimini blinked, evidently coming back into the room from cloud nine.

“Yeah - yeah, I know.”

Ginny raised their eyebrows, letting out a low whistle. “Are we gonna have our first Bake Off romance on the cards? Sorry, second? Can’t forget Blu and Cheryl last year.”

“Nah, not likely.” Bimini shook their head. “Not on the show anyway. Too much like hard work, innit, trying to balance getting to ask someone out with baking.”

“So, like, how many of us here are queer?” Aurora asked. “Do you know?”

“No,” Ginny shook their head, “but from what I’ve heard so far, a fair few - I’m pan, you’re a lesbian aren’t you Aurora? I’ve seen your pin - and I know Asttina has the bi flag on her instagram page, Tia and Veronica obviously like women as well -“

“What about Tayce, Gin?” Bimini asked slyly. “I think that’s what Aurora wanted to know.”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Aurora held her hand up, trying to get them off Tayce. “What do you mean, Tia and Veronica obviously like women as well … what have I missed?”

Ginny pursed their lips, and Bimini chuckled.

“Let’s just say they’re getting pretty close.”

——

Showstopper: A children’s dream birthday cake with at least two different sponge flavours and three layers.

Aurora wasn’t going to let anyone stop her today. The Star Baker title and the cake-shaped badge was hers for the winning. Top in Technical, good critiques in Signature - she knew the judges would be talking about her as one of the top bakers in line for Star Baker this week.

She cast her gaze round the room, wondering who else was in line.

Veronica, for sure. She’d come second in Technical for the second week in a row, and her Signature pineapple and coconut cake had been praised. Much as Aurora hated to admit, Veronica was a great baker.

Ginny too, was probably in line for Star Baker, with their Hollywood Handshake from yesterday. They still looked smug, running a hand through their yellow hair and giggling to themselves.

It was probably between the three of them to win.

But as she carried on around the room Aurora’s eyes narrowed pensively as they fell on Ellie, right in front of her. She’d come third in Technical, and the rhubarb and custard cake had … actually had pretty good feedback as well.

Maybe it’s a four-horse race. Ellie’s a bit of a dark horse though.

“Have fun with the bake today,” Prue told them all, the familiar twinkle in her eye as she spoke. “Give us plenty of flavours and let your imaginations run wild. Remember, the bake has to be worth the calories.”

Veronica’s mouth was set in a thin line as she placed all her cake tins and containers in a line, licking her lips as she concentrated on setting all five stopwatches on her bench. Tia, by contrast in front of her, was piling her ingredients onto the workbench, muttering loudly to herself and causing the cameramen to run to her side and film her as she talked nonsense as usual.

It was an uneventful start. But something was bound to happen, and when Cherry passed Aurora’s workbench, she hovered, motioning pointedly with her gaze outside towards the tea tent outside; and Aurora turned off her KitchenAid for a second to follow Cherry over there and grab a mug as if to make tea.

“Joe’s pre-bought her fondant.”

“What?” Aurora put a hand to her mouth.

“I said to her - I was walking past her to get to Bimini’s workbench - and I saw her unrolling it. And I said, just jokingly, did you get that from Tesco’s, and get this - she leaned towards me,” Cherry mimicked Joe’s lean, putting a hand to the side of her mouth, “and she just whispered, ‘M&S’!”

���No!” Aurora’s eyes widened, her head shaking, but Cherry was nodding, licking her lips.

“I - well, I still am speechless!” Cherry’s eyes were alight, her glee as always seemingly awakened by gossip, but Aurora wasn’t sure what she’d do with this information. Was Cherry about to tell the judges? Should she do it instead? Was it any of their business at all?

Cherry didn’t give any clues away when they went back to the tent either, sipping her tea, greeted by the sound of Tia announcing she had to start again. Veronica was running over to see what she’d done now, probably to try to fix it again.

But Aurora had her own issues. The cake mix, still in the KitchenAid, had flattened decidedly while she had been away.

She turned the whisk on, but she could not persuade the mixture to aerate, no matter how hard she whisked.

“Fuck,” she muttered, angry tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “Am I gonna have to do a Tia?”

One more minute. It may still be salvageable, come on cake, come on -

After three more minutes of whisking, Aurora rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and took the bowl off the stand, emptying the mixture into the bin.

“You starting again?” That was Noel’s voice, and a cameraman beside her, and Aurora was temporarily blinded by Noel’s brightly-painted outfit, obviously his own design, bold patterns and neon colours.

“Yeah, gonna have to aren’t I? It went flat.”

“You’ve got this, alright?”

Noel’s smile and tone were light and airy, not really with any substance.

That was how Aurora wanted her cake, not her support.

She closed her eyes, allowed her breathing to settle, then leaned forwards, a lump forming in her throat as she gathered fresh ingredients and set back to work all over again on the cake mixture.

As the whisk was whirring for her second time, she glanced up in awe at Ellie’s which was just coming out of the oven, smelling divine; and over at Veronica’s, already partly formed out of a green grass stand. Aurora blinked back the tears, seeing her chances of becoming Star Baker this week starting to fade away.

She glanced at Tayce.

And although part of Aurora wanted nothing more than to look at Tayce, watch Tayce bake all day, listen to her speak all day, as the tingling feeling ran down her spine … another part of her was infuriated by how relaxed Tayce was, nonplussed by everything around her.

It was difficult to make head or tail of what Tayce was thinking. Right now, she was holding up a layer of cake, and slicing into it with a palette knife, trying to carve a shape; looking up only to grin at Noel as he approached her for some banter for the television.

Aurora wanted to go over and see what she was making, but she didn’t want to have to restart again, so she turned her eyes to the KitchenAid and tried to tune out everyone else in the room.

——

One thing no one had prepared any of the bakers for was that judging for the Showstoppers was terrifying.

Watching it on the telly made it look like everyone was judged in a single minute, and everything was smooth and light and relaxed. In reality, everyone stood there for a good five minutes each at least, feeling all eyes in the room on them from their fellow contestants as well as the judges, and with lifting and carrying times it meant they were all dead on their feet by the end.

Aurora was right at the end of the pack, being in the position she was in - on the right, at the back.

So she had to wait past everyone getting pulled up in order.

Bimini and Asttina, both on the front two rows, both getting good feedback on flavours but mediocre feedback on the aesthetic of their respective cakes. Joe was next, and Cherry’s news turned out to be true, with Joe openly admitting to the judges that her fondant was pre-bought from M&S.

Ellie gave an audible inhale.

“What’s up?” Aurora whispered as loudly as she could.

“You’re not meant to do that!” Ellie whispered back.

Ginny was told that while their lemon cake was delicious, doing a lime-flavoured layer was probably not a wise choice, and she needed to not do lemon every single time. Veronica and Lawrence were both praised, even though they’d made similar cakes in the shape of train sets, the second time they’d done a similar design to each other.

Ellie’s hand shook where it rested on Aurora’s workbench, as she stared glassy-eyed outside the clear panel of the tent. And even though Aurora tried to remind herself that this show was full of people who just wanted to win a competition, seeing Ellie’s fear made her chest ache. Aurora reached forward to rest a hand atop hers, and Ellie blinked, swallowing, still staring straight ahead.

“You’ll do great,” she whispered, and Ellie nodded stiffly, her hand quivering in Aurora’s.

Tia’s cake was next. The game of Operation which was starting to crumble and fall apart as Matt Lucas helped her to carry it to the table, was called the best lemon and poppy seed cake Prue had ever had.

When Ellie was called after that, and Aurora got a better look at her cake, she didn’t know why Ellie was worrying; she’d made a beautiful and intricate pink castle, complete with towers, detailed brick patterns, and a little portcullis; but when she got it to the judges table, the judges were sniggering quietly behind her.

“Me and my brother, we always had just one plain cake between us on our birthday, nothing to make it that personal for either of us, that way it was fair,” Ellie explained, cupping her elbows in her hands. “But if I’d not been a twin, this would have been my dream cake. A huge pink castle.”

Cherry’s eyes widened from the other side of the room, clapping a hand to her mouth; and Aurora finally spotted it. The pink towers with the purple rooftops, standing out from the rest of the cake …

They look a bit … questionable, Aurora thought.

By now everyone was sniggering to themselves, apart from Lawrence, whose face was in her hands; when she raised her head, Aurora could see she was trying not to laugh too.

Aurora chanced a glance at Tayce, finding that she wasn’t laughing much either, a cool indifference behind her eyes. But she wasn’t looking at Ellie. She was looking straight at Aurora herself, before turning her eyes away back to the front.

Tayce’s turn had come, and Tayce had presented the owl she’d made to be told that her bake was good, but her design wasn’t up to parr. And Aurora’s judging was as expected - she was praised on her buttercream, but she hadn’t left the sponges in long enough, worrying she was running short on time; so she’d removed them early to cool; and they’d come out a bit dense as a result.

That’s probably cost me the Star Baker badge. But I probably won’t be going home at least.

It was disappointing. Cakes were her forte, cakes were what she knew best.

But it doesn’t mean I’m a bad baker, she said firmly to herself. I just had a less-than-perfect bake. I am not my art.

She breathed out her worries, knowing there was nothing more she could do now that judging was over, and left the tent with the others to the outside area, where the chairs had been set up. It was still sunny, although clouds were drifting over and the early evening chill was starting to pinch in the air.

Aurora flopped down on the seat next to Tayce, sighing heavily.

“Mine was alright, I think,” she said, “and Paul loved my Italian meringue buttercream.”

Tayce nodded, but her expression remained the same; staring towards the tent, her eyes distant and pensive.

“I can’t believe that Joe actually told the judges that she’d bought the fondant from M&S! Do you think that’s true? If so - I mean, she won’t be staying until next week if she’s done that, will she?”

Tayce carried on nodding, her face flat, the distance between them growing with every second that passed.

Aurora sighed. “I don’t think I’ll get Star Baker this week though, even though I came top in Technical. They all loved Ellie’s cake, didn’t they?”

That was the first motion Aurora saw; Tayce’s jaw tensed for a split second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction as she continued her slow, rhythmic nodding.

“That cake was something else,” Aurora said dreamily, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“Maybe you should talk to her about it, then.”

With that low, cool sentence, Tayce stood up and made her way towards Carr Hall, not even turning around to see Aurora’s confused expression growing more so with every step she took.

—-

Inside, the tent was still stiflingly hot as Noel announced Ellie as the shock winner. Ellie put her hands to her face, while Asttina, sitting on her right, wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her towards her for a gracious cuddle.

Matt had to announce the person leaving, but no one was surprised that Joe’s name was called, not even Joe herself. She stood from her position between Ginny and Bimini, both of them clutching one of her hands each, and gave her infamous cackle, blowing them all a kiss and leaving the tent behind to go to her exit interview.

“Well done, Els,” Aurora murmured, as Ellie bent down to hug her, wiping tears away from the corners of her eyes with her thumbs.

Over her shoulder, Aurora caught Tayce staring at her for a split second before she turned away, following Joe out of the tent, presumably back to Carr Hall to collect her things for the week ahead.

Those same thoughts from the previous day were running circles in her mind. She only saw Tayce at weekends, in a very enclosed environment, and although last week they’d exchanged some kind words, and Tayce had held her hand, did it mean they were bonding?

Ellie let Aurora go, moving to hug someone else, but Aurora carried on looking at the exit, trying to decipher what had made Tayce turn cool this week.

Her hand in Aurora’s had been more welcome than Aurora had expected last week, a faint thrill up her spine as she remembered it. But this week they’d barely spoken, and Aurora struggled to figure out why; until she heard Ellie’s laughter as she hugged Lawrence, who tilted her chin up to rest on her shoulder, pouring words of affirmation into Ellie’s ear.

Is - is Tayce really that annoyed? Because she didn’t win?

——

TEN BAKERS REMAIN

[clumsyclifford]

bella i’m just SAYING if you felt like writing boyfriend jalex in LA like they are rn why are they there just vibing together why is alex there i’m hella emo just saying i wouldn’t be MAD about it 😘

well PAIGE you may have been ONTO something here. alex is in LA because he loves his boy next question

read it here on ao3

-

Death By Hug is not a bad way to go, Jack thinks. It certainly beats Death By Loneliness.

The longer he and Alex stand here, the more Jack wonders if they really are going to die here, holding onto each other like Alex is a soldier returning from war and Jack is his lover who's been writing constantly to the front lines. Or something. It's also possible Jack has watched too many war movies lately.

"We gotta move," Alex finally mumbles. They’re at the gate and people are stepping around them.

"We don't have to."

"Well, I can't kiss you with a mask on."

That is a very good point. Jack squeezes Alex one last time and finally steps back.

Los Angeles looks good on Alex.

-

Supposedly, Alex is here to write. It's not like that's a lie; they are going to take advantage of Alex's presence and log as many studio hours as possible, but that still leaves a lot of early mornings and late nights unaccounted for. Well. For Jack it does. He knows Alex has been dying to get back in the studio, to put words to music in a way that sounds less like a kid messing around on his dad's guitar and more like a professional musician making demos. But if Jack has to pull Alex from the studio by force, he will. 

He will do his best. He is definitely not stronger than Alex but he will try.

For now, though, they have the evening to themselves.

Even with a suitcase, Alex looks right at home in Jack's place. "I'm gonna put my stuff in your room," he tells Jack, and Jack just nods.

"I'm gonna have some cereal," he decides, because he's in the mood for cereal and it is his right as a grown-ass man to eat cereal at all hours. Alex just laughs as he heads towards Jack's room, and Jack grins.

He heads for the kitchen and spends a minute deliberating over what cereal to have before yielding to the eternal power of Fruity Pebbles. They’re practically calling his name. Jack’s strong, but not that strong.

As he’s pouring the cereal into a cup, arms snake around his waist, squeezing tight.

“Hello, cereal boy,” says Alex, tucking his chin into Jack’s shoulder. “Mm, Fruity Pebbles for dinner. You’re the master of health.”

“Yes I am,” Jack says. “This is how they do it in L.A., Al.”

“Who exactly is ‘they’?”

“Me and Bree.”

Alex laughs. “Man, L.A. has really changed.”

“Maybe you should spend more time here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alex says. “Next global pandemic I’ll be sure to quarantine here with you.”

Jack shakes his head, smiling a little. “That’s all I want to hear. Do you want some cereal?”

“I was thinking we could order a pizza.”

“Oh, pizza,” Jack says, hesitating with his cup of cereal in hand. “Pizza sounds good.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I can have both.”

“You’re the weirdest person ever,” Alex says as Jack sets the cup down and turns around, forcing Alex to loosen his grip. The moment hits Jack full-force; it hadn’t really sunk in until now, but Alex is here. Here. In Los Angeles. With Jack.

Alex is here.

“I’m so fucking happy you’re here,” Jack says. Alex’s smile grows, the way it always does following any kind of emotion from Jack. It’s been weeks since Jack has seen that smile in person, weeks since Jack has seen Alex in person, and he’d forgotten how good it feels to be the reason for it.

FaceTime is good, but nothing is as good as the real thing.

“Well, I’m really fucking happy to be here,” Alex says, pulling Jack closer with the hands around his waist. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yes,” Jack says. “Same. Me too. I feel like I’m going to wake up any second.”

“What, and this will all be a dream?”

“Yes,” Jack says emphatically. It could be. He’s had similar dreams. Granted, he’s never eating Fruity Pebbles in any of them, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. 

“Me being here?” Alex asks, sliding his hands up Jack’s sides and chest to come to rest on his shoulders. “Or the whole pandemic?”

“I wish I could wake up and have the pandemic be a dream,” Jack huffs. “Or nightmare. Worst nightmare of my entire life.” He’s gotten a little bit off-track, but to be fair, Alex is being very distracting, what with the brushing noses and hands under the collar of his shirt and everything. Jack has yet to build up an immunity to Alex Gaskarth. This is something he has in common with the entire rest of the world.

Alex kisses him. Jack stops thinking about whatever it was he was thinking about. The important thing is that Alex is here and it’s not a dream, and Jack has Fruity Pebbles and his boyfriend and potentially pizza on the way and several hours of nothing at all, to occupy themselves however they choose. The possibilities are endless.

“Doesn’t feel like a dream to me,” Alex says sweetly, pulling back.

“You’re so mean,” Jack says. “Are you saying I’m not your dream guy?”

He gets an eyeroll for his troubles, but then Alex agrees to order the pizza, leaving Jack to eat his cereal in peace instead of having to deal with phones and Other People. Normally he’s a fan of Other People, but tonight it’s all Alex. 

(As far as Jack is concerned, as long as Alex is here, every night is all Alex.)

-

The pizza arrives as they’re half an hour into rewatching the first episode of The Mandalorian. This is the first and last time they pause until Alex yawns, and Jack realizes that midnight in L.A. is three in the morning in Maryland.

“Bedtime,” he declares. If Alex weren’t as nocturnal as he is, he probably wouldn’t have even made it to midnight. As it is, he drags his feet every step from the living room couch to Jack’s bedroom, including his detours to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Jack cleans up a little in the meantime, breaking down the pizza box to dispose of it and rinsing all the dishes for easier cleanup in the morning. The responsible thing would be to wash them now, but Jack can’t find any reason to be responsible. It’s his own home. He’ll wash dishes when he chooses.

By the time he’s turned all the apartment lights off and shuffled into his room, Alex is curled up under the blanket. His eyes are closed like he’s asleep but he’s breathing like he’s awake. Jack putters around, quietly putting on his own pajamas and brushing his teeth, before he, too, climbs into bed.

As predicted, Alex turns over. “Wh’time are we waking up?” he slurs.

Jack reaches blindly for his phone, plugged in on the side table. “Dunno. What time are we going to the studio?”

“Ten?”

Jack sets an alarm for nine, though it’s more for Alex’s sake than his own. “Okay. Done.”

“Love you,” Alex mumbles, burrowing into Jack’s chest. Jack smiles — he has his own stupid Alex smile for when Alex is being lovably, adorably, uniquely Alex — and pulls the blankets up over him. 

“Love you,” he hums, pressing a kiss into Alex’s hair. The quiet moment swells around them both. Jack falls asleep fast. He’s holding Alex close in his dreams, too, like even his subconscious can’t come up with anything better than this.

-

It’s hour nine in the studio, and Jack is ready to call it.

They’ve gotten a lot done. It feels good to be back, or as “back” as this is, back in the studio, back to writing music. Alex has obviously been overflowing with ideas from being cooped up at his farm in Baltimore, which has led to an extremely productive studio day. Hardly half an hour has passed without someone picking up a guitar. 

For the first eight hours, Jack is totally invested. This is his lifeblood, too, and by now he probably has a hundred separate voice notes of guitar riffs and chord progressions that he hadn’t wanted to forget. Getting those off of his phone and into real recordings is a big sigh of relief. 

Also, he and Alex are really good together.

This has been pretty reliably true throughout their career, but somehow it never fails to give Jack a thrill. Watching Alex’s eyes light up as Jack plays through Lead Guitar Part #37; his rapid “waitwaitwait play that again” as he pulls out his phone to scroll through lyrics jotted down in transient moments of thought; the spark that catches when somehow Alex has the perfect line to sing over this four-note riff that’s been echoing around Jack’s empty apartment for weeks. It feels a little like fate every time. Alex can drive a lyrical stake through an elusive melody like no other.

The progress today has been sufficient, so Jack thinks now is a good time to bow out, before they run out of steam. Quit while they’re ahead. There’s always tomorrow and the next day. Nine hours is a respectable studio day, and if today is any indication, they could have a song or two tomorrow at this rate.

It’s just, Jack wants to go home. He’s not going to say it — at least not yet — because Alex is still operating at full capacity. But he’s thinking it. If anyone asks, he won’t hesitate.

When Alex glances over, Jack is pretty sure it’s written all over his face.

“You okay, JB?” Alex says. His eyes soften around the edges when he smiles. It’s completely unfair. Just like Jack to have the most irresistible boyfriend on the planet. Perfect for being in love with, but extremely difficult for saying no to.

“Tired,” Jack says, biting his lip. The guitar he’s holding has been idling on his lap for about twenty minutes, ignored by Jack, who’s been on Instagram instead. Finally he sets it aside. “Just think I’m done for today.” As a compromise, he adds, “If you guys have another half hour, I don’t mind.”

“No, that’s okay,” Alex says. He glances at Zakk, who’s fucking with the levels or something. “Yeah? You think? Good for today?”

“Yeah,” Zakk says. He tilts his head bizarrely to flash a grin at Jack. “Man, it feels good to be back here with you guys.”

“Dude, don’t even start,” Jack says. “I think if I had spent another day alone at my place I would’ve probably, I don’t know, started trying to learn Korean or something.”

“Why fucking Korean?”

“Exactly.” Jack points at him, then at Alex, who jumps out of the rolly chair he’s been occupying and grabs Jack’s finger. Jack shakes his head, smiling, as Alex laces their fingers together and ducks down to kiss his forehead. “Is that a yes, we can call it?”

“I can call it,” Alex says. “Cervini?”

“Yeah,” Zakk says. “Let’s call it.”

And that’s that for the day.

-

The stupid TikTok they’d made on the way to the studio has, predictably, blown up. 

Jack can’t stop watching it; it’s a little bit cringey but that’s the point, and also, Alex looks insanely good in the red flannel and that yellow beanie. Maybe their merch is designed specifically to look good on Alex. Probably. Not that that’s difficult. Basically everything looks good on Alex.

“Stop watching it, oh my God,” Alex says, crawling into bed on top of Jack and flattening him against the mattress. Jack makes varying noises of protest as Alex pries his phone out of his hand, turns it off, and tosses it aside, forcing Jack’s attention instead to Alex’s face.

If he looks good onscreen, it’s nothing compared to real life.

“Lose some weight,” Jack grunts, shifting to tip them both onto their sides. They’re forehead-to-forehead, one of Alex’s arms trapped under Jack’s side and the other slung over his waist. “You’re not twenty-one anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you complaining?” Alex licks Jack’s cheek, and Jack’s protest of Alex, gross! is lost in Alex’s laugh. “Sorry. That was gross. I’ve just missed you.”

“Weird fuckin’ way of showing it,” Jack says, grinning. “I thought we kinda did this yesterday. We spent the entire day together. And I’ve missed you too.” He hesitates. “You could just stay here, you know.”

Except he couldn’t, and they both know that. Alex has a farm to tend to. He’ll be here as long as they’ve got time in the studio but then he’ll be gone, back to Baltimore. Growing up sucks sometimes. It means Jack has to be mature about Alex having a life of his own. If he expects Alex to respect his decision to stay in L.A., then Jack has to respect Alex’s decision to stay in Maryland. Which he does. He does.

But he also misses his boyfriend a hell of a lot. These days it’s worse than ever. They’ve never really been apart this long. 

“Come on,” Alex says, smile flickering. “Don’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Jack says. He sighs. “I take it back. I don’t want you to stay anyway. I don’t even want you in L.A. at all. Who invited you here? What are you doing in my house?”

Alex laughs. He extracts his arm from underneath Jack and runs his hand through Jack’s hair, slotting their legs together. “Cheapest listing on Airbnb. I was told there would be free sexual services?”

