#maybe some dry toast and tea

[lostinmirkwood]

I can’t go out every night like I’m 22 anymore. I know this. Still went out Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and drag brunch today. I need a nap and a gatorade.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

I am currently in Vilnius! Lithuania is fantastic. You really can't beat old eastern European cities for having urban sections called Old Town that are the most stunning and picturesque places you've ever seen in your life, and Vilnius combines this with apparently about fifty trillion urban trees and parks. Fucking gorgeous place.

Eastern Europe is also incredible for food. Today we had a Lithuanian delicacy where they take rye bread and cut it into sticks and toast/fry it and then you have it with a sort of cheesy garlicky sauce and it is fucking incredible holy shit. Also a dish of finely grated potato over a layer of pork leg and topped with bacon bits and sour cream, sort of like a Lithuanian lasagne. Exquisite. Divine. Ambrosia of the gods.

Anyway my excellent Lithuanian friend Gabs has insisted on buying us a shit ton of Lithuanian snacks to try over the next few days, and I have promised him I shall keep a spreadsheet of my reactions to each. So! I'm recording them here:

Surelis: sweet curds covered in a chocolate layer, flavoured. So far we have tried the raspberry. It tasted like a bar of Petit Filou yoghurt and it was fucking gorgeous. 12/10.

Sula: a soft drink made from birch sap. We have tried one that is fruit flavoured, but Gabs didn't know the English word for said fruit. Super clear and refreshing tasting. 8/10

Grybukai: a mushroom shaped biscuit/cake flavoured with ginger and... something sharp. Citrus maybe? Super fun, super tasty. 10/10

Sakotis: cake made on a spit in a pleasing tree shape. A bit like a firmer dry pancake. Gabs recommended them with tea, I tried it with some chocolate butter. Very nice tea time treat, not too sweet, delicate flavour. 7/10

Having a whale of a time, Lithuania is gr8

[justlemmeadoreyou]

in sickness and in health

Summary: Harry takes care of y/n while she's sick.

Words: 1,000+

Warnings: Mostly fluff!

Y/N groaned as she slowly blinked her eyes open, her head pounding and her throat feeling raw and scratchy. She reached for the box of tissues on her nightstand, wincing at the movement. As she blew her nose, the bedroom door creaked open.

"Morning, love," came Harry's soft voice. He padded in, a tray laden with toast, orange juice, and a steaming mug of tea balanced carefully in his hands. "Brought you some breakfast."

"Harry..." Y/N croaked out, her voice little more than a whisper. "You didn't have to do that."

He shook his head, setting the tray down on the nightstand. "Of course I did. You're sick as a dog, babe." Harry perched on the edge of the bed, his hand coming up to brush her sweat-damp hair back from her forehead. "Looks like that nasty flu is really doing a number on you."

Y/N managed a weak smile, nuzzling into his touch. "I feel horrible."

"I know, sweetheart." Harry's thumb stroked her flushed cheek tenderly. "But I'm going to take care of you, okay? We'll get you feeling better in no time."

Leaning down, he pressed a lingering kiss to her clammy forehead before reaching for the mug of tea. "Here, drink some of this. The honey should help soothe your throat."

Y/N took a careful sip, the warm liquid coating her raw throat. She sighed in relief. "That's nice. Thank you, Haz."

"Of course, my love." Harry picked up a piece of dry toast from the tray. "Think you can manage a few bites? You need to keep your strength up."

Obediently, Y/N nibbled on the toast as Harry fussed over plumping up her pillows and layering an extra blanket over her shivering form. He clucked his tongue sympathetically at her pale, clammy appearance.

"I've got some cold medicine for you to take too. That should help with the aches and chills."

True to his word, Harry retrieved a dose of flu medication, holding it out along with a glass of cool water. Y/N swallowed it down gratefully.

"Such a good girl," Harry praised, stroking her hair again. "Now, I want you to try and get some more rest, okay? I'll be just down the hall if you need anything at all."

Y/N caught his hand as he made to stand. "Wait... Could you stay with me for a bit?"

Harry's eyes softened. "Of course, darling. Budge over." 

He slid under the covers, gathering Y/N's shivering form into his arms. She burrowed against his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne and letting it soothe her frazzled senses.

Harry pressed a kiss to her hair, rubbing her back soothingly. "Just relax and rest up, okay? I'm right here."