“Uh, I don’t know about free,” Jack says. He smirks and steals a kiss off Alex’s lips. “You can repay me by doing household chores.”

“Then it’s just fucking prostitution.”

“That,” says Jack, “is true.” Alex scratches lightly against the side of his face, and the kiss he draws Jack into is so sweet that Jack contemplates never ever breaking it. This is all he needs in life, just Alex — anywhere, but especially here. Jack has never found his apartment to be bleak, but now that he knows how vibrant it can be, how warm and lively when inhabited by Alex, he suspects it will feel grim when he’s alone again.

Thinking about the future gets dangerous. He’d much rather stay in the now. Alex is still kissing him, drawing Jack nearer in such a familiar way that when Jack closes his eyes he can almost hear the rumbling of the tour bus and the low murmurs of conversation happening outside their bunk. They’ve found themselves in this position too many times to count over the years, using the excuse of a small bunk to press together like they didn’t do exactly the same in two-person hotel room beds. It’s been too long since Jack has had anyone to cling to in bed. Comfort settles like a talisman in his chest.

They’re not twenty-one anymore, but sometimes it still feels like they could be. It was easier for the years to blur together when they were spent largely chasing their way across the globe. These days, the contrast between then and now feels blindingly stark. It’s nice to sink into something this familiar. Almost like Alex is pulling him back in time, too.

Or maybe like Alex is pulling the past into the present. Jack doesn’t feel twenty-one. He feels thirty-two and still in love with Alex. Eleven years from now, he’ll probably feel just the same. The way that Alex kisses him, holding him close, has nothing to do with how old they are. It’s only familiar because nothing has changed; Alex loved him then and Alex loves him now. 

Their love grows, but it never wavers.

Alex doesn’t pull away so much as just tilt his head until they’re not kissing anymore, tucking his face into Jack’s chest. “I’m tired,” he announces. Jack could basically have guessed that. It’s only eleven, but in Maryland time it’s two in the morning. 

“I know,” says Jack. “That’s why we’re in bed. To sleep.”

“Really, you want to sleep now?” Alex sounds surprised. “It’s not even midnight.”

“I am capable of having a responsible sleep schedule sometimes, you know.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Jack I know.”

You haven’t been around for a while, Jack doesn’t say. “Shut up, you bully. I take care of myself.” He makes a face. “Also I want to sleep when you do. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“I’d love that,” Alex says. His words come out muffled. “I love you. Have I told you today that I love you?”

“No,” Jack says, smiling.

“Liar. I’m sure I did. But I’m telling you again. I love you.” Somehow Alex’s grip on Jack becomes even tighter. Prying him off is going to be a difficult task, if Jack can muster up the willpower to do it. It won’t be easy. This is probably Jack’s favorite position to be in, tangled up with Alex. It doesn’t hurt to hear Alex repeating, “I love you, you’re my favorite, I’m so happy I’m here,” quietly, almost as if to himself.

“You need to put on your pajamas,” Jack says. 

“I don’t wanna,” Alex whines. “I can sleep like this. Tour life. Too busy for pajamas.”

“So rock ‘n’ roll,” Jack says dryly.

“Yes. Exactly. I’m too cool for school.”

“Yeah. Really badass of you to fall asleep in a flannel.” Jack kisses Alex’s shoulder over the plaid pattern. “Which, may I say, looks very good on you.”

Alex hums contentedly. “See, that’s why I love you. Ego boost.”

“You are the most lead singer to ever lead singer. Jesus Christ.”

“Damn right I am, baby! Own it. I gotta own it.”

“Everything you say just dates you more. You sound so old.”

“You’re exactly as old as I am, old man,” Alex says, trying and failing to kick Jack even though Jack has both of his legs trapped.

“Old men put pajamas on before sleeping,” Jack informs him. “The buttons on this thing will be so uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“Yeah, but consider this,” says Alex, in the tone of someone about to make an extremely good point. “I don’t care and I’m tired.”

Jack sighs. “Seriously, you really wanna sleep in your clothes?”

“Yes,” Alex says. He buries his face in Jack’s neck, softly humming. When he speaks, Jack’s skin buzzes. “Please? Just tonight? I’m sleepy. Being a grown-up is for losers.”

Jack smiles to himself. “You’re such a lazy boy.”

“Yes. I am a lazy boy. This sounds like you agreeing.”

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

“Nope,” Alex says cheerfully. “But you can support me.”

“I support you all the time. I am literally the lead guitarist of your band. How much more supportive can I get.”

Alex laughs. It’s a tired laugh, on the brink of falling asleep, and Jack likes that he’s managed to make it happen at all. “It’s our band.”

“Comrade.”

Alex snorts. “Comrade.” He kisses Jack’s neck. “I’m gonna fall asleep right here, if that’s cool.”

“Get under the covers at least,” Jack says. It takes a little bit of bitching and moaning, but eventually Alex concedes, unsticking himself from Jack like it’s a physical burden to do so and crawling under the blanket with Jack.

“Oh,” Alex says, fishing around on the mattress underneath him. He pulls out Jack’s phone. “This is yours.”

Jack plugs in his phone and sets the same alarm he used yesterday. Loudly announcing that “boy is asleep” cuts out the lights. In the dark and quiet of the room, Jack hugs Alex as close as he possibly can, pressing his nose into Alex’s neck. It’s easy when Alex is making the same effort. Jack wonders if Alex feels the same as he does, like he has to engrave this memory in his mind, the way he’d never gotten a chance to when lockdown first set in. It had never occurred to him, before, that they’d be separated. That there might once come a time when Jack would want to hug Alex and Alex wouldn’t be there to hug.

Now, the threat of knowing that their clock is already ticking down is enough to make him want to burn this sensation forever into his skin and bones.

“Goodnight, my love,” he whispers with a tight squeeze. “Did I tell you today that I love you?”

There’s a sleepy hum in response. “You tell me you love me every second of every day,” Alex murmurs. “But I never get tired of hearing it.”

Jack smiles. He breathes his own I-love-yous, softly enough that it’s almost white noise, and before Alex falls asleep he tilts his head towards Jack. His eyes are closed, so Jack closes the gap and brushes their lips together. 

Alex falls asleep soon after. Jack likes that, that neither of them have had the last word. The gentleness of the kiss soaks through his body and he drifts off with a smile, warm and content.

[choiceswreckedme]

Unforgettable

Book: TRR AU

Pairing: Maxwell x Kate

Rating: I guess PG-13 for some kissing and a little language.

Notes: Based on the song “Unforgettable” by Thomas Rhett. After the shellacking we all took yesterday from PM, and then rubbing salt in your wounds with Epithymia, I wanted to give you some absolute fluff to warm your hearts. I absolutely adore writing Maxwell, and I want you all to love him as much as I do! 

The bar she'd found wasn't anything special; in fact, it was kind of a dive. But, it was close to the hostel and Kate needed to get away from her friends for the night. Living in cramped quarters for weeks on end was tiring, even for the closest of people, and Kate would scream if she had to hear Charlotte crying over the phone to her boyfriend one more time.

Taking a sip of the cool, fruity drink in front of her, Kate scanned the bar. It was a young crowd, mostly twenty-somethings with a few young professionals scattered among the booths, letting loose after a hard day at work. The music was loud, thumping beats from various pop hits blaring from the speakers, but Kate didn't mind; she wasn't here to talk anyway.

"Hey, you owe me a drink," said a deep voice to her left. She turned to see a gorgeous guy sliding on to the stool next to her, all glittering blue eyes and dimpled smiles. His light brown hair was messy, but purposefully so, and Kate felt a little rush of heat in her stomach. "I'm sorry, what?" she asked, shaking her head. She was sure they'd never met; she would have remembered promising something to a man like this.

His grin widened, showing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. Seriously, Kate thought, this dude could be in a Crest ad. "I said you owe me a drink," he repeated, twisting on the stool to face her completely. "When I saw you, I dropped mine."

Kate burst out laughing. "Okay, that was awful, but amazing," she giggled. "What's your pleasure?" she asked her perfect stranger while motioning to the bartender. A beat of silence followed and Kate turned her head, only to see a glint in his eye that was less playful and more promising. "I think it's a little early to tell you that," he said lowly, leaning in to Kate slightly. Her lips parted slightly, and his gaze flicked down to her mouth before focusing once again on her eyes. Kate felt herself move in toward him, slowly, letting her eyes close as she waited to feel his lips on hers, anticipation making her heart skip. She smelled the woodsy musk of his cologne, the whiskey on his breath and felt the stirrings of something deep within her.

"Wanna have some fun?"

Kate jolted, swiveling her head around. On her other side stood a big, beefy, blond guy, clearly drunk, leering down at her. "Uhhh . . . no thanks . . .," she replied, turning away from the intruder. He grabbed her arm to stop her. "What the hell's your problem?" His grip was tight, fingers digging into her skin, making Kate gasp. She felt her mystery man stand and press against her protectively, and she leaned back into him, trying to escape.

"Get your hands off her," the dark-haired man growled, reaching around to pull Kate further into him and away from her harasser. Shaking his head, the blond laughed meanly and released her.

"No problem, man. I don't need to mess with a bitch like this."

He stumbled away, weaving through the now-crowded bar, jostling people as he went. Kate turned back, shaken, her arm reddened where she'd been held. "Thank you," she murmured, meeting her rescuer's sapphire eyes, dark with concern. He shook his head, dismissing her gratitude, and gently took her arm, examining the marks on her creamy flesh.

"Don't thank me, that guy was an asshole," he muttered. "Are you okay?"

The warmth from his hands soothed Kate's skin, and he turned his gaze intently to her. She felt herself blushing and nodded, extricating herself from his grasp. "I'm fine, honestly," she confirmed, smiling at him shyly. "Now I really owe you a drink." He chuckled, his eyes lightening, and Kate felt herself relax. The bartender finally made his way down to them and she looked over inquiringly.

"Whiskey, I bet?"

Nodding, the stranger took Kate's hand in his, resting them on her leg. "Macallan 18, neat, and she'll have another . . ." he trailed off, raising an eyebrow at her. "Mango-rita," she replied. The bartender took off to make their drinks and the man snickered beside her. "A mango-rita?" he asked, shaking his head with a smile on his lips. She lightly shoved him with her shoulder. "Yes, they're delicious; you should try them!"

Fresh drinks were quickly placed in front of them, and the man raised his glass in a toast. "I'm Maxwell," he offered, still holding her hand. She grinned at him, heart flip-flopping in her chest. "Kate," she said. His eyes twinkled as he looked at her thoughtfully. "To us," he declared, clinking the rim of his drink to hers. They each took a sip, eyes locked on each other.

"So it's not Marie, Anne, Elizabeth, Stephanie, Aurora, or Belle," Maxwell mused, scrunching his nose as he thought. "Do you even have a middle name?" Kate laughed, enchanted by the man next to her. He was so playful, so sweet, and absolutely wonderful. Tilting her head at him, she took a swallow of her drink. "Of course I do!" Maxwell leaned in, peering into her eyes quizzically, as if he could guess her middle name telepathically. "Okay, I give up," he threw his hands up in the hair dramatically.

Kate tossed her hair over her shoulder and rested her chin on her hand. "It's Amelia." A soft smile touched Maxwell's lips, his eyes shining as he looked at her.

"Amelia," he murmured. "That was my mother's name."

The two paused for a moment, taking each other in. Neither had felt a connection like this before, so intense and immediate. As they sat, the noise of the bar faded, cocooning them in their own little bubble. Already sitting nearly on top of one another, Kate didn't have far to go when she decided to kiss Maxwell. She pressed her lips gently to his, their chemistry palpable. Cupping her cheek, he moved his mouth slowly against hers. Kate let her tongue creep out to tentatively taste Maxwell and he reciprocated, deepening the kiss. He could taste the sweet tartness of her drink, the smokiness of the tequila; she caressed his whiskey-coated tongue with hers, moaning softly into his mouth. They lost themselves in the sensation of one another, time an irrelevant construct when they were joined. Breathless, they broke apart, and Maxwell leaned his forehead against Kate's, whose eyes were still closed as a small smile graced her face.

"Wow," he breathed, unable to believe the woman before him was real. Her eyes fluttered open, gray eyes meeting blue. "Yeah," she whispered.

The strains of a song filtered into their bubble and Kate's face lit up."I love this song!" she cried, sliding off her stool and urging Maxwell to stand. "Dance with me!" Kate made her way to the dance floor, mango-rita in hand, and bopped in time to the Coldplay song blasting from the speakers. Maxwell smiled, watching her, something that he didn't want to name, not so soon, blooming in his chest. "Come on, Max!" she called to him, turning around to shake her behind in his direction playfully. Grinning, he shot back the rest of his whiskey and joined her, wrapping his arms around her in a hug.

Kate screamed the lyrics to the song in Maxwell's face, barely heard over the music itself, and he couldn't help but be mesmerized by the woman in his arms. She spun away and broke into a dance classic move from the 80s, the Roger Rabbit, breaking down in giggles as she tipsily hopped around, and Maxwell laughed along with her.

"Watch this," he shouted, breaking into the Running Man, not willing to let Kate's silliness go unmatched. Together, they laughed and danced, sang and drank the night away, two strangers falling in love in the most unexpected place.

Two years, seven months, eighteen hours, four minutes, and nine seconds later

Maxwell looked into the mirror, adjusting his tie for the fifth time. He took a deep breath and shook his arms, trying to get the tension out of his body.

"You ready?" his brother called from the doorway, looking dapper in a suit. Maxwell's eyes flitted to him over his shoulder in the mirror and nodded nervously. "Yeah, I think so," he replied, crossing the room. Usually stern, his older brother's eyes shone with a soft happiness for Maxwell. "She's wonderful, Max, I'm so happy for the two of you." Together, they walked from the small room off the side of the chapel and took their places next to the minister, just as the first strains of music began.

Intently, Maxwell kept his eyes trained on the rear of the church, not wanting to miss the first moment she appeared. First, the flower girl and ring bearer, her niece and his nephew, meandered down the aisle to the delight of the guests, who cooed at the adorable pair. Next, a bridesmaid, his sister-in-law, followed by the maid-of-honor, looking radiant and as proud as a big sister could be.

He knew she was next, and held his breath, unable to believe that they were here, on their wedding day, when it felt like just yesterday they were dancing in that club, taking their first tentative steps toward a lifetime together. The music swelled and the guests stood, just as she arrived in the doorway.

In that moment, she took his breath away.

In that moment, he knew with certainty that she was his reason for being.

In that moment, he fell in love with her all over again.

Kate smiled as she walked down the aisle to Maxwell, the man to whom she'd given her heart one night in a small dive bar, in an even smaller country, as she backpacked across Europe with her friends. Since that night, despite the stress that all couples experience, she had never looked back, never regretted taking a chance on a beautiful man with a terrible pick-up line.

She reached Maxwell and he took her trembling hand in his, both of them turning to face the minister as he began the service that would bind them together as one. When the time came to recite their vows, Maxwell turned to Kate and gave her a smile so full of love she thought her heart would burst.

"Katie," he began, his voice shaking a bit, "I knew the night we met that I would marry you - I told you so, remember?" Kate laughed softly through the tears glistening in her eyes, nodding at Maxwell, who continued.

"I still think back on that night and remember every single detail of it, the way your t-shirt keep falling off your shoulder, and the smell of your perfume. I remember those ridiculous mango-ritas you were drinking, and I remember that they made your kisses even sweeter."

Maxwell paused a moment, struggling to contain the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Kate gazed up at him, squeezing his hand, urging him on.

"I didn't even know people danced to Coldplay until that night," he went on, chuckling with the guests as he recalled the song she sang to him on the dance floor. The memories swirled around him as he thought back with such clarity to the night that his life changed forever. "But I remember how you laughed when we danced like fools, how your hair fell down your back, and how your eyes crinkled in the corners." Maxwell lightly touched the corner of Kate's eye, catching a tear that threatened to fall.

"Kate, I remember everything about that night, because it brought me to you, and even when we're old and gray and in our rocking chairs," he sniffled and chuckled softly, "I will still be able to tell you every single detail."

Maxwell squeezed his bride's hand.

"Just like you, Katie, that night was unforgettable."

Fin

[ghost-chance]

A New Lease on Life - 5: You Can't Set a Broken Soul

Trigger Warnings: The usual, bad coping methods, minor bullying including self-bullying

Suggested Listening: Avril Lavigne "Nobody's Home"

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5: You Can't Set a Broken Soul

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February 8, 2016

"Why'd you have to leave, Amber?" Aaron muttered into a mostly empty glass of cheap beer. "Why'd you go out on your own like that? You were safe in the shelter…"

Amber stared in dismay from the dark corner of the skeazy bar. Aaron would never have been caught dead in a place like this, much less drunk on cheap alcohol. He HATED the stuff, hated the memories it always brought forth—memories of the friends and family he lost to the can and bottle. Though truth hurt, Amber knew without a doubt he was drinking over her—her senseless, needless death had driven her best friend to drinking.

"Aaron…" she whispered, inching toward the bar. "Aaron, I'm sorry…" As though she hadn't even spoken, the barkeeper laughed derisively behind his newspaper.

"Dis's ruh-DICK-yulus,"- the portly man drawled thickly. "Dis ahticle says ova half da people who died in da twista was ig-NOR-in da sirens—any dumb bee-itch who'd go out in weh-da like dat dee-zerves—"- Without warning, Aaron's heavy glass stein crashed onto the counter, shattering from the impact.

"SHUDDUP!"- he slurred angrily, clumsily launching himself over the counter at the barkeeper. "You di'n't- know'er—you got no right to judge'er!"-

As the two grappled and traded blows, the ceiling violently tore away. Amber turned fearfully to the gaping rafters, her heart racing. Clouds gathered in the barren skies forming menacing grey thunderheads. Blue and green lightning cracked from cloud to cloud racing the rolling thunder.

Her lungs tight from fear, her ears aching from the plummeting air pressure, Amber fell to the ground, scrambling into the nearest corner and staring up in horror. Though torrents of rain fell, though the power flickered and failed, though wind tore through the bar like a vengeful ghost, the patrons never budged, staring blankly through their drinks as though the world weren't coming to an end. She was alone—alone with the demon that killed her and haunted her dreams.

Sirens wailed in the distance; a familiar sputtering roar deafened her. Grey-green clouds split in a merciless, mocking grin. As the world fell away around her, Amber screamed unheard pleas to the merciless winds, certain she'd breathed her last.

Amber shot up in bed with a panicked shriek; as her racing heart calmed and the phantom ache in her skull faded, the blanks filled themselves in around her. Old, stained brick walls, vaulted concrete ceiling with exposed ducts, pipes, and wiring, the distant rumble of a passing subway train, slow whirring and beeping from the ridiculously advanced machinery around her…she was safe.

"Not again," she rasped, pulling the patched quilt around her as she waited for the shaking to stop. "Damn night terrors…gettin' fuckin' old."

She glanced wearily over at the clock. It was four am…she'd gotten five full hours of sleep. In her previous life, she was useless without nine to ten hours a night; now she was lucky to get three. The hourly trains triggered nightmares and kept her awake fighting a constant barrage of graphic memories and chills that had no basis in temperature. Five hours of uninterrupted sleep? 'It's like Christmas,' she thought sarcastically, picturing a decent night's sleep packaged up in a box with a big red bow.

Without further ado, she disentangled herself from the sheet and quilt, rummaged under the cot for her folded clothes and basket of toiletries, and padded out of the room barefoot. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she set up the coffee maker on autopilot, staring blankly through the scratched wooden table as the percolating machine hissed, dripped, and belched. After downing a cup of sweetened, creamed tar-juice, she set up a second cup with only sugar.

Stopping only to deliver it to the still slumbering genius, she hit the showers, choosing the farthest stall from the door as usual. That one had a working lock. The room's fixtures had obviously been salvaged from somewhere, but fixing the warped, vandalized locks apparently wasn't very high on Donatello's list of priorities. Maybe because the lair once had only male residents and most men weren't all that concerned about being seen in the buff by other men? She cringed, wrenching the elastics from her tangled hair; she still wasn't sure if Mikey had barged in on her on purpose, but she wasn't willing to risk a recurrence.

The moment the water started up, she started humming loudly to block out the sound. She'd once loved the sound of water—had once slept deepest when rain was falling—but that was before her fear of severe storms became a fear of even the lightest rainstorm, and long before she was killed and given another life. Now the sound of rain terrified her and the dripping showerhead sent chills down her spine. As she lathered up her hair, she thought back to better times, better days, and a soft voice that once lulled her to sleep with songs of their youth.

The roar of water rattling the overhead pipes ripped Donatello from his hard-earned sleep. As his eyes blearily cranked open, he again cursed his decision to leave the ceilings in the lair unfinished; even a suspended ceiling could muffle the noise a little. Scratching his neck, he hoisted himself up in his bed and fumbled for his glasses. As his eyes focused, the blurry splotch by his alarm clock solidified into a mug of steaming coffee. The coffee was prepared far too sweet, as usual, and he nearly sprayed it all over the clock's display once he realized what it read.

"Four-thirty in the morning?" he groaned, digging his knuckles into his aching eyes. "You've gotta be kidding me...this can't go on." As his bedroom was the closest to the lab, he was always woken several times nightly. Every time Amber cried out in her sleep, every time she thrashed around and fought the demons haunting her dreams, every time she woke up screaming herself hoarse, he was woken by the noise. Every time her nightmares deprived him of sleep, he spent the rest of the night struggling with his own thoughts and feelings. Sorrow at her condition—guilt about being unable to save Kimber's life—resentment over lost sleep and interrupted work—disgust at himself for resenting Amber when she clearly wasn't responsible…the list went on and on.

With every day that passed, he became ever more certain that Amber wasn't as well as she tried convincing herself. Every time the subway rumbled overhead she fell into another panic attack, and sometimes even a flashback. Several times daily she'd turn up missing without any word of where she was going, and more often than not he'd find her tucked beside the running washing machine or wedged into the foot-well of his desk, shaking violently and smothering tears in her knees. She was getting worse every day…and for the first time in his life, Donatello was faced with a problem he knew was beyond his skill.

Amber wasn't a broken machine—she was a broken woman. He couldn't fix her.

"It was down in La-wheezy-yan—AH!- Jus' about a mile from Texarkana," an off-key voice echoed from the bathroom. Donatello sank into his usual seat at the battered table, staring through his coffee cup. "OW! In them ol' cotton fields back home–DAMMIT!" The water had long since shut off; every now and then, the song was interrupted by a cry of pain or curse, signifying that Amber had moved on to impatiently wrenching the tangles from her hair. She still wasn't used to Kimber's body, especially the second set of posts in her ears and the ring on the left one, and routinely snagged them in the bristles. Between oaths and verses, Donnie dozed off at the table, nodding into his empty cup.

"Ah, shoot." The sudden phrase startled him awake, and in the blink of an eye, he was crouched before his chair brandishing his empty coffee cup as a weapon. Amber stood in the doorway to the kitchen cringing in embarrassment. "I woke ya up again, didn't I?" She brought the coffee carafe over to refill his cup as he slouched back into his seat.

"Yeah," he answered honestly, trying to stretch the crick out of his neck. "No big deal, though…not like you do it on purpose." She shook her head with a wry smile and made her way to the kitchen sink. As she passed by, he realized something was different…he stared in surprise. Instead of just keeping her hair in a high, messy bun, she'd separated it into twin tails at her nape and braided them tightly. She'd discovered the other day that even though her hair still smelled fruity, the red was starting to fade. Apparently she was so excited to be returning to her natural color that she changed things up a little. With her hair still so red, though…He winced. Breakfast was going to be a disaster.

"So," he attempted, striving for a casual tone and failing. "What's with the change?" She ducked around the open cabinet door to meet his eyes.

"You noticed?" she smiled brightly as she mixed up a huge bowl of pancake batter. "I got sick'a fighting my hair all day so I went back to basics—before I got here, I usually wore my hair like this. I'm lazy like that." She dug a package of wilting blueberries from the fridge, picking out the stems as she tossed the berries into the bowl. "After all the change an' drama, it's a real comfort havin' my braids back."

"It's…" He scrambled for words between the worries. "…cute. Maybe you should wait until the dye fades, though. I just know—"

"S'up, Angelcakes?" Mikey called out from the doorway. "What's for—Whoa!" Donatello cringed, retreating to the coffeemaker; he knew this was going to happen. "Blueberry pancakes?! Sweet!"

"Wait, what?" Donnie muttered dubiously.

"Yup!" Amber grinned, mixing in a little extra sugar as Mikey dug out a pair of battered skillets and spatulas. "They were about dead anyway, so I figured why not? It'll be a nice treat." As Michelangelo fried pancakes and Amber scrambled eggs, Donatello watched silently, hoping that his worries really were unfounded.

About halfway through the bowl of batter and eggs, Leonardo and Splinter sat at their places, conversing over morning tea. Right as the stove burners were switched off, Raphael lumbered through the door to the coffeemaker. Halfway there, he pulled a double-take, gaping at Amber's braids in disbelief and derision. He said nothing, retreating to his seat with a steaming mug of coffee. When Amber bustled to the table to dole out breakfast, he struck.

"So," he asked snidely. "Where's da meat, Wendy?"

"Hey, now," Leo began, but Mikey cut him off.

"Don't be such a jerk, Raphie," the youngest scolded, playing with the end of a punch red braid. Amber's comforted smile warped into a deadpan glower a moment later when she felt both braids lifted up at either side of her head. "Too many freckles! She looks more like Pippi Longstocking!"

"Hardy, har, har," she grumbled, setting the two platters down a little more roughly than necessary. While Raph and Mikey bantered over which was a more accurate resemblance, she retreated to the living room with yet another cup of coffee. Donatello was used to Raph and Mikey's antics—he'd been the butt of their jokes more times than he'd like to admit—but this time, he was pissed. He loaded her untouched plate and his own with pancakes and eggs and dug for flatware in the drawer.

"She's been nothing but helpful since she arrived," he reminded the two troublemakers coldly. "She cooks, she cleans, she picks up after your ungrateful asses, and right when she starts to relax, you tease her!" He shot them both a glare as he left. Sometimes they absolutely disgusted him, Raph especially. He found Amber on the cot in the lab, lying on her back with her head dangling over the side and brushing through her long loosened hair. Though he'd only seen them once, he already missed the braided tails; why eluded him at the moment. "Hey."

"Hey yerself," she shot back with a grin, wrestling her hair into a high ponytail. As she sat up and fastened the coiled mass into a sloppy bun, he pulled up his rolling stool and held out her plate.

"You forgot this—dig in." Moss green eyes scrutinized him seriously. He avoided her eyes, passing the plate and flatware. "Don't mind them. They're just—"

"It's okay, Donnie." Confused, he finally met her eyes; she didn't really seem upset anymore. "If unflatterin' comparisons and immature folks were all it took to ruin my day, I'd'a- died a hermit. This body? It ain't me—I was short, fat, clumsy, partly crippled, an' I started goin' grey before I hit drinkin' age. I've been called much worse'n- any'a that. It's no big deal." She halfheartedly scraped a chunk of egg around on her plate while Donatello let the description sink in. "B'sides, Aaron used to say much worse…an' he's—was my best friend. I'm used to gettin' shite from people, and I'm more than willin' to give it back." She shot an up-to-no-good grin up at him. "I'll get'em-…but not 'til they've let their guard down. Meantime, let'em squirm."

"If you're sure, Amber," he relented, then paused for a bite of his own pancakes. "Forgive me for asking, but…before twenty-one?" She chuckled.

"Yeah. Lots'a early grey in my family. My uncle Bart went shock white while he was in high school; findin' my first silver at nineteen was lucky, considerin'." She took another sip of coffee before adding, "It always hit the redheads worst. I wasn't a redhead, but there was enough red in my hair to turn me into a brown skunk." He couldn't help but grin at the mental image.

"It didn't embarrass you?"

"Course it did," she answered honestly. "For a while, I kept my hair cut above the neck an' never went anywhere without a hat or hair-scarf—couldn't afford dyein' it all the time. Course, then everyone jus' assumed I was goin' bald and started pullin' me aside to talk about the cancer I was supposedly dyin' of. I finally had it when my roommate Mercy dragged me to a cancer survivors group shpeal; flipped'er off, flashed my stripes, an' walked home. Apparently the granny-hair spoke for itself." She finally gave up on pushing her food around and passed the plate back to him. "Guess I'm not really hungry; help yourself. I better get to work, right?"

"Amber," he scolded, latching onto her arm and anchoring her in her seat. "You have to eat—you skipped breakfast and lunch yesterday, and the day before you only ate an apple! You're not getting adequate caloric intake like this—at this rate you'll—"

"I'm not starvin' myself," she argued. Against her will, a memory played through her mind's eye: City Hall's basement, Aaron crouched before her with a bowl of soup, coaxing her to eat even though her stomach felt full of concrete. She fought to keep control but that memory had a dozen more on its heels; together, they swarmed her. "I'm just not hungry! Trus' me, I spent my whole life hungry when I shouldn't be—"

"You should be hungry! If you keep this up you're going to—"

"I don't need a nanny, Donnie!" she burst out vehemently. "I'm a grown woman, not some anorexic tweenager.- If I ain't hungry, I ain't hungry, an' no amount'a shovin' food at me's gonna make me hungry!"- Without another word, she stormed out intent on silencing her memories with manual labor.

"I just don't know what to do, April," Donatello muttered into his palms as she watched him with worry. Beyond the lab's closed blast door, Amber was hard at work in the dojo, waxing the floorboards to mirror brightness on her hands and knees…for the fifth time in as many days. "She hardly eats anything and guzzles coffee like it's water," he ranted harshly. "She barely sleeps, wakes up screaming, then spends the whole day and most of the night cleaning everything in the lair in the least effective ways possible—she intentionally wears herself out every day, then crashes in the early hours, too sore to do anything! She's having panic attacks more and more often and she's been spacing out for hours at time—the other night we found her wandering the sewers barefoot talking to someone who doesn't even exist in this reality!"

He fell silent, choking up. She and Mikey had been washing dishes when someone dropped a glass, and the sound had somehow flipped some hidden switch in her brain. She walked barefoot right through the shards like a zombie and somehow found her way out the front door, muttering the whole way about hungover friends and neurotic dogs. When they finally found her—after following what felt like a mile of bloody footprints—the sight of her adamantly arguing about music with 'Aaron' silenced the long lecture he'd planned. "She's going to kill herself at this rate, April," he confessed weakly, dropping his hands to dangle helplessly between his knees. "…and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"Donnie," the older woman murmured leaning forward for a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. "You're a brilliant guy and a talented engineer, but you can't just 'fix' people—if someone's broken, you can't reconnect some wires, tighten a lug nut or two, slap on some duct tape and expect them to work again…and if those injuries aren't physical…" She trailed off, avoiding his eyes. "…Broken bones heal quickly once you immobilize them, but there's no way to set a broken soul. It's not your fault."

"You're waxing poetic on me, April," he teased halfheartedly. "I'm not Mikey; you don't have to play down the gritty details." Finally, she met his eyes, her own serious.

"She needs to see a doctor, Donnie…a psychiatrist. I think Amber has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…and it's only going to get worse."

Just outside the shuttered door, Amber silently slid down the wall and landed in a boneless heap. She wasn't supposed to have heard that conversation, she was sure of it, and she wouldn't have heard it if she'd not come to apologize for taking Donatello's head off earlier. Now her overreaction and subsequent attempt at apology had exposed her to a secret discussion and triggered a plethora of fears. Even as she fought to rationalize away the knowledge, stubbornly scolded herself that PTSD wasn't caused by something as minor as a natural disaster, she knew it would explain so many things.

She'd never been in a war zone, had never seen battle, and had never seen her comrades fall one by one—she was a janitor, not a soldier!—so how could she have developed something even seasoned warriors weren't guaranteed stricken with? She'd insisted her whole life that she wasn't weak, that she could handle ANYTHING given enough time to work through it…yet she was completely broken by something as stupid and meaningless as a storm.

'Am I…' she though disjointedly, tears pricking her eyes behind her glasses. 'No…I am…I really am weak after all.' Without a word she stood, dusted herself off, and wandered out the front door, stopping only to grab a battered flashlight from the kitchen counter. A walk wouldn't fix her intolerable weakness and it wouldn't fix her, but maybe it would at least give her time to think. A line of music echoed down a storm drain from a passing car, reminding her of a time when she didn't feel so lost. 'Where were they going without ever knowing the way?'

Tolkien was right: not all who wander are lost, but she knew she wasn't among them.

Words (Midwestern Twang unless otherwise noted)

- Adding 'er to the end of a word - Means 'her' - Adding 'e, 'is, or 'im to the end of a word - Means he, his, or him. - Adding 'em or 'eir to the end of a word - Means them or their - B'sides - Besides - Di'n't / Din't - Didn't - I'd'a - 'I would have' - Know'er / Judge'er - Know her / Judge her - La-wheezy-anna - This is an awkward pronunciation of "Louisiana" sometimes heard in the Midwest. In the South - or other areas NEAR Louisiana - people generally pronounce it "Loozianna" or "Loo-ee-zee-anna." IRL, I pronounce it "La-wheezy-anna" because it's how I was taught, and it always drives Cold up the wall because he grew up friends with a family FROM Louisianna. At first, it was just a habit; NOW I keep that habit just to annoy my hubby. ;P - Shuddup / Shaddap - Shut up, the first being a common mispronunciation and the second being more of a Southern/Midwestern slang pronunciation. - Tweenager - Slang term for someone just old enough to be a pain, but too young to be considered a teenager; generally such persons are older adolescents. - Worse'n - 'Worse than' - "Dis's ruh-DICK-yulus" - 'This is ridiculous.' A highly twisted version of the Southern Drawl, perhaps from Arkansas. An odd way of defining the difference between the Midwestern Twang and Southern Drawl would be this: 'In the Midwest, we say as much as possible with as few syllables as we can, while in the South, people say as little as possible with as many syllables as they can.' The South tends to stretch words out and add extra syllables to words, while the Midwest tends to crop off syllables and mash words together, and both tend to warp pronunciations of common words. - "Dis ahticle says ova half da people who died in da twista was ig-NOR-in da sirens—any dumb bee-itch who'd go out in weh-da like dat dee-zerves—" - 'This article says over half the people who died in the twister was ignoring the sirens - any dumb bitch who'd go out in weather like that deserves [to die].’ Twisted southern drawl. Unfortunately, there was a LOT of this after the tornado I went through - people would openly blame those who were killed for being careless or for not seeking the 'right' shelter, never considering that they didn't know all the facts OR that the dead person's loved ones might be hearing their ranting. - "If I ain't hungry, I ain't hungry, an' no amount'a shovin' food at me's gonna make me hungry!" - 'If I'm not hungry, I'm not hungry, and no amount of shoving food at me is going to make me hungry!"

A quick rant: Developing PTSD does NOT mean you're weak, broken, worthless, damaged, or any other horrible things we often convince ourselves it means. PTSD is just your brain's way of recovering and adapting, and it's actually a healthy response to trauma. It's not exclusively a 'warrior's illness'—anyone can develop it regardless of whether or not they've been deployed. While it can be hard to accept that you 'got it from' a car accident, witnessing extreme violence, or in Amber's case, weathering a hell of a storm, what caused it has little to do with personal strength or weakness. If you start showing signs of PTSD, TALK TO YOUR DOCTOR. Don't put it off, don't talk yourself out of it, and for Pete's sake, don't do what I did—don't spend months staring out the window, ruminating on why you lived when so many others died, and hoping to waste away into nothing—the longer you wait to seek help, the longer it takes for you to heal, and healing IS possible.

Putting away my soapbox now. Also, the song Amber sings is called "Cotton Fields"—it's a Southern folk song, and if sung in a slow, bluesy manner, it can put kids out like a light

Up Next: Cohabitation Chaos

[mysunfreckle]

The secret places of Paris

Jehanparnasse, Urban Fantasy, Trans!Montparnasse, Faerie!Jehan, 3k

Fluffy one-shot that fits as a sequel to Coffee and Faerie Cakes, written for day 1 of Jehanparnasse week 2017: Magic. Also on AO3.

Cw: alcohol and…recreational use of magic (?).

There is a pattern to the days and a pattern to the magic held within them. Friday belongs to the Fae, Sunday does not. Jehan respects that and they know better than to try do anything too draining on a Sunday as far as magic is concerned. Today, however, they feel like nothing could possibly drain them. They are walking on Montparnasse’s arm, with a rose he just stole from a garden tucked behind their ear.

Montparnasse chuckles.

“What?” Jehan asks, squeezing his arm.

“That rose wasn’t quite so pretty when I picked it,” he grins. “It’s wilting in reverse.”

Jehan smiles, but doesn’t answer. They are so excited they could glow. “Tell me more about the club!” they say eagerly.

“Patience,” Montparnasse smirks. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“You’re a tease,” Jehan complains, giving Montparnasse a reproachful look.

He smirks a little more and still refuses to talk. All Jehan knows about the place they’re going to is that it is owned by humans who possess sorcery and that it has become one of hidden places in Paris where those that know about magic gather.

“It’s dangerous to leave me alone with my imagination,” Jehan warns their boyfriend. “I might be disappointed.”

They aren’t. At least not when they finally get their first glimpse of the building. Not that it looks particularly special in any way, but Jehan can feel it is. There is no crowd at the door and the sign above it is modest. It reads “Club Destin” in letters that look like they’re melting and about to drip off the wall. That is telling in itself and Jehan can feel the magic that has seeped deep into the ground all around this place. Montparnasse mentioned that it’s two sorceresses that run the club, between them they must have a considerable amount of magic.

“Nervous?” Montparnasse grins as he knocks on the slightly shabby door.

“No,” Jehan lies.

He pulls them a little closer. “You’re going to love it,” he promises.

That is not exactly what Jehan is nervous about. They never really knew any magical humans before they met Montparnasse’s friends… If anything they might like it a little too much.

The door is opened by a young man with bare feet that seems to know Montparnasse on sight.

“Merci,” Montparnasse grins and without waiting for an answer he pulls Jehan down a corridor and before they know it they are surrounded by loud music, dim lights and such a blur of mingled magic that it tingles on their skin.

“Oh,” Jehan breathes, their eyes open wide.

Montparnasse has his arm snugly around their waist, but he gives them time to take it all in while he raises his hand in acknowledgement at a couple of people.

Jehan has never felt so much different magic packed in one space. The air is heavy with it. They realize it can’t feel like this for everyone, humans don’t feel magic the way Fae do, but they have to ask… “Is it always like this?”

Montparnasse follows their gaze through the room. The club is small and filled with every variety of young person. Some of them are dancing, others are lounging on couches in the corners, a few are hanging at the bar. “Pretty much,” he hums.

Jehan feels a burst of heat and movement and turns their head to see a kid that hardly looks old enough to be here snap literal sparks from their fingers. Their blatant display of magic is met with nothing but cheerfulness. Magic being used out in the open, just like that… Jehan looks at Montparnasse, silently, but with eyes shining like stars.

“That’s what this place is about,” he says with a smile. “That and the drinks of course.” His smile turns into a grin. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Still slightly dazed Jehan allows themself to be led to the bar. Behind it a plump woman is just presenting a group of four with two shot glasses each. As soon as they leave she turns towards Montparnasse, looking from him to Jehan with laughing eyes.

“Well…” she says with a smirk. “I never thought I’d see the day. Parnasse arriving with someone instead of leaving.”

“Jehan, this is Maggie,” Montparnasse says smoothly, glossing over her teasing. “She runs this place.”

“Tsk,” Maggie tuts. “We run this place,” and she gestures to a beautiful woman clad in all black that is laughing and talking with some of the patrons.

“Missy looks the part,” Montparnasse grins at Jehan. “But Maggie’s the one with the real talent.”

“Your flattery is of the most insulting kind,” Maggie chides, but Jehan can feel he is right when she smiles at them. Maggie’s magic doesn’t feel like most of the magic in this room. It reminds Jehan more of Sous’ sorcery, strong and very deliberate.

“But,” Maggie says with a smirk. “I suppose it’s true. My drinks are famous.” She winks. “Or they would be if I wasn’t so liberal with my shots of amnesia. So, what can I get you two?”

Montparnasse gives Jehan a questioning look, but Jehan is not ready to answer. They look from Maggie to him and back again. “You sell magic?” they say, blinking at her in wonder. “And people know?”

“That’s what they come here for, honey,” Maggie smiles. “Well, that and some other things.”

Jehan is all amazement. “What sort of stuff can you make?” they ask excitedly. They haven’t tasted human magic since they were very little. No wonder some of their customers could taste the happiness they baked into pastries at their café, if there were actually people selling magic food for the sake of the magic…

“Most things, I’d say,” Maggie replies, looking at Jehan with an increasingly curious expression. “Take a look on the menu.”

Behind the bar there is no mirror like in many other places, nor a blackboard, but above the rows of bottles words seem to have been scorched into the painted surface. Jehan lets their eyes pass over the curved letters. Contentment… Fear… Excitement… Joy… Surprise… They’re not drinks, they’re feelings.

“You might have told your pretty date what you were getting them into,” Maggie reproaches Montparnasse good-naturedly.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he grins.

Jehan beams at him. He must have been dying to tell them. They’re almost offended he didn’t take them here sooner. Almost. “What do you like?” they ask Montparnasse eagerly, but before he can answer Maggie interjects.

“Why don’t I start you off with something manageable,” she decides for them. “I’ll get you both a glass of light-heartedness.” She gives Jehan a meaningful glance. “You’re new, let’s not overdo it.” She grabs two glasses and nods towards Montparnasse. “He usually overdoes it.”

“Slander,” Montparnasse scoffs, leaning on the bar without letting his other arm leave Jehan’s waist.

Jehan leans against him, almost giddy with excitement to see Maggie work. She is using the contents of several different coloured bottles to mix them their drinks, but Jehan can tell they are all filled with water. They are impressed. Maggie is probably only putting on a show for the sake of theatricality, she very likely doesn’t need to do this to make her magic work. Jehan knows this type of magic. Once upon a time humans gifted with the talent to brew potions were quite common. The Fae never understood why the mortals insisted on the names. Potions, medicine… It’s all water magic. Water is an especially good conductor of magic, that is why stirring a little extra wakefulness into a cup of coffee takes Jehan no effort at all. Maggie seems to be doing something similar.

“There you go,” she says, sliding the two glasses towards them. “Give that a try.”

Jehan takes their glass while Montparnasse pays and inhales the scent of magic. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. Maggie is watching them very closely and Jehan remembers that most humans cannot smell magic. “You put magic in the water?” they ask, trying to sound surprised as well as fascinated.

“Something like that,” she hums. “Go on, try it.”

Montparnasse raises his own glass and grins at them. “In one go,” he says.

Jehan grins too, tilts the glass back and drains it. The water is cool as it slips down their throat, but it warms them up inside. A laugh jumps to their lips and rings out merrily, making Montparnasse twinkle his eyes at them. “Oh that’s wonderful,” they sigh and they laugh again, because they just can’t help it. They feel so light and unconcerned and there is magic all around them.

“Come on,” Montparnasse says, plucking the glass from their hand and putting it on the bar beside his own. “Want to meet some people?”

“Yes,” Jehan beams, grabbing his hand. “Yes, I do.”

With that lovely light feeling still filling their head, Jehan follows him to one of the couches, where several people raise their heads in acknowledgement when Montparnasse approaches. Jehan isn’t shy, not now, they’re smiling brilliantly and before they realize it they’re chatting to these people like they’ve known them for ages. No one asks them who they are or why they are here and they sit on Montparnasse’s lap like they belong there, because they do. Someone goes to fetch a round of drinks and Jehan learns that Maggie serves normal drinks as well, because Montparnasse is given a white wine and they are offered something fruity that is free of both alcohol and magic. After a while people get up to dance and Jehan pulls Montparnasse to his feet too, because they really want to dance. They’re not worried their dancing will be a problem. Not because of the light-heartedness, that has worn off by now, but because their faerie magic will hardly be noticeable in this club and besides, Jehan is wearing sturdy ankle boots that weigh down their feet at least a little.

“Having a good time?” Montparnasse mutters, holding them close against him as they move with the music.

“Yes,” Jehan sighs. “Yes, I’m…” They can’t explain what they’re feeling. It’s so much. They wish they could, they wish they could make Montparnasse understand, but- Jehan lifts their head and an eager smile spreads across their face. “I’m going to go get us another drink,” they say. “Hold on…” And they quickly slip out of Montparnasse’s arms and hurry towards the bar, glancing back laughingly when Montparnasse calls after them over the music:

“You better come back soon!”

Jehan sweeps up to the counter and leans on it, eyes still bright with their new idea.

“Having a good time, hon?” Maggie smiles.

“Yes,” Jehan says emphatically.

She chuckles.

Jehan glances behind her for a moment and then they ask: “Can I order something that isn’t on the menu?”

Maggie slants her head and gives them an appraising look. “Sure,” she says. “I like a challenge.” Her eyes narrow for a moment. “But I don’t do love, or lust, or anything like it.”

“Of course not!” Jehan says, startled.

She smirks. “You’d be surprised how many people ask.”

Jehan pulls a face, but then they smile and look back at Montparnasse. “I don’t need that anyway.”

She follows their gaze and makes a soft sound. “No…you don’t,” she hums thoughtfully. Then she turns her smile towards them again and asks: “So what’re you craving?”

Jehan smiles. “Freedom.”

Maggie’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Freedom…” she muses. “That’s not exactly an emotion.”

“Sure it is,” Jehan says. Emotion, feeling, it doesn’t really matter what you call it.

“Hm,” Maggie hums. She seems genuinely puzzled. “I get what you mean,” she says. “But…” She frowns. “I guess I could mix some boldness with a shot of euphoria.”