Y/N nodded, allowing her eyes to drift shut. She felt so safe and cared for wrapped in Harry's embrace. Despite feeling utterly miserable from her illness, having him there to look after her made it so much better.

Several hours later, she awoke feeling marginally less feverish - though her head was still pounding. Harry stirred beside her, ever attentive.

"Hey there, sleeping beauty," he murmured. "How are you feeling?"

Y/N sniffled pitifully. "A little better, I think. But my head is killing me."

"Hang on, let me get you a cool cloth for your forehead." In a flash, Harry was out of bed and heading for the en-suite bathroom.

He returned with a damp washcloth, gently draping it over Y/N's feverish brow. She sighed in relief at the delicious coolness against her pounding head.

"Thank you, baby. That feels heavenly."

Harry smiled, tenderly brushing her hair back. "I love taking care of my best girl. Are you hungry at all? I could whip up some chicken soup."

At the thought of food, Y/N's stomach roiled queasily. "Maybe just some more tea and dry toast for now?"

"You got it." Harry leaned in, dropping a featherlight kiss on her chapped lips. "I'll be right back with your tea, sweet thing."

True to his word, Harry returned a few minutes later with a fresh mug of piping hot tea and a couple pieces of dry buttered toast. He helped Y/N sit up against the mountain of pillows before passing her the mug.

"Careful, it's hot," he cautioned unnecessarily.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly. "Yes, Dad."

Harry chuckled, taking a seat next to her on the bed and offering her a piece of toast. As she picked at the bread, he pulled her feet into his lap, gently massaging the soles.

"Mmm," Y/N hummed in appreciation. "You're too good to me."

"Nonsense. I'm just being a good boyfriend and taking care of my girl when she needs me." Harry winked playfully. "Afterall, I'll need you to return the favor when I inevitably catch this flu from you."

Y/N laughed weakly. "Deal."

For the rest of the day, Harry fussed over Y/N - keeping her hydrated, fetching her books and magazines to read, and just sitting by her side with his arms wrapped securely around her. She couldn't have asked for a better nurse.

As evening fell, Harry brought Y/N a fresh mug of hot tea, laced with honey and lemon. "Here, drink up. Should help that scratchy throat of yours."

"You're too good to me," Y/N said again, cradling the mug gratefully.

Harry shook his head seriously. "Never. You deserve the world, my love." He leaned in, kissing her forehead tenderly. "I'm just trying to give it to you."

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

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[moodywyrm]

mdni.

thinking about apartment neighbor! abby. you're both young, barely out of or just finishing up bachelors degrees, maybe starting grad school. living on the fourth floor of a somewhat crappy apartment building, but figuring it out nonetheless. Abby, in apt. 4C, only vaguely (incredibly) in love with her neighbor in apt. 4D.

when abby first moved in – finally living on her own after sharing an apartment with her bestfriend, Manny, for all of undergrad – she was stunned to find the sweet bookseller from her favorite bookstore entering the apartment next to her's. y'all had already struck up an easy friendship, born from Abby's frequent trips to the bookstore.

it's a good set up, for both of you. y'all have dinner together at least once a week, usually over takeout and shitty TLC shows. You see each other in the mornings too, usually for coffee or toast or whatever pastries you've baked for breakfast. Abby doesn't know this, but at some point you started baking her favorites (pastries filled with guayaba y queso), purely so she could start her day off with a win.

Once, Abby came over with her hair loose around her shoulders, hair tie and brush in hand, tears brimming in her eyes because, for the first time in years, she couldn't braid it herself. She'd injured herself while helping out some of the kids at the rec center she volunteers at, and ended up with a pinched nerve that made it damn near impossible to lift her shoulder. It had been fine the night before, but the ache had become borderline unbearable by the time she woke up.

You sat her down at your kitchen table, easing the brush through her soft tresses, being so soft and gentle with her that she almost cried out of gratitude. Abby swore she almost started purring when you ran your fingers through her hair, sectioning it and weaving together the three chunks of hair, taking care not to pull at them.

it's so sweet, and kind, and Abby swore she wasn't in love with you but now she's reconsidering everything she's ever known. Especially when you tell her to rest for the day, letting her stay in your apartment with your fluffy black ragdoll cat, Selby, while you work your shift at the bookstore.