Jehan nearly clicks their tongue in disapproval. They don’t, but Maggie can clearly read their expression.

“Ok,” she says, a glint of ambition sparking in her eye. “From scratch it is  then. I’ll give it a try.”

“Mind if I watch?” Jehan asks politely.

“I insist,” she says, and she grabs a large glass and two bottles.

Jehan watches her work and breathes in the magic around her. The other drinks she made were made with showy sparkle, this time she’s really trying. Her magic feels heavier, slower. She really is very talented.

Maggie swirls the liquid in the glass counter clockwise and Jehan shakes their head. Her eyes dart up. “What?” she asks.

Jehan didn’t mean to tell her what to do, but it’s clear Maggie has already guessed they know much more about magic than she previously thought so they might as well. “You’re making liberation,” they say gently. “Not freedom.”

Maggie puts the glass down and looks at it. “What’s the difference?” she asks, fascinated.

“We’re all born free,” Jehan says softly. “Liberation shouldn’t be necessary.” That’s the thing about freedom. It’s a memory more than anything else. Of course you can’t make a shot of freedom like you can make a shot of happiness, but you can make something that makes you remember. If only just for a moment.

Maggie gives Jehan a long, penetrant look. Then she empties the glass, takes out a clean one and pushes it towards Jehan. “Would you?” she asks.

“Sorry,” they say, shaking their head. “I can’t.” They’re not quite lying, but what they should have said was ‘I shouldn’t’. Jehan is very glad it’s Sunday. If it hadn’t been they might be tempted to try.

“Alright…” Maggie says, grabbing the glass. “So, clockwise then.”

“Clockwise,” Jehan agrees.

She begins afresh and while she is working, Montparnasse comes up behind Jehan and drapes his arms across their shoulders.

“What’s taking so long, petit lutin?” he murmurs in their ear.

“Your date has issued me a challenge,” Maggie says, not looking up from the liquid spinning in the glass.

Montparnasse hums in surprise, but he keeps quiet, hugging Jehan from behind and watching Maggie work. Jehan wonders if he can feel the difference in her magic too, he’s quite sensitive to magical sensations for someone who doesn’t possess sorcery himself.

Under Maggie’s hands the water seems to grow thicker for a moment, she puts the glass down and straightens up, looking at it with a slightly glazed look. She hums and looks up at Jehan. “You realize I’m making a big exception here, right?” she says. “I usually do not serve things I haven’t tested and I don’t drink while I’m working so I can’t test it.” She gives Jehan another appraising look. “But I’ve got a feeling you’d know if I messed up.” She pushes the glass towards them.

Jehan lowers their head just a little and inhales. The magic buzzes at the back of their mind. “It’s perfect,” they beam. They look over their shoulder to grin at Montparnasse, who looks extremely curious. “Can you divide it across two glasses?” Jehan asks.

Maggie glances up at Montparnasse. “I take it you trust them?” she smirks.

“More than I trust myself,” he grins.

Maggie’s mouth twitches and she divides the oddly sparkling water among two shot glasses.

“Thank you!” Jehan says delightedly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Considering I probably got a new recipe out of this, it’s on the house,” she says, waving her hand.

Jehan smiles vaguely at her. Human magic does not work the same as faerie magic does, but still… “You mean it’s free?” they say.

Maggie gives them an odd look. “Yes,” she says. “It’s free.”

“Thank you!” Jehan repeats brightly and they grab the glasses ,while Montparnasse reluctantly unwraps his arms from around them.

“What did you ask for?” he asks, while Jehan gestures with their head towards a quiet corner to make him follow them.

Instead of answering they hold out one of the glasses to him and say: “This is what it feels like to be with you.”

Montparnasse gives them a bemused smile and they smile back.

“It’s not what I feel for you,” they explain tenderly. “It’s not what you make me feel. But it’s what it feels like to be with you. Just for a moment, when I’m not thinking.”

They raise the glass to their lips and Montparnasse follows suit. There’s a single beat of hesitation and then they both knock back the contents in one go.

Jehan’s eyes flutter shut as a flood of memories come rushing in to form one single glorious feeling. It’s running into the sunshine with their parents calling behind them, it’s leaping barefoot in the moonlight, it’s throwing open the doors to their very own café, it’s climbing the roofs of Paris with Feuilly, it’s singing at the top of their lungs, it’s pulling Montparnasse into a heedless dance, it’s declaring out loud that they’re Fae, it’s giving Montparnasse their real name, it’s looking into his eyes with nothing to hide.

With a sigh Jehan’s eyes fly open and they do just that, looking straight into Montparnasse’s eyes and seeing every feeling they just felt mirrored there. Before they can speak his lips collide with theirs and they’re swept up in a kiss that latches onto the magic like it’s magic itself. When they break apart, they’re both breathless and Montparnasse mutters, with a look that is almost painfully soft:

“I love you, Jehan.”

Jehan can feel their smile spread a warmth that wraps around the both of them. “And I love you,” they reply.

Montparnasse touches their face, smiling, before the softness melts into a grin again and he grabs their hands, pulling them back onto the dance floor.

Jehan laughs, singing the praises of love and freedom with every sound they make. They lift their head and dance. There is so much happiness inside them, so much magic and joy around them, that they do not even remember to mind the rhythm of their steps. Jehan’s feet are still safely laced up in their boots, but the more they dance the faster they move. Montparnasse keeps up with them, eyes shining and his hands never leaving their body. The top button of his shirt is undone and Jehan can just see the roses they know bloom all over his chest. For a moment they close their eyes and when they open them again it seems the entire club is dancing around them. The couches are empty, the dance floor is full and the air is full of elated energy.

Jehan isn’t dancing to the music coming from the speakers anymore and neither is Montparnasse.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” Jehan breathes, arms wrapped around him.

“And I yours,” he says with a grin and he pulls them into a kiss that puts even their dancing to shame.

[booksong]

Fic Writers Week 2017 Day 2

The Muses: Writer Prompt

Home Screen: An Add New Contact Companion

In December of 2014, I wrote Add New Contact as a gift for a Haikyuu!! Secret Santa exchange.  It was my first time writing Daisuga, my first time writing a full blown AU, and it was born from me coming up with a single line nearly every commenter seems to love: ‘Do it for the hot IT guy’.  I never in a million years expected it to become as popular and apparently as beloved as it is now, and I’m deeply touched and honored by the love the fandom has shown it and me.  For quite a while now I’ve toyed with the idea of giving it a short sequel just to peek back in, and then the Fic Writers Week Day 2 prompt came along asking for bonus content, and I figured that was enough of a sign.

So here’s Home Screen, a little companion ficlet to Add New Contact after nearly 3 full years.  I hope my readers and followers, who have been so kind, patient, and supportive of my writing, enjoy it!  It is also up on AO3 if you prefer to read there.

Daichi was sitting in his 8 a.m physiology lecture, passionately regretting this particular academic choice with every fiber of his sleep-deprived being, when he saw it.

He’d reached over his notes and tapped his phone idly to check how many more minutes of Horikawa-sensei’s droning about rhomboid muscles he’d have to endure, but the moment his home screen lit up to display the time (twenty more minutes), he froze.  He put his phone back down flat.  Very slowly, he leaned back in his seat, tipped his head back, and pressed both his hands over his face.  

It was far too early for this kind of thing.

Daichi lowered his hands to find the girl a couple seats down his row giving him a look that hovered between concerned and uncomfortable.  He gave her a pained smile that was probably not particularly reassuring, but he had his own problems at the moment.  He resolutely turned his phone over so the screen was facedown on the desk, and forced himself, red-faced and tight-jawed, to take notes for twenty more long, long minutes.  

When Horikawa-sensei finally dismissed them, Daichi fairly shot out of his seat, tossed his bag over his shoulder, and left the lecture hall walking double-time. He cut across the courtyard, wove around a knot of dead-eyed fourth-years clutching their coffees like lifelines, and made a beeline toward the university bookstore.

Gripped in the hand not holding the strap of his bookbag was Daichi’s smartphone.  It was close to brand new, just four months old—screen uncracked, battery near-full, already packed with photos, apps, and his favorite music.  It had never turned off on him when he needed it, and it had never been dropped from a second story window.

But it was, in its way, still giving him technical difficulties.  Clearly, he needed to see an expert.

  He had just taken his foot off the last stair and down onto the smooth polished wood floor of the bookstore’s lowest level when Tsukishima looked up and caught sight of him.

Daichi had been half-hoping someone one else would be working this morning—Yamaguchi, maybe, or even the IT desk’s newest recruit, a nervous little computer science student who was apparently excellent at diagnosing software issues when she could bring herself to look the customers in the eye and form complete sentences.

The look Tsukishima gave him was much more complicated than the simple disdain he tended to visit on the student customers who came in cradling headphones with frayed wires and blue-screened laptops. It wasn’t a particularly happy look…but at least it was perhaps quietly resigned.  Daichi would take what he could get.

“Sugawara-senpai,” Tsukishima said blandly, lifting his eyebrows a fraction and maintaining eye contact as Daichi approached, “It’s time for my break.”

“Hmm?” said the other tech on duty, glancing up from where his feathery-haired head was bent intently over the keyboard of a whirring laptop.  “Didn’t you just finish it a few minutes ag—oh.”

Sugawara Koushi, Daichi’s boyfriend of three months, two weeks, three days and now one morning class, closed the lid of the laptop in front of him and pushed himself around in his swivel chair.  He leaned against the counter of the circular desk, propping his elbows up and resting his chin casually on one hand.  It was a pose very reminscient of the first time Daichi had ever seen him, and he was probably doing it on purpose.

“Good morning, sir,” Suga said in his most cheerful customer service voice, “What can we help you with today?”

There was a brief moment when Daichi, fresh off an 8 a.m lecture and a minor heart attack, considered not playing along. But Suga’s eyes were grey-brown and warm and dangerously fond, and that thought didn’t last long.

“Well, you see,” he began, stepping up and placing his new phone on the counter between them.  Tsukishima wandered away and sat down heavily in another one of the desk chairs, picking up a set of expensive-looking headphones and apparently ready to tune them out entirely.  “I had a lecture this morning…a very early lecture that someone assured me I would be able to handle because I was ‘such a responsible student.’  But the thing is, I missed my alarm, so I was in a bit of a rush to class and wasn’t paying much attention to my phone.”

Suga nodded, his face fixed in the expression that Daichi was convinced could have won him any customer service postion on Earth, perfectly caught between genuine interest and innocent concern.  “Sure, okay.  Go on,” he urged, as if he didn’t already know where this story was going.

“So when I went to check the time during the lecture, I discovered that someone has apparently figured out my password.”  Daichi nudged the phone forward, tipped it toward Suga, and dramatically tapped the home button.

The phone lit up, displaying the home screen. Yesterday, the background had been a stock photo of a mountain meadow, all waving grass and almost clinically distributed wildflowers.  

Today, it was not.

Daichi knew exactly when Suga had taken the photo—about two weeks ago they’d had a movie marathon in Daichi’s room where they’d alternated picking titles, resulting in everything from a really emotional indie film to a hilariously bad horror flick to a documentary about the Olympics.  It had been probably the most fun Daichi had ever had watching movies with anyone, although over the past couple months he’d discovered that was true of a lot of things done in Suga’s company.

Sometime during the fourth movie Daichi had started to fade.  Leaning against Suga had been a thoughtless thing—first just their shoulders and arms touching, and then drowsily listing against him as his muscles relaxed further toward sleep.  

And then Suga had simply made it into the most natural thing in the world by draping his arm around Daichi’s shoulders and tucking his head in the dip between Daichi’s shoulder and chest, like it was nothing.  His hair smelled nice, like mint or coconut or something not fruity but still sweetish and pleasant.

Sometimes Daichi couldn’t believe this new chapter in his college life was real.  Cuddling still felt like a revelation.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, of course, but he’d woken up a few minutes later to walk Suga back to his dorm one block over, still apologizing for being the one to drift off and end their movie session.  It hadn’t occurred to him that anything had happened in the interim until he’d found the photo saved in his phone album.  

Suga had taken it with the arm not wrapped around Daichi, who was practically nuzzling him, face half-buried in his temple. It was not a flattering photo of him, but Suga’s smile into the camera was sleepy-warm and fond, and Daichi thought he might have been smiling a little himself in his sleep.  It was an honest kind of picture, maybe more so than the handful of couple selfies they’d taken so far.  So Daichi had kept it.

And maybe pulled it up to gaze at more often that he wanted to admit.

But he’d never expected to have it as his background.  That felt so public, so startling, like suddenly finding a poster that was hanging in your bedroom had been taped to your chest.  It wasn’t that Daichi regretted or wanted to hide anything about Suga or their relationship, it was just that he hadn’t expected to be confronted with exactly how embarrassingly sappy Suga made him feel at 8 o’clock in the morning in the middle of a hundred of his peers.

“I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid don’t see your problem,” said Suga now, apologetically, his grin finally threatening to overtake his playfully professional demeanor.  He flipped the phone so it was facing him and pretended to frown assessingly at the photo. “It’s a great picture.  If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you look absolutely adorable when you’re asleep.”

“Suga.” Somehow Daichi was finding himself smiling too, although now he didn’t know why he’d thought he could genuinely find a way scold Suga about this.  It was fine when he rehearsed it in his head, but being face-to-face with his boyfriend tended to make conversations he’d planned out ahead of time evaporate.  

In that way, not much had changed since their technologically disastrous but ultimately effective courtship.

“Daichi, your stock wallpaper was boring,” Suga insisted.

“How did you even get into my phone?”  Daichi shot back, unable to think of a good response to that—honestly he’d barely given his phone home screen a thought before today.  “Did you use some hacking trick you learned here?”  

“Your passcode is your birthday, which you told me on our third date.  I don’t need to hack your phone.”  Suga looked amused.  He stretched idly, which always made his employee polo shirt pull taut in various and pleasing ways across his arms, chest, and shoulders.  It was an extremely unfair tactic, especially since Suga now knew that Daichi had feelings about the polo and how he looked in it.

Daichi sighed, any residual exasperation deflated, and picked his phone back up to take another look at the photo.  Now that he wasn’t surprised and surrounded by classmates, he could appreciate the flush of warmth seeing it there made him feel. He found himself smiling at it again, the way he had in private, at the way they curved into each other, already so easy and comfortable.

“You do like it then,” Suga said, his expression and tone both softening.  “I was a little worried I’d overstepped again and you really were upset with me.”

“Considering if you hadn’t ‘overstepped’ the first time we might not be dating right now, I think I can forgive you.”  Daichi checked to make sure Tsukishima was deeply engrossed in his music and homework and that there were no other students in the area before he leaned across the counter and kissed Suga briefly.  Another thing he still couldn’t quite believe he could do anytime he wanted.

“Does that mean you’ll keep it?” Suga asked when Daichi drew back.

Daichi pretended to think hard, and Suga laughed and took his free hand over the counter, lacing their fingers together and stroking his thumb over Daichi’s wrist until he almost really did forget what he was pretending to ponder.

“I’ll keep it.  Until we take a better one, where I’m awake,” he said finally.

“I’m not sure that’s possible when you look that good asleep,” said Suga very seriously, and though his eyes had a teasing twinkle, Daichi got the feeling he wasn’t entirely kidding, and it made his cheeks and ears burn.

“Oh!  I almost forgot—for the responsible student who made it through another 8 a.m. lecture.” Suga went back around the counter and picked up a black and white paper cup stamped with the silhouette of a crow perched on the rim of a mug.  The lid was stoppered, so when Suga set it in front of Daichi and took the top off, a cloud of wonderful, cocoa-scented steam rose right into his face.

“You’re amazing,” Daichi half-moaned, inhaling deeply.  

“I had them put a shot of espresso in it, to get you through the rest of the day.”  

Daichi took a careful sip before leaning back over the counter to kiss Suga again, a little longer this time.  “I’m so glad I broke my old phone for you,” he murmured, tucking an escaped piece of Suga’s silvery hair back behind his ear.  They weren’t at the ‘I love you’ stage yet, but the statement was rapidly becoming something Daichi thought of as a stand-in for it, a fervent expression of just how thrilled he was that their unorthodox journey of pining, flirting, and reckless electronic endangerment had somehow worked out after all.

“What time is your next class again?” Suga asked, bringing him back to the reality of the school day.

“Noon—I have some free time.”  Daichi took another slow drink of the caffeine-spiked hot chocolate.

“Keep me company?” asked Suga, as they’d both known he was going to.  “Monday mornings are always slow.”  

“Tsukishima will give us dirty looks.”

“Let him,” said Suga breezily, shooting his younger coworker a glance.  “Yamaguchi-kun starts in an hour, he’ll mellow out then.”

Daichi couldn’t come behind the desk, but Suga let him have one of their comfortable wheeled chairs to pull up to the outside of the counter, so he could sip his drink and talk to Suga as he went back to work on the laptop someone had brought in the previous day.  

It would have felt impossible to him, just a few months earlier, that this could be his life.  Even as he’d been making a total fool out of himself for the chance to talk to Suga again, there had been a part of his brain insisting that this could only last so long, that he was wasting his time.  Now he needed no such excuses to visit the IT help desk, although he had kind of had one this morning.

Daichi reached out and tilted his phone towards himself, half-listening as Suga told him about the latest victim Nishinoya had pointed their way, a devastated freshman with a brand new Christmas gift smartphone like Daichi’s that had gotten left in a pocket and washed.  He glanced from Suga’s animated face as he dimpled at the memory of the student tearing up with relief and gratitude when offered the rice treatment, to the Suga in the photo on his home screen with an arm around him and his face fondly gazing into the camera as if to say how lucky he was.

His phone had helped him find Suga, and now it could remind him whenever he looked at it that sometimes, even impossible, foolish things could still go right.

Daichi was definitely keeping his new home screen photo.  Maybe even after they took a new one.

[ironstoutbrews]

Brewfest has Arrived!

Brewfest has arrived, and with it, a plethora of flavorful beers, delicious feasts, and games for those both young, and just young of heart!  Clan Ironstout has returned for it’s second year as an installment for the festival, located next to the Thunderbrew tent at the back of the Festival Grounds.  At their booth, there are a ton of fantastic volunteers, freshly tapped Ironstout beers, food supplied by the Cask ‘n’ Anvil, and activities to keep you busy for hours!

Keep reading for the menu, the game rules, and a full guide with details about the Ironstout beer-booth at the Festival!

Drinks!

We will be providing seven different beers from our own Ironforge Brewery, snacks and meals from the Cask ‘n’ Anvil, as well as tons of mini-games with our own set of prizes!

Beers provided include traditional recipes, both new and old.

Brewfest Märzen: Malty, sweet, and strong.  This lager has been fermenting in the cold snow of Ironforge since the Spring.  This is the featured Brewfest Brew!

Diamond King Kristallweizen:  A crystal clear wheat ale.  Light and crisp on the tongue, yielding a refreshing citrus flavor.

Anvilmar Altbier:  Copper-colored ale, brewed like a lager.  The lager fermentation leads to a crisper, cleaner beer with a muted fruity flavor.

Dun Morogh Doppelbock: A strong, malty, dark lager.

Bronzebeard Blonde:  An easy-drinking, golden ale.  Subtly sweet with just a pinch of bitterness on the finish.

Ironstout’s Iron Stout:  A rich, malty stout.  This brew is the clan’s flagship.  It resembles the color of Iron.

Snowdrift Shandy: An easy-drinking option at festivals, this half-hefeweizen, half-juice concoction is popular with light drinkers.

Food!

Food at this year’s Ironstout tent will once again be provided by Modarin Slatefist, owner of the popular Cask ‘n’ Anvil tavern in Ironforge.  The full menu has yet to be announced; however, several traditional festival snacks will be provided.

Brewfest Pretzel:  The essential Brewfest snack, complete with stone-ground mustard, or beer-cheese for dipping.

Giant Iced Cookie:  A rune-stone shaped ginger-cookie, iced with a personalized message!

Coldridge Cupcake:  Large chocolate cupcakes with fresh berry filling, straight from Coldridge Valley.

Games!

Once again, Clan’ Ironstout’s brewtent will feature games with several prizes.  We should have another Mekgineer’s Chopper, several souvenir steins, and magically created alemental pets to give away, along with many other fantastic prizes!

Make sure to come and participate in these mini-games to earn tickets for your prizes.  We will once again feature regular drinking contests, a drinking contest tournament, drunken ram racing, and drunken brawling!  You may also choose to bark for Ironstout’s Brewery for tickets, as well!  Who knows?  Will you earn enough to get a brew named after you?!  (Please see below about tickets.  They are for GHI and TRP3e users only.)

Drinking Contest:  Challenge up to three friends and drink ‘till ye drop!  Last one standing wins!  You may challenge your friends at any time!

Participants will receive 15 tickets, winners will receive 30!

Participants will be handed several mugs of Brewfest Beer!

When the hosts says “Round X!  DRINK!”  You’ll do as follows:

Drink your in-game brew > Roll 20 > emote the result.

The threshold to meet or beat is the round number + 4.

Round 1, you need a 5 or better.

Round 2, you need a 6 or better.

Etc, etc. until there is one person left standing!

If you fail your drinking roll, you gain a sick-point.

At 3 sick points, you spew your brew, or pass out!  Better luck next time!

Last one standing wins!

If the last few participants go out at the same time, the highest final roll wins!

Drinking Tournament: Same as the Drinking Contest, but will be held in brackets, and with great prizes!  This will only be held once on opening night!  This event will be hosted at 7:00 PM server time.

Winners of each bracket will receive winners of each bracket will receive 50 tickets!  Winners of the whole contest will receive 100, as well as a Mekingineer’s Chopper!  Runners up will receive Alemental pets!

The tournament will use the same rules at the standard contest.

The difference; however, will be that each bracket increases the starting number to beat by 5!  (It only makes sense, as you’ll be much drunker at this point!)

Bracket 1 - Round 1, meet or beat a 5.

Bracket 2 - Round 1, meet or beat a 10.

Bracket 3 - Round 1, meet or beat a 15.

Bracket 4 - Sudden Death

Drunken Ram Racing: While we do-not condone drinking and driving outside of Azeroth, doing so in Ironforge during Brewfest is to be expected.

Participants will receive 15 tickets, winners will receive 30!

Referees will be present to watch for cheaters, so no cutting corners!

The referee will tell everyone to begin!

Players will drink until they are “completely smashed!” and then mount up on a ground mount - preferably a ram.

They will then race their peers around Ironforge’s outer ring!

First one back to the referee at the Brew-booth wins!

Don’t hesitate, or you’ll fall behind!

The path of the race is posted below!

Drunken Brawl:  Strip down to just casual clothing and drink until you’re smashed!  Then challenge a friend to a fight!

Winners will receive 10 tickets!  Officially sanctioned fights only!

Official rules to come last minute! - Sorry!

Daily Quest: Bark for Ironstout:  (GHI USERS ONLY)  Take a ride around Ironforge, barking for Ironforge Brewery!

Quest completion rewards 35 tickets!

Players using GHI will receive an item called “Bark for Ironstout”

Players who are already mounted on a ground mount may begin the quest.  Those who are not will be automatically mounted on a ram - if they have one - and must click the item again to begin the quest.

Players will race around Ironforge, using the extra-action button to bark for the brewery near the designated flags.  They will gain a buff for each zone.

Once players have collected all four buffs, they may click the bark button one more time outside of the city to complete the quest.

Stay mounted the entire time, and do-not click off any buffs until you’ve received your reward, or you will be unable to complete the quest.

Pest Control:  Wyrmtongue demons, masterfully disguised as Dwarves, infiltrate the festival in an attempt to deprive the Alliance of their morale increasing holiday beer!  Be careful, however, because beer-goggle-vision helps to make the demon’s taped-on beards much more convincing.  Attempting to eject an actual drunken patron will result in a punch in the face!  (This special event will occur only once on opening night.)

Participants will receive 20 tickets!

Once the event occurs triggering this mini-game, participants will join a raid group for important in-character information.

Once the game is triggered, players will split into 5-man parties. 4 players to each volunteer DM.

8 markers will be placed around the festival grounds to represent potential pests.  Only 5 of these are Demons, 3 are plastered Brewfest patrons!

Players will RP to find out who is a demon, and who is a patron.  When they are ready to attempt to eject the pest, they will announce it to the DM of their group.

If the player attempts to eject a patron, they are punched in the face, and knocked out of the running!

Once all of your demons have been removed, your party may collect their rewards!

Prizes!

The games will yield their own set of prizes, including that of Brewfest Prize Tickets!  Prize tickets may be redeemed by any member of Clan Ironstout for prizes!

20 Tickets - Take home a crate of Ironstout beer!  Your choice of flavor!

50 Tickets - Take home a cask of Ironstout beer!  Your choice of flavor!

100 Tickets - You will receive a personalized souvenir stein!

200 Tickets - A custom beer will be brewed in your honor!  You choose the style of beer, too!

OOC Information:

We’re back!  Come visit us!  Can’t wait to see you.  This is an IC brew-tent much like the Barleybrews and the Thunderbrews, run by some pretty fantastic folks!

About Time and Location:  

ICly we will be in a tent like all of the others, but OOCly you will find us on the Podium where High Tinker gives his opening ceremony speech.

As far as hours of operation are concerned, I plan on running the booth every night that I possibly can; however, real life will - as I’m sure - get in the way.  Just check nightly, and there might be some RP going on!  

The absolute most important time to make it will be opening day:  September the 20th at 6 pm server time.

Lastly, keep in mind that on Saturday, September 30th, the Dwarven Clan Moot will take the utmost priority.  Brewfest goers will still get some attention; however, the Dwarven community has the evening reserved.  (Generally speaking, I also happen to run the guild hosting this month’s moot!)

About Add-ons:  

A lot of our RP is run via an addon called Gryphonheart Items, otherwise known as GHI.  It is a custom item generation addon that allows for all sorts of incredible RP.  While it’s not mandatory that you have the addon, to earn tickets and exchange them for prizes, you will be required to use the addon.

NOTE ABOUT GHI:  Currently the addon DOES work as long as you are not using other Bag addons. It is a little buggy, but you can access the main bag.  That said, there is a manual fix available >>>here<<< that completely fixes the addon!

I will personally be using TRP3′s about section for information regarding the festival tent.  If you want to see menus and everything, be sure to have a viable Roleplay addon!

About the Beers:

Beers provided will be GHI items; however, there are also in-game substitutes, as well.  Even if you don’t have the addon, please come RP with us! <3

About the Food:  

All food will be RP and in-game food only.  No GHI here!

About the Games:  

GHI will only be absolutely required for one of the games.  The rest of the games can be completed without addons.  This said; however, only GHI users, and TRP3 Extended users, will be able to earn Tickets and prizes from said tickets.

About the Prizes:

The prizes are a combination of actual in-game items, as well as RP prizes!  RP prizes can be used by GHI users, or just RP’d as well!

Special note about the drinking contest.  The drinking contest will be hosted fairly regularly, and is a /roll based system.  The prizes for the contest are very real, and the drinking contest tournament will only be held on the opening day, Sept. 20th..  The prizes for the tournament include in-game mounts and pets!

Thanks in advanced to everyone who comes to participate, and a special thank you to all of this year’s volunteers and sponsors!

@the-royal-courier

[evenstevensranked]

#27: Season 2, Episode 1 - “Starstruck”

Ruby desperately wants to win a radio contest to sit in on boyband BBMak’s recording session. Meanwhile, Louis finds an incredibly lucky penny and milks it for all it’s worth.

Wow, guys! Season 2 opens with the BBMak/Lucky Penny/Louis gets a makeover and looks smokin’ hot and Ruby develops a crush on him and I'm like "girl, same" episode!!! Let’s do this.

Alright, so within the first minute of this episode we learn that Ruby is absolutely obsessed with BBMak (a boyband that actually existed and is now unfortunately so irrelevant that some younger viewers of today assume they're a fictional band) and she’s trying to win a contest to go to their recording session when they come to Sacramento. She’s been listening to the radio on her pink, cheetah print walkman for hours on end trying to make sure she’s the lucky caller. Ren is concerned that her intense devotion may not be healthy.. but, Ruby insists she’s not obsessed with them. Her bedroom and behavior says otherwise: 

At school the next day, Louis ends up finding a lucky penny which leads him to experience the best few days in a row ever. It kicks off with him narrowly escaping death and his big history test being canceled due to their teacher’s monkey having babies. The usual. If you binge watch the show, like I’ve done more times than I care to admit, the first few seconds of this scene are shocking because Louis' voice is obviously deeper and he looks obviously older. Yet according to Disney logic we're supposed to believe he's still in 7th grade, lol nah. Maybe at least the second half of 7th grade... We've gone over this before.

Louis seconds away from potentially dying over a penny.

Like I've mentioned, Disney is notoriously bad at airing episodes out of order. So here, we get an episode featuring Ren’s old friend Nelson. The only issue is that this aired 6 episodes before Thin Ice, which is Nelson’s formal introduction. The only explanation I can think of for this is that the Disney execs thought the BBMak thing would make a stronger season opener and switched up the airing order after they were already shot sequentially. I guess they assumed, or hoped, no one would notice or care that there's a new character we've never seen before just chilling with the gang like BFFs lol. According to Wiki at least, Season 2 was aired horrifically out of order when you compare the production code to the number it aired in the season. Like, WOW. For example, this episode was shot as Episode 13. I think that says it all.

No wonder Louis seems so jarringly older in this episode. He’s totally younger in the episodes that were supposed to air during the front half of S2.

Anyway, both Ren and Nelson are concerned about Ruby’s wellbeing now. She has practically turned into a fanatic zombie. They approach her and she says “I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. Do you really think I wanna chat?” completely zoned out of her mind. Yeah, I’d be worried too. We also see that she’s not doing her schoolwork either. Her entire binder is full of BBMak, including this rather disturbing pop-up: 

Continuing his string of good luck, Louis gets to eat Principal Wexler’s extravagant birthday lunch for whatever reason and ends up winning a free fashion makeover courtesy of "Fruity Fruit Cocktail." ....ok. Tawny starts to get freaked out and Twitty simply says "I'm starting not to like you" which is understandable, because Louis is quickly slipping into another arrogant phase due to all of the luck he's been having.

Ren and Nelson give Ruby an intervention to stop her ridiculous obsession with BBMak and wanting to marry one of them. Why is this something that never goes out of relevancy? This is still happening today. It’s perhaps more relevant than ever with the rise of internet fandoms and socials like Tumblr. Teens are literally spiraling into genuine insanity over bands like never before. As long as there are teen idols, there will be teen idol fanatics. Can’t really go wrong with a plot-line like this. Ren tells her "You deserve a real life person who's gonna be perfect for you" - Ruby agrees and decides to turn over a new leaf.

The new and improved made-over Louis comes waltzing in, and just like that Ruby replaces her BBMak obsession with a Louis obsession. She’s just blown away by his beauty. Same, tbh. Y’all already know that I HAD THE BIGGEST CRUSH AND THIS EPISODE KILLED ME!!!! Now that I think about it, this very well might've been the episode that solidified my everlasting fondness for Shia LaBeouf.

This isn’t even overdramatic. Ruby is so me. 

Even Ren and Nelson tell Louis that he looks stunning! Well, “stunning” was Louis’ word, not theirs. They just agreed with his conceitedness, lol. Suddenly a bird comes flying into the house and lands on Louis’ shoulder. Of course, it happens to be Pecky -- a missing bird with a $50 reward. OF COURSE!

The next day, Ruby happily tells Ren that she has officially moved on from BBMak. There’s a new guy in her life! Ren is so excited until Ruby reveals the new object of her affection to her: 

Um, is this my room circa 2001 or Ruby’s? I honestly can’t tell. Also I would so buy that big’ol poster of Shia on her closet door. That thing has made a few appearances throughout the series. It’s kind of iconic looking, don’t you think? Maybe that’s just me... 

Just thought I’d mention: Ren asks her “How did you get these pictures?!” and Ruby explains “I downloaded them from the internet. Louis has a very interesting website.” Do I even want to know? Aside from the implied potentially disturbing content, part of me wishes Disney had some sort of interactive fake louisstevens.com website or something like Nickelodeon did with amandaplease.com! 

Tawny insists that Louis' lucky streak is nothing but “admittedly weird coincidences,” until Louis calls in to win the huge BBMak contest and......... wins. I love how he acts so blasé about it. The DJ is so excited and Louis is all "Eh.. What can I say? This whole charmed life thing is getting kinda old." Also, the DJ in this scene, who appears two more times in the series, was one of the many actors recycled for That’s So Raven. He played a news reporter on that show. Similar field. Huh. 

Ren believes that Ruby is simply rebounding with Louis and decides to show her his nasty bedroom to make her realize she doesn't actually like him. Ren also tells Ruby that he’s rotten and selfish, which... Is kinda true sometimes, oops. But at the same time, that scene always makes me a little sad inside. Louis is a good guy at heart, Ren!!

Just then, Louis appears in the doorway asking "What are you doing in my room?" and we get this incredible exchange:

(credit)

Louis then proceeds to very unselfishly invite Ruby to the BBMak recording session which only reinforces her crush on him. 

Okay. We finally make it to this darn recording session! Thank god. Louis might as well’ve brought his entire extended family because he brought four freaking people along with him like it’s some free for all. You usually don’t push your luck when you’re gifted something like that... but, oh yeah. Lucky penny. I freaking love this bit where Ren whispers to Ruby “Woo! He’s gorgeous...” referring to Christian from BBMak, and Ruby says “I know.......” in reference to Louis! LOL. 

Ren is so disgusted and once again Ruby is me.

Shia has been gorgeous in my eyes for nearly my entire life!!!!!!!!! Apparently I'm weird because I've seen so many memes about him that say things like "He was that ugly, weird kid on Even Stevens and then he magically became good looking" I'm just sitting here like??? Y'all are about 14 years late to the party.

Louis and Twitty get distracted by a table with free cheese on it, which honestly is the best part of any and every function or gathering. Not even gonna lie. While hanging around the cheese table, Twitty decides to seize the opportunity and give BBMak an Alan Twitty Project demo tape of “Sacramento Girl.” (YESSSSS!) They lie and say they’ll check it out — but immediately stuff it under a block of cheese. As a musician, I can confirm that this is too real. It’s impossible to get successful/established artists to take you seriously. I met Fall Out Boy at a local radio junket once and slipped Pete Wentz a demo. I never heard anything, sooo... It stings to know that he most likely hid it under some cheese the second I left. 

BBMak are looking for a ‘Sacramento sound’ (whatever that is) and encourage Louis to play some tambourine on their track! They tell him “If this works out, you could come on tour with us!” If only it was that easy to land a national gig in real life. Ruby mentions in passing that she needs to tell Louis how she feels, and TAWNY IS NOT HAVIN’ IT! Omg. She kinda gets jealous of Ruby’s crush and they start a small argument over him. Ren cannot believe what she's witnessing and I love it. Also, Christy looks fantastic here? Whoever did her hair and makeup: Good job!! wow!

Unfortunately, Ruby’s attraction to him is short-lived and comes to a screeching halt the second Louis loses his penny during his tambo solo, jumping around like a lunatic with no rhythm. (Again, HOW does he become a drummer later on? It’s a mystery.) It’s very subtle, but you can tell once Ruby starts finding Louis "odd and annoying," that Tawny is secretly happy about it and still obviously likes him unconditionally even though he's literally insane. Same, Tawny.

So, yeah. Louis loses his penny and his luck runs out. BBMak basically kick him out of the studio. I love how Louis asks them “What about the record and the touring?! What about BBMak-Stevens?!” as if the conversation ever went that far. It’s great. I might’ve spoke too soon about Shia being gorgeous because the faces he makes when he realizes the penny is missing from his pocket are the furthest thing from the adjective: 

It is hysterical, however. And that outweighs everything else here, so.

This episode ends on an AMAZING note: A super cringy music video for “Sacramento Girl”! What more could you ask for?!?! We get some Twitty-Stevens Connection action here and it’s something to behold. 😂  Be on the lookout for Shia doing his classic “shirt-over-the-head” thing he does, HAHA. You can tell some of the vocals were done by middle-aged men (probably Jim Wise) which makes it even more hilarious. My favorite lyric has got to be the Grammy award worthy: “Before I met the girl I had it made... Now she scores higher than the whole arcade. YEAH!” And of course, the episodes’ immortal last words "TAKE THAT, BBMAK!!!!" will go down in history.  

That’s it! I honestly don’t even know why I’m ranking this one “lower.” It’s probably one of my personal favorites but.. Idk man. There are simply other episodes that I like more, lol. This is a totally solid episode though! Super memorable, pretty strong humor (including music-related humor... which you know I love!), and two awesome plot-lines that blend really well! But, even with all of that.. something felt slightly flat about it when re-watching. It could possibly just be from me watching these episodes waaay too much, tbh. It also probably has something to do with it being a “special” episode with guest stars and whatnot. Episodes like that tend to feel like totally separate things to me. 

At this point, we’ve officially reached the REALLY REALLY GOOD part of the list, though. So I don’t feel too bad about placing it here. There are no “bad” episodes from here on out. Well, there are no bad episodes of Even Stevens in general really. But.. you guys know what I mean.

I’m probably gonna regret and rethink this entire list once I finish it anyway so, lol. 

Thanks for reading! 

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[owl-elementary]

Bachelorette party. ...Or parties?

Santana was feeling rough. But she didn’t want to miss brunch with Rachel. It was probably the only uninterrupted alone time they’d have for the next few weeks until their wedding.

She dropped into a booth next to Rachel and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Morning, angel.”

“You sound like hell,” Rachel giggled. “Good night? Did Quinn keep you out of trouble?”

“Quinn was the source of all our trouble. Do you know what a Black Superman is?”

“I’m guessing a drink, and beyond that, I don’t think I want to know.”

“How about you. Did you have fun?” Santana raised her sunglasses a fraction and frowned. Rachel looked like she had gotten a full night’s sleep - the exact opposite of what’s supposed to happen at a bachelorette party. “Babe?”

“Umm…you haven’t checked Instagram this morning have you?”

Santana whipped out her phone, and spent the next few minutes scrolling through her soon-to-be-wife’s profile. Sure, the pictures were kind of funny, but…. “What happened?”

Rachel laughed. “Well…after you guys left, London informed me that we were starting the party there in my suite….”

*

Rachel knew that Santana didn’t trust her college friends. When you get a bunch of artists together, there’s bound to be drama. But Rachel was curious to see what they had in store for her that night.

“Okay, Rachel,” Sara the Cellist said, brandishing a fluffy fairy wand. “We have cake - vegan of course - and then a little surprise before we head out.”

“I’m ready for whatever you’ve got!” Rachel said, genuinely excited. Then she got a look a the cake.

It was a giant penis.

Rachel couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing, and whipped out her phone. Her friends were already five drinks in, and didn’t even mind her Instagramming the cake with the caption “Friends forgot I’m not marrying a guy. #theforgottengaybachelorette”. She took a slice anyway, impressed that the thin vein was filled with raspberry jam.

*

“What the hell?” Rachel asked, twenty minutes later.

A long line of male strippers was currently entering the room. Each was dressed as a cowboy, and they all had their eyes on her. She knew where this was going, and cut it off right away.

“Oh boys? This night may be for me, but I want to show appreciation to my bridesmaids. Go on over to them.” Rachel breathed a sigh of relief when all but one complied.

The last one, a tall, muscular black man with dreads, tipped his hat to her. He said, in a dreadful southern accent, “ ‘scuse me ma’am, but I’m Mandingo. I’m your personal manservant tonight.”

“Mandingo?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Like they really call you that.”

Mandingo looked pleasantly puzzled for a moment, but answered. “Yeah. All the other ‘black names’ were taken.”

“Bullshit. My daddy is black, and I’m offended on behalf of both of you. If they’re going to bring color into it, AND make you cater to horny white girls all night? They could at least be creative. Can we think of something else? Like…why not… MochAdonis or something?”

“Wait… like Mocha plus Adonis?” Mandingo, now MochAdonis, beamed. “I love it. Done. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, but sit next to me and watch this madness unfold.”

“Gladly.”

*

“So then we got into the party bus,” Rachel explained as Santana facepalmed. “They’d been talking about Cirque Gothica for a while, so I was excited to do that. But we didn’t go see Cirque…”

*

“Thunder Down Under? DID YOU ALL FORGET THAT I’M GAY?” Rachel yelped.

“Yuuuur not completely gay,” Andra the Opera Singer slurred, hugging Rachel. “Yuuuuuu dated boyz in high school.”

Rachel made a note to cut off the alcohol as the four artists dragged her to the male strip show. She was happy to see that MochAdonis, now hired as her bodyguard for the night, was keeping up with them and looking amused.

*

“Seriously?” Santana asked, and then immediately regretted the outburst. Her head was throbbing. She gave Rachel another kiss on the cheek when the younger woman pushed a glass of water and some Advil toward her. “So what happened next?”

“I was determined to be a good sport. And stay sober so I remembered all the stuff they wouldn’t. Plus, MochAdonis dropped the horrible southern accent and we were new besties. So we went to the show. Well, halfway through, I had to go to the bathroom. He stood guard outside. When we got back to the private booth….”

*

“Wait…where’d they go?” MochAdonis asked, voicing Rachel’s concern.

“Oh sweet Barbra, they’re drunk and loose in Vegas!”

MochAdonis grinned at her. “If I doubted you were gay, artistic family, the Streisand reference would’ve sealed it. Come on, let’s find your girls.”

They rushed out to the lobby, and decided to divide and conquer. MochAdonis looked at the bar and coat check, while Rachel glanced outside.

“They’re not there,” MochAdonis said.

“The bus is gone,” Rachel said, sadly. She tried not to cry, but she couldn’t help the tears that welled up in her eyes. She’d just wanted to have a fun night with the girls….

“Oh no,” MochAdonis said. “No, no. Not on my watch, honey. Go on and get your jacket, and let me make a phone call. I’ve got you, little cousin.”

Rachel retrieved her jacket and took a moment to update Instagram with the latest. Her #theforgottengaybachelorette hashtag had taken off, and more than 5000 people had liked her photos of the night so far. She wandered back outside, and was shocked to find MochAdonis standing next to a cherry red Maserati.

“My lady,” he said, opening the door for her. “Let’s party.”

“How did you get a Maserati on short notice?”

“I’ve got a friend who rents cars. You said you wanted to see Cirque Gothica, right?”

“Yeah…but the show is probably over by now.”

“The public show, maybe….”

*

“What can I get you to drink, lovely bride?” the bartender asked.

Rachel was overwhelmed. Private Cirque de Solei parties? Beyond epic. “Um…whatever you have that’s non-alcoholic.”

“Oh, being good before your nuptuals, I see. Don’t you worry - I’ll make you something delicious and fruity, like yours truly.” He began mixing various fruit juices and sodas together until they made a rainbow. “For you, love. And congrats!”

“Thank you!” Rachel turned to MochAdonis. “And thank you! This party is great!”

“No worries,” he said, smiling kindly. “Come on, the Gothica cast is about to do their thing on stage B.”

*

“Is that where you met the drag queens?” Santana asked, holding up the phone to show another Instagram shot.

“Yep! Ambrosia Suede and Jade Caliente were darlings!”

“So then what?”

“Well, we started early in the night, but by that time it was about 11 o’clock. So I asked MochAdonis what was one thing that I had to do before I left Vegas.”

*

“Ayyyyyyyyyyyyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!” Rachel screamed as she flew through the mall down the zipline. She could hear MochAdonis on the other line laughing jovially. She put her hands out in front of her, Supergirl style, and enjoyed the rest of the ride.

Later, as MochAdonis walked her to her room, she turned and gave him a quick hug.

“Really…you made tonight everything,” she said, beaming. “Who knew runaway bridesmaids were a thing.”

“Or that you could recover from them,” he said.

“I know this is probably not allowed, but…I feel like I can’t thank you properly if I don’t know. What’s your real name?”

“Kevin,” MochAdonis said. “Kevin Turner. I do family-friendly parties too, if you ever need a magician.” He handed her a card and gave her a wink. “Goodnight, Rachel. Congrats on getting your girl.”

Rachel watched him go and headed into her suite. She selfied before bed, with the caption “#theforgottengaybachelorette is in for the night. Shoutout to my cousin, MochAdonis, for a fantastic evening.”

[morgaine2005]

Tressia BACC: Pirate Code Religion

So, since I also created the Place of Worship for the followers of the Pirate Code this round, I figured I should probably get this up.

Unfortunately, I have no pictures to convince you to read.

So let’s see who clicks on the read more!

First of all, a fair warning – I’ve had a bit of a change of plans in how religions are going to run. Originally I wanted to do a total of 8 religions (5 for the main hood, plus 1 for each Maxis vacation destination), but the mod isn’t letting me do that. So, we’re just going to stick to the five main religions: Peteran, Jacoban, Pirate/Viking Code (Three Lakes), Four Ideals (Twikkii Island), Morgaine (Takemizu Village).

And a note about names: the followers of the Pirate Code have 2 main geographic bases: Three Lakes and the wretched hive of scum and villainy known as Aarbyville. In Three Lakes their religion is known as the Viking Code, in Aarbyville it’s the Pirate Code. But it’s the same faith (ish) in either place.

That being said, let’s move on.

Religious Figures

-- Not every religion has to be about a Deity, but there has to be some kind of central figure holding the code together, even if this figure is a philosophy, a list, or a celestial body. 

Is this religion built around a single god (monotheistic), many gods (pantheistic), or are there even gods at all (philosophical religions, ancestor veneration)? 

The religion encompasses both a code and some gods. Let’s do the gods first.

This religion is … basically pantheistic, according to the second definition I found on Google: “worship that admits or tolerates all gods.” Followers of the Pirate/Viking Code (seriously I’m getting sick of typing “followers of the Pirate Code,” so, Pirates) believe that just about every god or god-like figure worshiped by someone, somewhere is real. However, they don’t necessarily believe that any of the gods is all-powerful. In fact, they think that most gods are quite limited in power, or at least more limited in power than their followers would like to believe.

Except, of course, one god, the one they worship:

The Grim Reaper.

(Sorry, Hat, this might end up sounding a bit similar to your Cult of the Grim Reaper … hope you don’t mind …)

Now for the code. Since (spoiler alert) all of the main Tenets are set to Allowed, the code consists of five precepts:

It is better to dance on the knife’s edge than to throw yourself on your sword.

This is the heart of the philosophy of the Pirate Code. Pirates understand and accept that death is inevitable. There’s no knowing where or when it will come, only that it will. All of life is lived on a knife’s edge – so you might as well have fun with it. Take risks, do crazy things, follow your passion wherever it leads you. To do anything other than live life to the fullest in the time you are given is a sin and frankly, in their view, a form of suicide.

Question not others’ bliss.

Pirates, for the most part, do not stigmatize certain Wants or Aspirations as sinful or unholy. As far as they are concerned, all Wants are valid and worthy of pursuit. If someone wants to spend their time indoors maxing all seven skills, you don’t judge. Marry off six kids? Don’t judge. Fifty first dates? You get the picture.

However, though you are not supposed to question/criticize the Wants other Sims get, you are perfectly free to gossip about/make fun of them for the way they go about fulfilling them. An example: You can’t make fun of Don for having an LTW to Woohoo 20 Different Sims. However, if Don is woohooing Nina and gets caught by Dina, Cassandra, Kaylynn, and/or Bella – or all of them at once for maximum zaniness – and gets himself slapped silly and/or beaten up as a result, you are allowed to gossip about him and laugh over his misfortune. Because you’re not making fun of the Want, you’re making fun of the dumb way Don went about attempting to fulfill it.

Treat others as they would treat you.

Pirates have heard of the Golden Rule (the “treat others as you would like to be treated” one, not “he who has the gold makes the rules” one). They think it’s nice in theory, but woefully inadequate in practice. There are too many Sims out there who are mean, small-minded, bigoted, and worse. Why be nice to them if they aren’t going to be nice to you?

Granted, this type of thinking can lead to some circular reasoning (I am a bit of a jerk; other Sims are mean to me because of my jerkiness; therefore, I can be a jerk to them), but Pirates don’t really worry about that. Life is too short. But some nicer Pirates will adapt this rule to a philosophy of “do no harm but take no shit” or “Pirates don’t start fights, but they can finish them!” if they prefer to live a quieter life and get along with the neighbors. This is perfectly acceptable (see: question not others’ bliss).

Give no quarter, but show no cruelty.

If another Sim gets into it with a Pirate, that Sim can expect to be dealt with without mercy … to a point. Pirates believe in proportionate justice and letting no insult go unavenged. But there’s a limit. You are allowed to do what you must to solve a problem and render the other Sim unable to mess with you, but you can’t go beyond that.

An example: the fight between King Arthur and the Black Knight in Monty Python & the Holy Grail. King Arthur dismembering the knight was a-ok under the Pirate Code – the knight started it and wouldn’t leave Arthur alone until he was legless and armless. But if Arthur had defeated the knight and then pulled an Obi-Wan on him, that would be wrong. Dismemberment would be cruel and unnecessary.

This rule also accounts for Pirates’ obsession with fairness in combat and other venues. Generally, you are not allowed to pick on Sims who have no chance of retaliating against you/defending themselves against you (unless they started it, see treat others as they would treat you). To get into it with Sims who cannot fight back is cruel.

Render unto the Reaper that which is the Reaper’s.

Pirates are the Grim Reaper’s chosen people. By allowing them to worship him, he frees them from the silly dictates and killjoy commandments of other gods. In return, all he asks for is a modicum of respect. If the Grim Reaper has claimed someone as his own, you don’t mess.

What “mess” means is a matter of some debate. Most Pirates do not view medicine and first aid to be “messing” – the afflicted Sim might die or not, that’s up to the Grim Reaper, but there’s no harm in trying. Even using Elixir of Life might be forgiven; you’re not making yourself immortal, you’re just putting off the indignities of old(er) age. It’s raising the dead/joining the undead that is more problematic. Most Pirates would be categorically against the use of the bone phone. Spells such as Expello Mortis and Vivificus Zombiae would also be taboo, though some Pirates will do them anyway and say they’re just dancing on the knife’s edge (more detail when I get to witches & wizards). The place where things get really thorny is concerning how vampires and zombies should be treated – which will be discussed in more detail once I get to that point. What's the Deity (central figure) of the religion like? If the Deity is more like a philosophy, what's involved in the philosophy? 

Tough, but fair is the best way to describe the Grim Reaper (at least in the eyes of Pirates). The Grim Reaper shows mercy to no one. His scythe falls on young and old, rich and poor, beautiful and ugly (perhaps slightly sooner on the ugly; this is the Sims), smart and dumb (again, slightly sooner on the dumb), etc., alike. No matter who you are or what you have or how many people love you, the Grim Reaper is coming for you, and you cannot escape him.

But at the same time, the Grim Reaper is not cruel, and it can be said that he has an appreciation for style. Those who have taken their time on this earth and lived, he rewards richly, with a chorus of hula zombies to guide them to the afterlife as well as a nice suitcase and a fruity drink with an umbrella in it. While this mostly occurs with the very old, Pirates insist that anyone who “dies in glory” gets similar treatment, even if witnesses can’t see the hula zombies, etc., as they do for the old.

Pirates believe that the Grim Reaper does not punish – it’s no punishment to get the treatment you were going to get no matter what you did. But he does reward, if you really, really earn it. If there's a pantheon, who else is in it? What are they like? (If you don't have specific ideas yet, get down broad strokes-- 'the pantheon is basically the Deity's family and extended family,' or 'it's less a pantheon and more a lot of nature spirits'-- both work well and leave you room to edit or add more so you don't write yourself into a corner.)

In terms of the entities the Pirates worship, the hula zombies are the main other members of the pantheon. Pirates see the hula zombies as being the Grim Reaper’s faithful companions and assistants. They don’t have names or separate personalities. Instead, they join the Grim Reaper to shepherd deserving souls into the afterlife.

Pirates also believe that just about every other god – the Watcher, the Demigoddess, the Four Ideals – exists. They generally take their followers’ word for it when it comes to the characteristics and personality of each individual deity. (Admittedly, Pirates aren’t sure what to make of the Watcher, given that Jacobans, Peterans, and followers of the Demigoddess all say such different things about nominally the same figure. But they also don’t really care much.) The caveat here is that they don’t believe any of the gods are all-powerful or even mostly-powerful. Rather, they think that each god only has power over his/her particular followers. In fact, they believe most “gods” are actually powerful Fae who have managed to channel the belief of Sims into greater magical power for themselves.

The exception to this rule of course is the Grim Reaper. He’s acknowledged in one way or another in just about every religion, so the Pirates reason that the Grim Reaper must be more powerful than all the other gods. (Some even think that the Grim Reaper has the power to kill other gods if he chooses – and some think that this has already happened to gods who are no longer worshipped.) And the Grim Reaper has chosen the Pirates as his people. If the religion is monotheistic, are there other non-central figures that are more divine than mortals but less divine than the deity? If so, what are they like? Are any of them adversarial to the Deity?

N/A, or at any rate I explained that above. Do the figures of the religion, if there are multiple figures, have associations? What sort of pattern do those follow? (Thor, god of thunder or Jude, patron saint of lost causes, or the Olympian model, where top-tier gods have less-specific associations than lower tiers, so you have the God of the Sky, the God of the Sun, the Goddess of Rainbows, et cetera...)

Not really – it’s just the Grim Reaper, the hula zombies, and the gods of the other religions.

Followers

-- Most religions exist (and persist) for the same handful of reasons: to explain the unexplainable, to offer comfort in difficult times, and usually to provide some kind of moral framework for the faithful. What does the religion promise to gain or retain followers? Does religious doctrine revolve around hope, fear, love, retribution, power, defiance, something else?

“Defiance” actually sums it up quite well. At their hearts, Pirates believe that the universe is cold and unfeeling. Crush it down to powder, and you won’t find one atom of justice or one molecule of mercy (to paraphrase Sir Terry). But their religion is a way of raising a big ol’ middle finger to the universe. “You might not care that we’re here,” the Pirates say, “but we are, and we’re going to make the most of it.”

Pirates don’t often find that their religion makes them kinder, or more considerate, or, well, nicer. But they’ll all swear it helps them live more fully. How does the religion attempt to explain the unexplainable, the seemingly random, and natural disasters? How would religious doctrine or tradition answer when asked "Why did Bob get struck by lightning?"

In short: life’s a bitch, and then you die.

Pirates don’t necessarily look for deeper meaning in the random and inexplicable; at least, they don’t look for a religious meaning. (Those of a more scholarly bent may try to study the natural world to see if there are natural causes that can be understood and explained.) Though the Grim Reaper shows up when Sims die, Pirates don’t necessarily believe he kills Sims or has any control as to when and where their deaths will occur.

If anything, they subscribe to a version of chaos theory – the one where a butterfly flapping its wings in Asia causes a hurricane in the Caribbean. They believe there’s simply too much going on with the natural world and with powerful Fae-Gods manipulating their followers to try to suss out a cause for every effect. Instead of tying your brain in knots, it’s best to take a deep breath and move on. How does the religion comfort its believers and see them through in difficult times? If Bob dies of an infected guinea pig bite, leaving Betty widowed, what does religious doctrine say she should do now? Does it have any instructions for her neighbors, friends, or relatives (by blood or through Bob, or both if there's a difference)?

The first line of comfort comes from looking at Bob’s life. Did Bob live as deeply, as fully as he could before dying of his infected guinea pig bite? Did he chase his Wants and Aspirations as hard as he could? If the answer is yes, then Bob lived a good life, and at the end of the day that’s all you can do.

The second line of comfort comes from trying to figure out what you, personally, can do to change the situation, make it better, or just escape it. Pirates aren’t much for wallowing and grieving (at least not in the doctrine). This can lead to some unhealthy coping mechanisms, but Pirates generally assume they don’t have time for grief and will do whatever is necessary to move past it.

The Pirate Code doesn’t particularly have instructions for Betty’s friends and neighbors and relatives – the Code is a very individualistic religion. If it does have instructions, they would probably be to try to take Betty out of herself as much as possible. Yes, Bob was a good husband – but Bob is gone now. It’s time to move on. What's the religion's overall moral code? What does 'be good' mean to the religion, and what are the consequences of failing to be good? If the religion bans Theft (hypothetically), what does its doctrine say awaits Betty if she steals Sylvia Marie's lawn gnome?

Being “good” means following the Code and doing your best to life a full, exciting life – to make the most of every minute you’re on earth (in the neighborhood?). Failing to follow the Code leads to a terrible sin: wasted time. And you only get so much time on this earth, so what are you doing wasting it?

Basically, the fear of every Pirate is to come to the end of their life and find, instead of a fruity drink with an umbrella in it and some hula zombies, an hourglass running on empty. Following the Code gets you hula zombies. Not following the code … doesn’t. Are transgressions against other mortals considered more or less serious than transgressions against the Deity (or the central philosophy)? If the religion bans Same-Sex Romance (hypothetically), what does its doctrine say awaits Melissa and Claire if they have sex?

Transgressions against the Grim Reaper (i.e. render unto the Reaper what is the Reaper’s) are viewed much more seriously than transgressions against mortals. It’s hard to sin against other mortals under the Code (other than being excessively cruel, which might lead to unpleasant real-world consequences but probably won’t piss off the Grim Reaper too much).

But taking back from the Grim Reaper what he has claimed? Are you nuts? Is that something you really want to play with? Now, it’s said that no one (living) has ever seen the Grim Reaper mad … but nobody wants to, either. They’re not sure what he will do, but they’re pretty sure it will be bad. Very bad.

Mythology

-- Most religions have some mythology attached. These stories help to codify a religion's explanations, comfort, and morality, but also teach worshipers why deities should be respected, feared, or loved. It isn't necessary to know all the stories right away (in fact, it can be better not to, so you can write yourself out of corners later), but broad strokes of the mythology are good to know especially any stories that are likely to be reflected in daily life or regular worship. What are the bones of this religion's creation myth? Who made the world? Why? Is the central figure the same figure who made the world? Why or why not? What's the world made out of? Why are things how they are?

The first thing to remember about the creation myth is that believing in it is not compulsory. There is a higher proportion of first-generation converts among Pirates than there are among religions like the Peterans, Jacobans, or even Four Ideals. Many of these converts still believe in the creation myths of their childhoods/forefathers, and Pirates are fine with that as long as they don’t try to force those beliefs on anybody else.

But most Pirates who are raised in the religion believe this. There is a race of higher gods that are outside the Sims’ world (not to be confused with the Fae-gods) who were playing a game with clay figurines. They’d created a little world for their figurines. Because they were gods, this world was incredibly detailed vivid, with trees and plants, bushes and flowers, animals, and more.

And then they somehow brought their figurines to life. Some say it was a stray bit of magic that did it, some say that a trickster god did it, others say that a god accidentally sneezed on the figurines, and, well if the breath of a god brings things to life, a sneeze ought to.

Some Pirates think the gods are still out there, watching the game that came to life, and moving the pieces along the board or tweaking the natural world to make things more interesting. Others think that the gods got bored as soon as they couldn’t control the figurines anymore and moved onto something more interesting. And still others think that one of the gods volunteered to come into the little world and keep an eye on the figurines, shepherding them through this life and into the next world … and that figure is the Grim Reaper.

But none of the Pirates really knows, and they’re ok with that. Most of them would also be ok with switching to a more scientific view of the universe, should one become available. What are some of the prominent myths besides the creation myth? Broad strokes are okay.

Probably the most prominent is the myth of the founding of the religion.

The story goes that a tribe of beleaguered Sims, the Muendas, were chased from their homeland by another tribe, the Grunts. The Muendas were led by an old woman named Ophelia. She managed to bring them to a land in the far frozen north. It was so cold there that spring and summer never came, only fall and winter. There they tried to make their home. But the land was harsh and unforgiving, and their band of survivors was having a difficult time, well, surviving.

One day when Ophelia wandered from the camp to see if she could find some herbs or the tracks of a beast they could hunt, she found out why. The Grim Reaper appeared to her, scythe in hand, and blocked her path.

“Is it my time, then?” asked Ophelia, for she was very old and had seen the Grim Reaper many times before.

“NO,” said the Grim Reaper. “AT LEAST, NOT YET. WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

Ophelia raised an eyebrow. “At the moment, I’m trying to find some food for my people. Would you happen to know where it might be located?”

“THIS LAND IS NOT FOR YOU.”

“Pardon?”

“THIS LAND. IT IS NOT FOR SIMS. IT IS MY OWN KINGDOM AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD, WHERE I GO WHEN I WISH FOR PEACE. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”

“The Muendas are not welcome anywhere,” Ophelia replied. “Sims have chased us from east and from west, from north and from south. We are here because we have nowhere else to go.”

“GO BACK. ONLY DEATH AWAITS YOU HERE.”

And Ophelia’s eyes flashed. “Death awaits us everywhere! The Grunts of the south have taken our lands, stolen our corn, enslaved our sons and daughters. Those they do not enslave, they slaughter. What can you do to us that they cannot?”

The Grim Reaper raised his scythe menacingly.

Ophelia laughed. “Do you think you frighten me, Reaper? Ha! I have buried two husbands. My sons are slain in battle, by daughters slain by their sides or else gone before. All I have left is a granddaughter, Willow, and the child she carries. Even if you cut me down now, it is a better fate than that which awaits me if I turn back and bring my people back with me.”

The Grim Reaper slowly spun the scythe between his bony hands. “THIS LAND IS NOT FOR SIMS,” he repeated. “LIFE ITSELF EXISTS ON A KNIFE’S EDGE HERE. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN SURVIVE?”

“No one survives – at least not for long,” Ophelia fired back. “As for me, I should rather dance on the knife’s edge than fall on my sword. If we fall to cold and famine and wild beasts, what of it? At least we spent our last days in freedom, if not in plenty.”

The Grim Reaper did not answer. If anything he seemed taken aback. And then he vanished.

Right behind where he had been standing on the path was a patch of red onions, still somehow growing despite the cold. Ophelia filled her basket and hurried back to the encampment.

Somehow after that survival grew easier, though far from assured. The Muendas made it through that first harsh winter and survived into the fall that followed. The tribe found it easier to discover herbs and beasts. They began to grow their own crops.

Sometimes, when Ophelia wandered from the encampment to search for food or scout the terrain, she would see a flash in the air, like light reflecting off a metal blade. Whenever she followed the flash, she would always find something that would help her people.

Seasons passed. And eventually the warlike Grunts caught up to them. The Muendas were at the edge of the world; there was nowhere else to run.

So they stood their ground and fought. And they discovered something.

That which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.

The Muendas had spent season after season eking out survival in one of the harshest places known to Simkind. They were lean and hardy, tough as the hardiest oak yet pliant as the willow. And their backs were against the wall. If they lost this battle, they would lose everything.

The Grunts didn’t know what hit them.

And when the battle was over, when the Muendas stood victorious and the Grunts were in full retreat, the Grim Reaper appeared.

“HALT!” he said, and the Grunts halted.

“KNOW THIS. THE PEOPLE YOU HAVE ATTACKED ARE MINE. THEY HAVE COME TO MY LAND, THEY HAVE DANCED ON THE EDGE OF THE KNIFE. AND THEY HAVE SURVIVED.

“THEY HAVE EARNED THE RIGHT TO SETTLE HERE AND PUT DOWN ROOTS. AND THEY HAVE EARNED MORE THAN THAT. THEY HAVE EARNED MY PATRONAGE. ANYONE WHO ATTACKS THEM, ATTACKS ME.”

The surviving Grunts were terrified, and when they fled, they spread word of the Muenda’s fearful patron far and wide.

Free from outside harassment, the Muendas had a chance to not only survive, but thrive. Though the land remained cold and harsh, they became skilled hunters and skilled farmers. They also developed fast, sleek ships that they sailed around the three lakes that surrounded their new homeland. Sometimes they took their furs and metals on these ships and traded them with other Sims for things they could not grow or hunt or produce themselves. Other times, the loaded their ships with their hardiest warriors and took what it was that they wanted. Unlike the Grunts, who fought and conquered and held onto lands, they engaged in quick raids – in and out, like lightning, sailing away with the loot before the enemy even knew what had hit them. They called these raids “Viking.”

But whether they sailed to trade or to raid, they always sailed under a black flag with a white design chosen to honor their patron: the skull and crossbones.

And as the Muendas grew stronger, Ophelia continued to see and converse with the Grim Reaper. It was she who handed down the Code that belonged to their people. She said it came from the Grim Reaper, and she may have been telling the truth, but then again she may not have been.

It was ten years after her first conversation with the Grim Reaper that Ophelia saw him for the last time. She was sitting near the door of her cottage, the largest in the Muendas’ little village, shelling peas. Her great-granddaughter Peponi, the child Willow had been carrying, sat by her side and helped her.

Ophelia was content. Her tribe had grown strong, their numbers swelled both by others escaping the Grunts and through natural growth. The warriors had just returned from their first successful raid, the ships full of treasure and useful goods. Willow had spoken in Ophelia’s place at the last council meeting. She was doing well and would continue to do well.

Then Ophelia and Peponi together heard beautiful music playing, music they had never heard before. And before them appeared the Grim Reaper, flanked on both sides by beautiful caramel-skinned woman with black hair and dark flashing eyes. Though it was cold, they wore skirts of grass and brassieres of coconuts. The Grim Reaper was holding a drink in one bony hand.

“OPHELIA OF THE MUENDAS, IT IS TIME,” the Grim Reaper said.

“Time for what?” asked Ophelia. “And who on earth are these ladies?”

“NOT FOR WHAT – FOR WHOM. IT IS TIME, OPHELIA, FOR YOU.”

“… Oh.”

“AS FOR THESE LADIES, THEY ARE HERE TO WELCOME YOU TO YOUR REWARD IN THE NEXT LIFE.” He held out the drink. “SO COME, OPHELIA. YOU HAVE LIVED A GOOD LIFE. YOU HAVE DANCED ON THE KNIFE’S EDGE BETTER THAN ANY OTHER MORTAL I HAVE KNOWN, AND I HAVE KNOWN A GREAT MANY MORTALS.”

And even though Peponi was starting to cry, and even though Ophelia’s joints were painful and arthritic, and even though Ophelia was very, very tired, a burst of energy rushed through her, and she sprang to her feet and took hold of the drink.

Or at least … the part of Ophelia that made her Ophelia sprang to her feet, leaving only the worn-out husk behind.

And through her tears, Peponi saw her great-grandmother – young and vibrant, as she had never seen her in life – walk off with the Grim Reaper. Just before Ophelia faded away forever, Peponi saw her great-grandmother take a sip of the drink the Grim Reaper had been holding.

“Say, this drink is pretty good,” Ophelia was heard to say as she began to fade. “What’s in it?”

“APPLES,” the Grim Reaper replied. “WELL … MAINLY APPLES.” What does the religion's mythology have to say about the afterlife? What happens to the soul or spirit after death? If ghosts are allowed to roam free in your game, how does this religion explain them?

Unlike, say, the Jacobans or Peterans, who place a great deal of emphasis on the afterlife, the Pirates’ religion is not afterlife-focused. They do believe in an existence after death. They believe that the dead are chained to this world after they pass, bound to forever exist in the area near where their mortal remains rest. They cannot interact with the world other than to occasionally scare passing Sims.

But it is not all grim and hopeless. Pirates believe that the favored dead who get to drink the Grim Reaper’s drink (called “scumble”) as their spirits are freed from their body have much greater freedom of movement. They can go over all the world, observe everything, and see everything they had not a chance to see while they were living. It’s not as good as getting to live again, but it sure beats being stuck in the graveyard forever.

In order to earn a sip of scumble, a Sim has to die “in bliss” – either at a ripe old age in platinum mood, or in some way that shows they were living until the last possible moment. So death in battle counts, execution under some circumstances might count, even death after a “hold my beer” moment would probably count. Death from an infected guinea pig bite or from burning the spaghetti? Not so much.

However, there are some Pirates who think that the souls the Grim Reaper has favored are allowed to return to the world for another shot at living, though other Pirates think these Pirates are out of their minds. Most Pirates focus on living as much as possible now, because they do not believe something better awaits them after death, and they are not going to assume that they will get another chance.

Tenets

-- G-Rated and Original (with the Original romantic and sexual Tenets included to help round out the Religion. They're useful, they just conflict with things). Banning is always a flat ban, but allowing can mean anything from 'this religion encourages that' to 'this religion stays out of that.' WRATH: Does the religion ban or allow outbursts of temper, aimless rage, or shouty tantrums? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

Pirates see no reason to bottle their rage and wrath. The Grim Reaper doesn’t much care about it, and plenty of Pirates think it’s better to deal with those types of emotions as quickly as possible so that one can move on and work on solving the problem at hand. Plus, let’s face it, it just sucks to not be able to get where you need to go, and shouting a bit makes you feel better. THEFT: Does the religion ban or allow taking things that belong to someone else, whether or not you can make use of them yourself? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

“Treat others as they would treat you.” Pirates trace their religious lineage back to a people who had everything stolen from them. They firmly believe that given the chance, most Sims would take everything they could from the Pirates, so they don’t see a problem “repaying the favor.” However, some Pirates believe that stealing from people who could not afford the loss is cruel, so they are careful about whom they steal from (or don’t steal at all, especially if they live in an area where the local authorities frown on that sort of thing). VIOLENCE: Does the religion ban or allow hostile physical contact, everything from a mean poke to make a point to feeding someone to a cowplant? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

Again – “treat others as they would treat you.” The Pirates live on a knife’s edge much of the time. Violence sometimes is just how you survive.

In areas where Pirates have control of the legal system, violence is even a key part of it. Trial by combat is a favored means of resolving disputes for some crimes. (Yes, some things are against the law, even in Pirate-controlled areas.)

Finally, there are some Pirates who take the worship of the Grim Reaper to extremes that even other Pirates see as unhealthy. Some Pirates are desperate for visions of their god, and as all Simmers know, there’s only one foolproof way to get the Grim Reaper to show up on a lot (without cheats): kill someone. So yes, there is a subculture of what’s best described as ritual murder, but this sort of thing is disavowed by most Pirates as being extremely bad for PR. INDISCRETION: Does the religion ban or allow rude behavior that may be incidental or harmless as easily as petty and mean? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

Pirates would roll their eyes at anyone banning Indiscretion. What’s the harm of an occasional dirty joke? And streaking sounds like a lot of fun when you have enough rum in you. Life’s short. Live it up! DISRESPECT: Does the religion ban or allow intentionally mean, sometimes petty, always insulting acts against others? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

Again, Pirates are rolling their eyes at religions that ban things like kicking flamingos, pranks, and soaping fountains. There are some Pirates who specifically go around soaping the fountains of religions who don’t like Disrespect. Life is too darn short not to laugh at the occasional Ventrilo-fart. ADULTERY: Does the religion ban or allow married people from romantic and/or sexual activity outside their marriage? Why or why not?

ALLOWED … with caveats.

“Give no quarter, but show no cruelty.” Most Pirates believe that cheating on a partner who isn’t expecting it or who hasn’t okayed it is cruel. If you can’t be monogamous, you shouldn’t be with someone who desperately wants it from you. So most Pirates get around this one of two ways (should they be inclined toward Adultery in the first place):

Open marriage arrangements (different from Polyamory below in that all parties aren’t necessarily part of the marriage)

Making sure the spouse/partner NEVER finds out about the cheating.

Some Pirates mix 1 and 2 by allowing for cheating ONLY when a couple is separated for long time periods (i.e. when one half of the couple is out Viking or being a pirate). When the couple is reunited, they generally follow a DADT policy on what happened when they were separated.

FORNICATION: Does the religion ban or allow unmarried people from sexual activity? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

You remember that part in the Austin Powers movie when he’s asked, “Sex?” (i.e. male or female) and he says, “Yes, please!”?

That’s how the Pirates see Fornication. SAME-SEX ROMANCE: Does the religion ban or allow romantic and/or sexual activity between two members of the same gender (lesbian, gay, or same-sex bisexual)? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

“Question not others’ bliss.” You want to bump uglies with someone who has the same set of uglies as you do? It’s none of the Pirates’ business. Unless of course you need someone to come to your wedding and drink all the good liquor and streak through the proceedings and make out with the mother of one of the parties behind the cake. Because if that’s what you need, the Pirates are happy to make it their business. POLYGAMY: Does the religion ban or allow plural or group marriage (multiple spouses, of either gender, at once)? Why or why not?

ALLOWED

Again, “question not others’ bliss.” Pirates see no problems with these kinds of arrangements, as long as everyone who is in them is happy.

Practical Matters

-- These aren't playable Tenets no matter which version of Religion you use, but it's still important to ask. Where is the religion originally from? Has it spread? Dwindled? How does its origin affect its doctrine?

The religion is originally from the land of Three Lakes, far to the north of Tressia, but you can find adherents to it in pretty much all lands – even Yacothia, for all that Pirates in Yacothia tend to be quiet about their religion.

The other major locus of the faith is Aarbyville. Aarbyville was founded by Vikings. It’s one-half of an island (or possibly an entire island; I will figure this out once I find a good neighborhood map for Gastrobury/Aarbyville), so the Vikings found it convenient to have a colony closer to civilization (so to speak). (Note: The island was completely uninhabited when they colonized it.) Today the two areas aren’t joined politically, but they do share a faith and culture.

As for how its origin affects its doctrine – the Pirates originally hail from a harsh, cold land where life is cheap and death is cheaper. It’s this memory of survival on the knife’s edge that animates everything they do. Does the religion have any local political influence? If so, how much influence, and how does the religion use that influence?

Right now, the Pirates only have one official adherent in Tressia – Edelle Finbor, the town thief. (And she keeps getting converted to the Peteran faith whenever I turn around.) Their political influence is … well, nil. But this could change someday! Does the religion have any local cultural or social influence? If so, how much influence, and how does the religion use that influence? Does culture and/or society have as much or more influence over the religion than it has over either of them?

In Tressia, the Pirates have very little social or cultural influence. Though this could change now that they have a Place of Worship (the Pirates’ Wharves). If anything, the Pirates’ influence exists on the edges, in the voice that whispers that freedom is just over the horizon if you’re strong enough and brave enough to chase it.

Most of the influence that the culture and society of Tressia has over the Pirates is convincing them to go underground and keep their views to themselves. But again, this could change – especially once Aarbyville gets annexed, or more Sims visit Three Lakes. Is marriage a religious matter? Is divorce? Are there religious requirements for an engagement, marriage, annulment, or divorce?

Marriage and divorce are not religious matters. In Three Lakes, marriage is regulated by the state. There are contracts drawn up, dowries exchanged, etc. In Aarbyville, things are a bit more casual – Aarbyville sees a lot of people “just passing through” and not necessarily so many permanent residents. But in Aarbyville, a couple (or threesome, foursome, etc.) deciding to settle down might have a big party and invite the whole block to come and celebrate their union(s).

In both Aarbyville and Three Lakes, however, marriages can only be conducted between people who are legally able to consent – i.e., adults.

Divorce is similarly handled by the state, as most marriage contracts in Three Lakes will have clauses explaining under what circumstances the marriage can be dissolved. (Usually “by the consent of both parties” is enough, though there are also some circumstances like adultery, abuse, etc. that allow a marriage to be ended even if one party doesn’t consent to it.) In Aarbyville, things are, again, more casual – usually a divorce happens when spouse has had enough and throws the other one out of the house.

In Tressia, if a Pirate wants to get married, they have a couple of options. One is to marry another Pirate in an informal handfasting. This marriage will not be recognized by the authorities in Tressia, which means that any children resulting from the marriage will not be considered legitimate and will be members of the Outlaw class. However, divorce will be a lot easier, since as far as the authorities in Tressia are concerned, the couple was never married in the first place.

The other way is to pretend to be a Peteran/Jacoban and get married in one of their churches. While this will confer legitimacy on any children, it does have the potential to blow up in the Pirate’s face if things go wrong.

The third option is to elope with the fiancé(e) and claim that they were married in a church elsewhere. I’m not sure that Brother Cernin or Shepherdess Alayne would put the time and effort into checking up on this. Well, Shepherdess Alayne might, but Brother Cernin probably wouldn’t. Still, this could blow up in the Pirate’s face if things go wrong. Is interfaith marriage allowed? If so, are there any special requirements for it? What are they and why? If interfaith marriage isn't allowed, is converting to marry allowed? Why or why not?

Interfaith marriage is a-ok. “Question not others’ bliss” and all. While some Pirates would wonder how well a union like that could last, depending on the religion of the non-Pirate party, most of them would recognize it’s really none of their business.

(Not that this’ll prevent them from gossiping/pointing and laughing if it all goes wrong. Because it won’t.) How does religious doctrine define virtue? How does it define vice? Does it have a concept of sin? Are there any particular prohibited behaviors beyond the official Tenets?

Virtue, to Pirates, is freedom. Virtue is following your bliss wherever it may take you. Virtue is courage, is defiance, is facing the world with a grin and a mocking, “Is that the worst you’ve got?” Virtue is drinking life to the dregs and spitting those dregs in the face of anyone who’d tell you differently.

And vice is the opposite. Vice is going along with the herd, in stifling yourself to please others. Vice is living your life according to someone else’s idea of right and wrong. Vice is ignoring what you really want and behaving yourself into the grave because you’re sure there will be a pie in the sky when you die. Vice is being so certain that you’ll be given your reward in heaven that you ignore the great gift you’ve been given here and now, i.e., the present.

Beyond all that (and now for something completely different), most prohibited behaviors have to do with the 5th precept: Render unto the Reaper’s what is the Reaper’s. Using the bone phone is banned, as is bringing back zombies using Vivificus Zombiae. Expello Mortis also sometimes comes under this category. Pleading for the life of a loved one is frowned upon, but some Pirates reason that if the Grim Reaper really wants that soul, he’ll take it no matter what your Sim says. Elixir of Life just barely squeaks by as acceptable for a couple of reasons: 1) given my aging mod, the 3-5 days you gain from a single dose are the equivalent of a few months/just over a year, so, no big deal, and 2) Elixir of Life doesn’t really keep you from dying, it just keeps you from aging and getting wrinkly. Are there any particular activities the religion prohibits only at Places of Worship? Is there an expected manner of dress at Places of Worship?

There are three categories of Places of Worship. One is the Temple of the Grim at Three Lakes. (Which I have to think up what that’s gonna look like and … you know … build it …). The next category is made up of the various taverns, thieves’ dens, etc. across the land. Pirates believe that anywhere multiple Pirates are gathered to eat, drink, and be merry (i.e. enjoy life) is a Place of Worship. The last Place of Worship is the meeting places of those Sims who tread the darker type of Pirate-ism … the part that involves chasing visions of the Grim Reaper.

At the Temple of the Grim, solemn reflection is encouraged. Sims who come here generally dress in their best and at least attempt to behave themselves. For many Pirates, seeing the Temple of the Grim is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so they can keep a lid on it for a few hours.

In the various taverns, etc., anything goes! The rule is “come as you are and do as you please.” (Which means if you’re a bookish Sim who prefers a quiet evening at home to a riotous night on the town … maybe you won’t stay long.) The only thing that won’t be tolerated is not enjoying yourself.

As for the areas that the darker sects use … it’s best to follow the house rules there, whatever they happen to be, or else you might be the one summoning the Grim Reaper to see the group … Who builds and maintains Places of Worship? Where do the funds to do so come from?

The Temple of the Grim was built by the Vikings of Three Lakes, using funds and treasure taken from defeated enemies. It was considered fitting at the time to pay back the Grim Reaper using some of the spoils from victories he sent them. Today Vikings still donate part of the spoils of their victories to the Temple.

As for the taverns and bars, those tend to be private businesses (even if they’re freebie lots, I’m just going to say they’re owned by some of the Population Multiplier Sims). They charge for drinks, food, room rental, etc. and run the way any bar, inn or restaurant would.

The areas run by the darker sects … well, they tend to be frowned upon by the local authorities, so, the first criteria is that they are in places where the local authorities won’t go. So they could be a member’s basement, or a remote part of the woods, or an old abandoned warehouse. So I guess the answer to this one is YMMV – it very much depends on the circumstances. How does the religion deal with abandoned, unwanted, orphaned, or imperiled children among its followers? Does the religion have any influence over what happens to them at all? (This may vary depending on your game setting and how reflective of reality it is. The US stopped using orphanages altogether in the late 1970s and switched to the foster care system, though not every TV writer has picked up on the change.)

How much influence Pirates have over abandoned/unwanted/imperiled/orphaned children depends on where these kids are. If the kids are in Three Lakes or Aarbyville, Pirates will have some say in what happens to the children. The authorities in Three Lakes will re-home children when necessary. The same thing will happen in Aarbyville.

Outside of Three Lakes and Aarbyville, Pirates have very little official influence over what happens to imperiled children of their number. This doesn’t always stop them from taking matters into their own hands – whether by “dealing with” the parties imperiling the children, or, if the children have no one to care for them, taking the kids in and giving the finger to any authorities who might have different ideas.

Pirates also tend to be relatively welcoming of runaways and stowaways, at least, if they can be convinced that the kids in question are running away from thing worth running away from (and not just exhibiting poor decision-making skills). Many Pirates started out life as runaways and stowaways themselves. To abandon a child in need, especially a child running away from something horrible, is cruel in many Pirates’ eyes. (“Teenager” also counts as child in this formulation.) What are the religion's views on each of the playable supernatural life states (aliens, zombies, vampires, servos, werewolves, plantsims, Bigfoot, witches and wizards)? Why does the religion have those views? Are any life states favored over the others, or over regular Sims? Are any life states looked down on or forbidden from the religion?

Fae/Half-Fae: Pirates have no official issues with these Sims. Even though Fae are very long-lived, Pirates know they can die, so they’re not exactly flouting the Grim Reaper just by existing. Half-Fae are seen as the same as regular Sims. Of course, some Pirates – like those who got abducted when they didn’t want to be – might have problems with the Fae, but that’s, well, life.

Zombies: Pirates have … issues with zombies. They believe that zombies, by the mere fact of their existing, are breaking the 5th precept. However, one thing that Pirates keep in mind is that zombies generally didn’t ask to be resurrected that way and often had no choice in the matter whatsoever. So some Pirates believe that zombies can get a sip of scumble if they manage to die in bliss, but it’s harder for them than regular Sims (because death by old age is off the table).

Vampires: Pirates believe that vampires are flouting the 5th precept just by existing, especially those who were turned by choice. Most Pirates will not react well to a vampire. They also believe that it’s impossible for a vampire to get a sip of scumble when they die, no matter how blissful their death. But the exception to this is vampires who were turned involuntarily and are seeking a cure. Pirates are much more likely to help those vampires.

Servos: Pirates follow the duck rule when it comes to Servos: i.e., Servos act like Sims, talk like Sims, feel like Sims, have Wants and Fears like Sims – so they’re Sims. And Servos can die, so it’s not like they’re flouting the Grim Reaper just by existing. Pirates are likely to be welcoming of Servos, especially if they’re fleeing mistreatment at the hands of other religions.

Werewolves: Pirates also have no problems with werewolves. Some are likely to admire werewolves’ ability to let their inner beast out in the most literal of fashions. As long as the werewolf doesn’t maul the entire crew, they’re good with Pirates.

Plantsims: Whether Plantsims happen to follow the Four Ideals or now, Pirates have no quarrel with them. True, they might roll their eyes at Plantsims’ squeamishness when it comes to violence, but for the most part, Pirates see Plantsims as good if rather naïve souls.

Bigfoot: Since Bigfoot is a native of Three Lakes, Pirates tend to get on quite well with him. He’s welcome to join the crew if he likes, or if he’d prefer to stay in his cave, that’s ok too. “Question not others’ bliss” and all that.

Witches & wizards: Let’s get one thing straight: Just being a witch or wizard is not enough to get you on any Pirate’s shit list. The only time Pirates have issues with witches and wizards is if they’re performing one of two spells: Expello Mortis and Vivificus Zombiae. Pirates see both as interfering with the Grim Reaper’s business. Now, Light witches and wizards will insist that Expello Mortis is not interfering with the Grim Reaper’s business, as any Sim who they save using that spell is only mostly dead, which as we all know, means slightly alive. (Whether Pirates accept this is up to the individual Pirate.) Dark witches and wizards are more likely to justify their Vivificus Zombiae spell by claiming that they’re dancing on the knife’s edge. If the Grim Reaper has a problem with it … well, he knows where to find them.

Does the religion offer sanctuary? If so, are there eligibility requirements for it and what, if any, are they?

Since the Pirates are very loosely organized, they don’t really offer sanctuary on any kind of official basis. Which isn’t to say that individual Pirates won’t help individual fugitives from the law whom they find to be sympathetic, because they totally will. But it’s not so much “sanctuary” as, “Here, hide under these blankets while I lie to the guards until I’m blue in the face.” In this case, the eligibility requirements are whatever it takes to arouse the sympathy of the individual Pirate.

Aarbyville also offers sanctuary of a kind to anyone who makes it to their shores – mostly because they don’t extradite people to other countries. If they have a problem with you, they will let you know and deal with it themselves. If they don’t, you’re free to stay in Aarbyville as long as you like.

Clergy

-- You can't designate them in the mod, but you might want them in your game. "Clergy" is used as a gender-neutral term despite the Christian shadings, intended to designate Sims who help manage the religious needs of their community in some way, putting the 'organized' into 'organized religion.' Does the religion have clergy at all? If so, what are they called? If not, how do Sims manage their own religious needs?

Outside of Three Lakes and the darker sects, there really aren’t any clergy members for the Pirate faith. Sims manage their own religious needs by living life to the fullest and teaching the kids the precepts of the Pirate faith. Things are deliberately kept simple because most Pirates don’t want clergy. They don’t like the idea of people telling them what to do or interpreting their religion for them. Who is eligible to join the clergy? Is anyone barred from it? Why?

In Three Lakes, clergy members are the shamans who oversee the Temple of the Grim. These are free to be both men and women. Sims who have “receptiveness” to the Grim Reaper are eligible. In practice, “receptiveness” can mean magical talent or an experience with the Grim Reaper before hitting the teen years. Being able to claim descent from Ophelia the Muenda is also helpful, though not in itself sufficient.

Clergy of the darker sects tends to be … self-selected. Usually one Sim will be determined to pursue visions of the Grim Reaper and will gather around him or her like-minded Sims. These sects tend to be small and short-lived: short-lived because local authorities everywhere tend to frown on serial killers, and small because, well, local authorities everywhere tend to frown on serial killers, and three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. (Also, these sects sometimes end up being “a religion for life but not for long,” which also keeps numbers down.) What does the clergy do? What rituals does the religion have that might require clergypersons to participate in? What duties do they have, sacred or secular?

In Three Lakes, the clergy runs the Temple of the Grim. They also conduct the rituals surrounding the dead and dying, from helping to prepare the dying for the end to overseeing the cremation of the dead. (Pirates cremate – they believe that this can stop someone else from bringing them back as a zombie. Burial at sea also works if they’re in a situation where cremation isn’t wise … like aboard a wooden ship.)

In terms of the darker sects, the clergy would conduct the rituals of initiation and all the rituals of summoning the Grim Reaper. They’d also have the duty of keeping the sect from being discovered by the authorities. Are there different levels of clergy? If so, what are they?

In Three Lakes, there are shamans and shamans-in-training – other than that, no real levels.

In the darker sects, there will probably be one lead clergy member and several acolytes. But these darker sects tend to be making things up as they go along, so what levels exist within the clergy vary from sect to sect. What do laypersons expect of the clergy?

In Three Lakes, the laity expect the clergy to keep the Grim Reaper happy enough that he doesn’t decide to wipe out the kingdom all in a go. The Grim Reaper is pretty chill, so this usually is not a difficult task. But in times of war/famine/plague, the clergy will probably get an earful from the laity about “why is this happening” and “what exactly are you doing to stop it?”

As for the darker sects … well, the vast majority of the laity don’t know they exist. As for the few lay people who do, they expect their clergy members to keep the Grim Reaper showing up on schedule (and to keep the rest of them from being caught by the local authorities). If they fail in this, they might end up making the Grim Reaper show up – just not in the way they planned. Are any vows attached to joining the clergy? If so, what are they? Is the clergy expected to do anything in particular differently than laypersons?

I have a hard time seeing Pirates being cool with the idea of vows. The only Sims I can see requiring vows are the darker sects, and those vows would be more around the idea of secrecy, with consequences for spilling the beans spelled out in excruciating detail. How are clergypersons fed, clothed, and housed? Not only in terms of special proscriptions, but-- are clergypersons expected to pay rent/bills? Grow or buy their own food? Make or buy their own clothes? In whole or in part (cassocks provided, boxer shorts not)? If the clergy isn't expected to be self-supporting, where do the funds and/or goods to support them come from?

Shamans are supported by booty and loot from successful Viking raids. The Temple gets a cut of the loot, and shamans are supported off the cut the Temple takes. Since they run the Temple … they pretty much get all of it. Shamans also may be supported by gifts Vikings make as thank-yous for a successful harvest, hunting season, etc.

As for the clergy of the darker sects, well, how they fund themselves varies from sect to sect. But let’s just say it’s a bad idea to leave a bequest to a member of one of the darker sects. If you do, you might end up getting an up close and personal experience with the Grim Reaper.

Ritual

-- Because raising Faith can just be talking to other Sims of the same religion, but it doesn't have to be. Remember, a ritual can be as elaborate as an official coronation or as simple as blowing out the candles to Happy Birthday To You. Does the religion require regular meetings to worship, or is private worship enough? Either way, how do members worship?

Pirates do enjoy communal worship in terms of meeting at their Places of Worship (i.e. bars and taverns), but it’s not really a “requirement.” The Grim Reaper doesn’t particularly care if you worship him or not, and Pirates are well aware of this. To them, worship is living life to the fullest, in whatever form that might take.

In Three Lakes, communal worship at the Temple of the Grim isn’t required – most of the time, if you want to give thanks or ask for favor, you’ll drop off your sacrifice/offering and trust the shamans to take care of the rest. The rest of the time, they’re off living their lives.

As for the darker sects … communal worship is definitely A Thing with them. And I’m sure you know exactly what it entails. Are there any regular rituals for the average meeting or private worship session? If so, what are they? 

Pirate worship sessions in bars and taverns tend to be casual and low-key. But one thing that tends to indicate that this is a worship session and not just another night at the pub is the singing. What, exactly, is being sung depends on the singer. Sometimes it’s a rousing epic, sometimes it’s an old-fashioned sea shanty, sometimes a rowdy folk song. But if a Sim ever stumbles upon a bar full of half-drunk Sims singing a strange song that they somehow always know the words to, they’ve found their way into a Pirate worship session.

As for the darker sects, their worship sessions tend to vary from sect to sect. But the central part of it is always the vision of the Grim Reaper – which means that part of it always involves some poor Sim getting to know the Grim Reaper very, very well. Does the religion have any holy days (holidays)? If so, what kinds of holidays are they? What do they mark?

Pirates don’t really have set holidays. They tend to take their celebrations as they come, since the idea of putting off a party is anathema to them. Most of the time, Pirates will set aside time to celebrate whenever they have a triumph – whether that triumph is a bountiful harvest, a successful raid or voyage, or a wedding. Does the religion require any special observances of holy days, if it has them (feasting, fasting, celebrations, obligatory services or personal rituals)? If so, what are they and why are they required? Are there optional special observances for some of the holy days? If so, what are they and why are they optional? Why would someone choose to observe them or not observe them?

N/A Are there ritual requirements, observations, purifications, or optional blessings for significant life events (birth, age transition, death, marriage, divorce, illness, miscarriage, sex?)

Birth: Not really. The family might throw a feast or a party to celebrate the new arrival, but there aren’t set rituals for it.

Age Transition: Again, a successful age transition might be a great excuse for a party, but there aren’t particular rituals for it.

Sex: Pirates would think anyone interrupting sex for a religious ritual is out of their mind.

Marriage: In Three Lakes, a marrying couple might make an offering at the Temple of the Grim Reaper for luck, and there are secular festivities and celebrations. Other than that, not really.

Divorce: No real ritual for it, although if one of the parties is really pissed, they might make an offering at the Temple of the Grim for bad luck for their ex, or hand their name off to one of the darker sects …

Illness/Miscarriage: No real ritual.

Death: Ok, now we’re talking. Pirates are very particular about what happens to their bodies after they die. They insist on cremation, or failing cremation, burial at sea. This is because they believe that cremated bodies can’t be brought back as zombies. (They’re wrong, but it’s what they believe.) Burial at sea serves the same purpose because there’s no grave for a passing evil wizard or person with a bone phone to disturb. The second thing they insist upon is that the ashes stay together. They believe if ashes are spread or scattered, the deceased’s consciousness is fractured and split with them. Most Pirates view this as a fate worse than simple death. Does the religion use ritual to cleanse or forgive worshipers' transgressions, or does it expect practical restitution, or have any way to make up for mistakes at all?

Pirates are focused on the present. Once a transgression has happened, well, it’s happened and you can’t go back and change it. The best you can do is take a deep breath and try to do better next time. And since the Grim Reaper isn’t exactly keeping a tally of the shit you do, there’s no real reason to tie yourself in knots trying to make up for past mistakes.

If an individual Pirate is feeling guilty over something s/he did, his/her fellow Pirates would suggest practical restitution of some kind. But in that case, the restitution is more about alleviating the personal guilt and helping the Pirate to move forward than restoring some sense of cosmic balance or earning forgiveness for a sin.

Special Notes

-- There's definitely something about your religion that I haven't covered, something that you really want to write down. What else is there about the religion that's important to know?

Prates are obsessed with fair play. Except for the darker sects, they usually insist that any person they attack/attempt to harm have a fair chance to fight back.

Furthermore, in areas like Aarbyville and Three Lakes, they do attempt to keep some kind of public order, even if things like Theft and Violence are permitted in a religious sense. Theft is outlawed in most Pirate territories, though raiding from other territories/being a small-p pirate on the high seas is fine.

Laws in Three Lakes and Aarbyville also focus on trying to get two fighting parties to resolve disputes between themselves rather than involve the state as a party to the dispute. Because of this, civil suits/trial by combat tend to be more common than criminal trials.

Another important thing to note is that the Pirates do not believe in the death penalty where they have control of laws. They will impose fines (ruinous fines even), forced labor, and physical punishment, but not the death penalty. (They don’t do imprisonment, mostly because they see that as a waste of resources.) Of course, regarding trial by combat above – sometimes that trial by combat will be a duel to the death, either because that’s how it works out or because that’s how both parties agreed to resolve their dispute. But Pirates don’t see that as the death penalty, because both parties have a fighting chance to make it out alive.

Even some of the darker sects might give their victims some kind of chance, reasoning that whether one of their number gets killed or the chosen victim, they’re still getting contact with Grim Reaper. But they usually stack the odds in favor of their “champion” for lack of a better word, because of course if a victim escapes, the jig is usually up with the darker sect. (Even in Aarbyville and Three Lakes, nobody likes a serial killing cult!)

Lastly, Pirates believe that the Grim Reaper is inordinately fond of cats. They believe that anyone who purposely harms a cat will face the wrath the Grim Reaper reserves for very, very few. And in a way, the Pirates are right … because if they hear of anyone hurting a cat, they are going to open up a can of whoop-ass on that Sim’s behind, the likes of which has never been seen before!

[yuan2makeababy]

Week 7 & 8

Date: 3/15/18

How Far Along: 8 Weeks Gender: IDK... my thought changes daily. today I’m leaning more towards boy. but from old wives tales I’m having more girl symptoms- bad acne and craving sweet things. so who knows. Weight Gain: Still haven’t weighed myself. though i have an appointment on Monday, so I’ll have some answer next week

Stretch Marks: Still nothing. I’m thinking I should buy some lotion now and get into the habit of using it... I just feel weird lotion-ing my tummy when there is no bump yet.

Maternity Clothes: Not yet, but I’m thinking it will be soon rather than later. the bloat is real. I have been wearing tights at work and they are painful because I’m so bloated. Sleep: I have been working 12 hour shifts, so sleep has been coming easy just from pure exhaustion. I usually wake up once with a small urge to pee, but never actually get out of bed cause I’m lazy. The waking up may also be because I’ve been in a hotel for the past 2 weeks. Best Moment This Week: During week 7 i told my 3 best friends and it was awesome. two was in person and 1 was on facetime and they all freaked and i got it on video and it was amazing. We also had our 4 year anniversary on my 7W day! and today (8W) I found out I get to go home a day early from my trip, which really is just fabulous.   Worst Moment This Week: I have felt pretty damn terrible the last 2 weeks. As I have mentioned, I’ve been traveling for week for the last 2 weeks working 12+ hour shifts every day. No one knows I’m pregnant, so no one understands why I’m grumpy, tired, and not feeling well all week. Week 7 was worse on that. This week has been better, but I also had the weekend off and got to see the husband before coming back to work 5 more shifts. Miss Anything: Actually liking food. I’m in the NYC area and there is a ton of good food around here and I want none of it. nothing sounds appealing. I have had fruity pebbles for dinner the last 3 nights because it’s the only thing that sounds good. Movement: no, and the cramping has gone down a bit. It’s now just a dull ache in my back and an occasional sharp stomach pain pain if i move quickly 

Symptoms: Ughhhh, I just feel bad. I’m just having a hard time figuring out if it is the terrible work schedule I’m on, or the pregnancy. I’m constantly tired. nothing is appetizing, especially meat. I constantly feel like I’m hungover, but haven’t had a drink in months. 

I had a scary symptom the last 2 weeks: the slightest bit of spotting. It was right around the week 7 mark when I had some light brown discharge when wiping. I googled it and most everything said it was ok. After this happening for 2 days I got nervous and called the doctor. I thankfully have been working in a hospital so she said if anything got worse I could just go to the ER where I was to get checked out. But, she said not to worry that everything sounds normal. I think I was mostly worried I wasn’t taking good enough care of myself and she reassured me that women all over the world that are much more stressed than I have children everyday. This week of stress isn’t going to make or break this pregnancy. If something happens this early, there is literally nothing I could do to prevent or stop it. Again, she isn’t concerned, but it was nice to get a little emotional support and talk through everything.

Cravings: FRUITY PEBBLES. At least for a couple days there. to the point I bought them and have had that for dinner the last 3 nights. otherwise, sweets and carbs are good, anything else is a no-go.  Queasy or Sick: Queasy. It’s mostly meat that is doing it, especially chicken. just thinking about it is making my stomach feel bad and I freaking love chicken. Have You Started To Show Yet: Still just boobs and bloat :) Labor Signs: Nope Belly Button In or Out? In Wedding Rings On or Off? On Happy or Moody Most of the Time: still pretty moody. Been in a lot of high stress situations and my temper and patience has been verrrrrry short. Looking Forward To: We ended up not telling the in-laws last weekend. so i think we will this weekend! they are the last people to tell before I can be more open about it. I also have my first 2 Drs appointments (fertility and normal OB) on monday (FOUR DAYS AWAY!!!). It’s so crazy it’s that soon because when I booked the appointment it was exactly a month away, and now it’s already here. I’ve known about this little nugget for over a month now... mind blowing! But at the first appointment I get to have an ultrasound, so we will see nugget for the first time! :):):):) 

[greatdrams]

Adam, The Whisky Pilgrim, visits some Tasmania Distilleries

I visit my fair share of distilleries. 52 in the last 18 months, if you're counting, which I reckon is reasonable going given I've had to take holiday for every one of them! One feature of these trips has been early starts. I've blearily awoken everywhere from wigwams to the front seat of cars; from Islay hotels to Invernesian sofas.

City centre of Sydney, however, is a new one.

This trip came about by chance. My little sister is studying in Australia this year; not fully sure why, as she normally studies Sciences at Nottingham... In any case, the upshot was that my parents and I found ourselves planning our first ever jaunt Down Under. I'd say that it was more about seeing Vicky than it was about getting a couple of weeks of sunshine and adventure, but the year I lived unvisited in Inverness and Dundee rather speaks for itself...

You've probably heard that Australia is in on the whisky scene by now. If you haven't, then where were you two weeks ago when I wrote my Starward review? That particular bottle came from Melbourne, but the place that gets really raved about by folks in the know, and by Soho hipsters who like to sound on-trend, is Tasmania.

So I dug my heels in when we were planning our trip. I wanted to get out to Tasmania for a few days, get amongst the whisky scene, and see what was being done and by whom. My mother, who was planning the trip as a General might a campaign, insisted that one day was all that could be spared.

Which led, a fortnight ago, to my alarm clock squawking at me in a Sydney hotel and to an early flight taking us for a rather intense day trip.

Such necessary brevity meant that I had to be selective on my tours, and that I couldn't roam too far from Hobart airport. I'd have loved to have seen what Peter Bignell does with his home-grown rye, but it would have taken too long. I'm intrigued by the notion of the stainless steel stills at Hellyer's Road - how do they get sulphur out of the spirit? - but again, not an option.

Eventually I made my choices, so shortly after touching down in beautiful Tasmania (whose scenery is like a fusion of Scotland and the Mediterranean) I found myself at the front gate of The Tasmania Distillery, home to Sullivan's Cove.

Of the 22 distilleries on Tasmania (yes, 22!) Sullivan's Cove is probably the most internationally famous. (I know it's The Tasmania Distillery, but I'm going to call it Sullivan's Cove from this point to avoid confusion.) There would have been some dispute about this until recently, but in 2014 one of their French Oak Single Casks was awarded World's Best Single Malt by the World Whiskies Awards.

Since then Tasmanian whisky in general, and Sullivan's Cove in particular, has enjoyed rather a moment in the sun. Names like Lark and Overeem have started appearing on the shelves of London bars for the hipsters to try once and then go back to Japanese. Demand has exceeded supply to the degree that three casks-worth of Overeem can sell out in 20 minutes, with a huge list of disappointed customers failing to get their hands on it.

And that supply is not a big one. Sullivan's Cove, I was told, is the second biggest distillery on the island, behind Hellyer's Road. Last year they filled about 18,000 bottles.

18,000! I can't begin to stress how small a quantity that is. But to give you some idea, Highland Park's recent 'Fire' edition, described as 'limited and exclusive' was 28,000 bottles. Kilchoman, who by Scottish standards are tiny, make comfortably over 100,000 litres of spirit per year.

The natural upshot of this size:demand ratio is some pretty ambitious pricing. Don't expect much of a Tasmanian whisky in the UK for under £100 a throw - and a few go to well beyond that. A bottle from that French Oak Single Cask range - not the award-winning barrel, naturally - retails somewhere in the region of £300.

If you've read my posts for Great Drams, or on their former high horse, The Whisky Pilgrim, you'll know my thoughts concerning price and value. I understand why it happens, of course, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I've certainly never spent £300 on a bottle of whisky; couldn't afford to if I wanted to. And of course, a distillery charging those sort of prices has a very great deal to deliver. So I was fascinated to learn whether it did.

Funnily enough, the distillery I was initially put in mind of on arrival was the last Scottish place I visited - Wolfburn up in Thurso. Much like Wolfburn, Sullivan's Cove operate out of a small industrial unit. But in Sullivan's Cove's case literally everything is under the same roof, and in the same room - including all their maturing stock. If you've ever been to a Scottish distillery before, that alone should give you a sense of scale.

The number one law of The Whisky Pilgrim reads "thou shalt arrive unnecessarily early," and a different hemisphere wasn't going to change that. So forty minutes before tour began I was given a glass of water and directed to a seat in their charming visitor centre. It's a rather nice place to sit; I don't think I've ever seen such a wide variety of chairs!  Everything from chesterfields to 'doctor's waiting room-style', via what I can only describe as a pseudo-regency-period throne. Anyway, no prizes for guessing where I sat. It was gold for God's sake.

Talking of prizes, Sullivan's Cove have adorned the wall with theirs, and there are rather a lot. Certainly a good number for a range that effectively numbers three. Besides the French Oak they've an American Oak Single Cask, and their 'Double Cask', which works out about 70:30 in American Oak's favour.

Something worth noting about the French Oak incidentally - in Scotland it would probably be labelled "Port Cask", as that was what the barrels previously held. Actually, being legal and proper, they held nothing of the kind. They held an Australian Fortified Wine modelled on Tawny Port, and as a wine man by trade, that distinction matters to me. Bit clunky for a label, I admit, but based on my subsequent trip to Lark I can confirm that the PDO laws of the Douro Valley mean the square root of Jack to Australian whisky makers. Oh well. Probably no harm done!

My guide for the day was Ryan, an incredibly friendly, knowledgeable and enthusiastic young bloke. In fact everyone around the distillery seemed pretty young - ok, 'look who's talking' I guess, but you get my drift. Pretty much everyone was around my demographic, and the only place I've been before like that was Eden Mill, near St Andrews. Which, incidentally, is another small-scale operation cut from similar cloth to Sullivan's Cove.

Idiosyncrasy number one: Sullivan's Cove has one still. Not one pair of stills; not one wash and one spirit still: one still. Their wash comes from a local brewery, Cascade, who also used to do Lark's, and it goes through the still, comes out as low wines, then through the same still it goes again. Said still has a capacity of 2,500 litres. For some frame of reference, Glenfiddich describe theirs as 'unusually small' - and by Scottish standards they are - but they still stand at 9,500 litres capacity.

From a vantage point on a balcony, Ryan was able to point me towards the entire operation; still, casks, bottling line and the vats containing the gin that Sullivan's Cove also make. (Using the same still. That still earns its keep.) For some reason I was surprised to learn that each whisky bottled by Sullivan's Cove is over 10 years old. When a cask hits its decade, the contents are tasted by everyone at the distillery to assess where the whisky inside is at. Since the French Oak and American Oak expressions are both Single Casks, they come with their own sticker detailing distillation and bottling dates. In the case of the Double Cask (which usually comprises four different casks) they use the dates of the youngest constituent. The Double Cask I tasted was just shy of 16 years old.

I'm not sure why that surprised me so much; I guess I'd just got used to the notion of New World whiskies being a fair bit younger than their Scottish or Japanese counterparts. Shows what I know...oh, and by the way, the legal minimum age for Tasmanian whisky is 2 years, and they work at about a 3% evaporation rate.  Which was a shade or two lower than I expected.

On to those whiskies then. Ryan kindly gave me a taste of all of the core range. That included the gin, which smells like lemon and tastes like aniseed, if you're wondering!

Sullivan's Cove Double Cask - Lots of nose for 40%ABV. Vanillas and honeys initially. Rather fruity too, and the fruit grows as the glass sits. On the palate a touch of sweet spice emerges, and the development is demonstrated through a certain maturity of oak. Mouthfeel also surprisingly creamy for the strength. No burn though; medium intensity of flavour. More of the vanilla and honey, plus a big injection of malt. Some tablet too, and a splash of citrus providing lift and refreshment. Very clean. Decent balance. One for Balvenie fans. 40%ABV

Old Whisky Pilgrim readers will know that I only usually do a full note for a distillery's flagship expression when I write up  my tours. But since you're probably wondering how the other two tasted, I'll summarise by saying that I thought the French Oak was the pick of the bunch, and that the American Oak, whilst very tasty, was - to my palate - the least characterful of the three. Very clean; everything you'd expect from an 11-or-so-year-old ex-Bourbon cask malt...but no real surprises. Didn't have the idiosyncrasies of the Double Cask or the French Oak. Mind you, it was Ryan's favourite, and he knows Lark better than I do!

Hopped into a taxi which the fantastic guys at Sullivan's Cove kindly phoned for me, and plunged through the coastal Tasmanian fields towards  Hobart, the island's capital. Tour number two of the day was Lark, the first of the new age of Tasmanian distilleries.  Prohibition ended whisky production on the island over 150 years ago, but in 1992 Bill Lark persuaded the powers that be to let him start crafting aqua vitae again, and the rest is history.

A new experience for  me in more ways than one, because you don't actually drive yourself to the distillery at Lark. Instead you make your way to their "cellar door", from whence they chauffeur you  to where the magic happens in a minibus with a terrific pun on the bonnet. (See pictures below...) In this instance it's well worth your while turning up early, because the bar at the cellar door is quite something. I'd venture they have a couple of hundred bottles open on the shelves; predominantly Scotch, but with a good number from elsewhere, including a strong 'home showing.'

Taking a "when in Rome" attitude, Pilgrim snr and I selected a couple from Belgrove; the farm distillery that grows  all of its own rye onsite. We made our way through the peated and unpeated variants, and I can safely say that I've never tasted  anything like either of them in my life.  Good luck hunting any down in the UK, but if you do spot a bottle, don't hesitate. Particularly if it's the peated rye.

Behind the bar was Diana, who was full of enthusiasm for Belgrove's kit, and very chatty when we started swapping stories of our respective distillery visits. She'd recently made a trip to Scotland, and taken in 15 or so distilleries, so very much someone after my own heart! It turned out that she was also the guide for our tour, so I can only apologise to everyone else on the Drambulance for calling shotgun and continuing to compare notes!

I've been to a lot of distilleries by now, but Lark shoots straight to number one on my 'best sited' list. Not only does it have an absolutely stunning sea view, but it is cheek by jowl with a large vineyard. Whisky and wine literally next door to each other. If that isn't the dream then your dreams are wrong.

Hi-vis jackets donned, we made our way into the first warehouse, wherein the stills and mash tun are kept. The Lilliputian theme continued; Lark's mash tun is about the size of  a hot-tub, though I'm not sure I'd be keen on drinking a whisky whose wash had been used for that purpose. Since it's a manually stirred mash tun, potential jacuzzi enthusiasts would also be subject  to attack from a rouser. All in all I'd leave it as is.

Around the tun were a series of tiny stainless steel washbacks at various stages of fermentation. We had a taste from two, as well as a sip of the newly mashed wort. Not sure I'd make a habit of drinking them! We were then taken through the distillation process by CJ, the distillery manager, who had originally made his way over from Scotland on hearing about Lark's operation.

Before tasting the new make spirit we were given a glass of Lark's flagship, the Classic Cask. An apology here. Usually at this point I'd present my note for your consideration. But as it was a beautiful day we were outside at this stage, basking in the warm agricultural air. And on this warm agricultural air there floated a warm agricultural smell, with the upshot that my nostrils were charged with all sorts of aromas for which the whisky was not responsible, and for which the good people of Lark would not thank me were I to incongruously record them. So I can tell you that the Classic Cask was of medium intensity; that it featured characters of butterscotch, orange and light smoke, and that it would be right up the street of West Highland whisky fans. And I can tell you that  Tasmanian farmers don't stint on fertiliser. But I can't tell you much more than that!

After CJ had talked us through the spirit Diana took us to one of the cask houses, where several delicious treats were waiting. Firstly the 'Port Cask' expression from Lark's 'sister distillery,' Overeem. This was followed by a taste of Lark whisky straight from a tiny 'Port cask'. In both cases I'm sure you can guess why I've used quotation marks, but the whiskies were truly stunning. The Overeem, which was bottled at only 43%, could have used a bit of extra zing to counterbalance the huge weight of flavour and body, but the cask strength Lark was spectacular. In fact, based on my day, I'd say that Australian 'ex-Port' whiskies suit me a lot better than Scotch ex-Port does on the whole, and it's a shame they can't be labelled loudly and proudly as ex-Australian fortified wine. Or something a little less unwieldy. But I guess more people have heard of Port...

Due to the nature of our flights, my family and I had to flee at this point - though not before sampling Lark's gin selection. Out of respect. For the record, I genuinely don't think I've had a more enthusiastic, knowledgeable or friendly tour guide than Diana, and given the guides who have led me round distilleries previously, that really is saying something. Massive thanks to her, to CJ, and to the rest of the Lark team from myself and all of my family.

It obviously wasn't long enough of a trip.

Our flight from Sydney touched down at around 9:45 in the morning; by 5 in the afternoon we were back on the plane. Barely seven hours spent in Tasmania. I felt very strongly at the time, and still do now as I type, that I've never been more reluctant to leave somewhere in my life.

Because, quite apart from the stunning scenery and the gorgeous climate, Tasmania has something incredibly vibrant and magical and extraordinary to witness. Within my lifetime - within twenty-four years - they have created a whisky culture from nothing. The girls and guys at the twenty-two distilleries are doing something that no living Australian has done before, and what's more, they're doing it sensationally well. In the miniscule amount of time I spent there I got a flavour of the passion, the pride and the boundless dynamism of the Tasmanian whisky industry. It's inspirational to witness, exhilarating to be around, and if someone there were to offer me a job tomorrow I can't say I wouldn't be over like a shot. They're building a legacy, and they're building it on a labour of love.

The thing is, I'm still not sure about the prices. I know it's boring of me; I know  that the scale of production necessitates them; I know that Australian alcohol tax laws are pretty draconian, and I know that the distilleries sell out at those prices - so what's the problem? Well I think the problem for me is that, when I tell my friends and family about Tasmanian whisky, I won't be able to recommend that they go out and buy some. It's out of their price league - and mine - every single bottle. If they were Scotch I reckon the Sullivan's Cove Double Cask and the Lark Classic Cask would hover somewhere between £35-£55, and at that price they'd be up there with the very best.  I'd be telling everyone I knew to buy, buy, buy - just as I have been with Melbourne's Starward from the other week.

It's disgustingly unromantic of me to want some massive distillery churning out millions of gallons of whisky just so everyone can have a taste. And I don't want that; the atmosphere and the buzz around Tasmania is so optimistic and so alive with blissful vitality; how could anyone want that sensational, addictive ethos to be changed? But talking to Ryan and to Diana, it sounds as though the success stories of Tasmania are going to grow and grow in the next few years; bigger premises, higher production - same staff. If that is the case - and my God I hope it is - then perhaps we'll see some of the prices start to creep back towards the more affordable end of the spectrum.

I can't wait to see what happens next on the Tasmanian whisky scene - and I'm absolutely desperate to go back. But next time it'll be a proper visit; I want to see it all. I'm greedy like that.

Oh, and Ryan and Diana - if you're reading this, and by any chance find yourself in my hemisphere sometime, sincerely please do give me a shout. Because it isn't just Tasmania with a burgeoning whisky scene.  We've got one closer to home, too. The English are coming. But more on that another time.

Cheers!

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The post Adam, The Whisky Pilgrim, visits some Tasmania Distilleries appeared first on GreatDrams.

from GreatDrams http://ift.tt/2lEtplO Adam Wells