She spends the day reading the copy of Small Things Like These she found on your shelf, drinking the sweet tea you left her. Selby trails her around the apartment as she takes in every detail of your living room. The patchwork quilt draped over the armchair in the corner, a half-read copy of Good Omens sitting on top of it. The mismatch dinnerware sitting in a collapsible drying rack on your kitchen counter. The handmade red scarf hanging in your entry way, the fuzzy animal slippers underneath it. It's all very sweet, very you, and Abby gets the feeling she could get used to this. This sitting, waiting for you, wanting you to have someone (her) to come home to.

I dont have more coherent thoughts but uhhhhh??? tentatively back?????

[makethatelevenrings]

Angel by the Wing - THIRTY-THREE

chapter warnings: vomiting, morning sickness

Series Masterlist (Mobile Masterlist)

It was an average morning.

Rock music floated through the house coupled with the sounds of pots and pans banging around and you were bent over a toilet, breathing deeply through your nose and out through your mouth as nausea wracked your body.

“That’s good. Nice deep breaths.” Jake had popped his head into the bathroom to ask how many eggs you wanted when he found you bent over the sink with your hands clutching the sides of the counter. At first he thought you were in pain, but then the murderous glare you shot him when he asked if you were okay answered that question.

Now your hair was pulled away from your face, a cool washcloth pressed against the back of your neck, and a soothing hand ran along the length of your spine as you dry heaved over the rippling water.

“I fucking hate this,” you bit out. Tears pricked the backs of your eyes and you tilted your face to press against your forearm so he wouldn’t see you tearing up. Jake adjusted the washcloth so it wouldn’t fall off and scooted closer to you.

“I’m sorry, angel. I wish I could fix this for you.” If there was one thing Jake had learned since entering this relationship, it’s that he couldn’t stand to see you or Bradley like this. He hated being helpless. He was a fixer. He wanted to soothe your aches and remove anything that made you feel gross.

But he had also helped put you in this situation.

“Hey, hey,” he shushed you as you let out a pathetic whine. “Rooster is making some ginger tea right now and then we’re going to move to the couch. Set you up with some toast and applesauce and a bucket.”

“What if I puke on you?” you moaned dramatically.

“Darlin’, you’ve seen me and Rooster violently hungover. A little throw up won’t faze me.” You nodded in agreement with his statement and he took that as a good sign. Jake tentatively scooped you up and cradled you to his chest. Despite feeling sick as hell, you savored the feel of his warm skin under your cheek and pondered the possibility of them going shirtless every morning.

“How’s the patient doing, doctor?” Bradley asked when you emerged from the bedroom.

“‘M not playing sexy nurse right now,” you mumbled. Bradley chuckled and moved to help move some blankets over on the couch while Jake lowered you down onto the soft cushions. Jake hurried off to grab a bucket to place next to the couch while Bradley tucked one of the blankets around you and adjusted the washcloth to keep you cool. Skipper poked his head up over the back of the couch and then crawled over the pillows before he gently landed on the space between you and the cushion. The little cat curled up next to your stomach and laid his head on his paws, lazily flicking his tail while staring at Bradley in what some might call a threat.

“I’m trying to help her, dude,” Bradley muttered. The cat merely flicked his tail once more and extended a paw to lick at his fur.

And maybe show off his claws.

“Bucket,” Jake announced. “Plus tea and toast and whatever you want to watch on television. Please, please, don’t let it be Titanic.”

“Fuck you, it’s a masterful film.” But despite your protest, you settled on another classic. The boys knew better than to argue when the opening titles of Mamma Mia began. Jake instead settled in next to the bucket on the floor with his plate heaped with breakfast balancing on his knees. Bradley took up the rest of the couch by your feet. You nibbled on the toast that Jake handed you and absentmindedly pet Skipper with your other hand.

“Any plans for today?” Bradley asked once he was done destroying his mountain of food. Feeding two aviators was like turning on a garbage disposal and letting it run. You nudged his thigh with your foot and he put his plate on the coffee table so he could rub your feet.

“I was going to do laundry but I think I’m just going to rot instead,” you said. “I work at five so hopefully I feel human by then.”

“I got it,” Jake assured you. “I was going to mow the lawn and weed the garden but I can also make Roo do it too.”

“I’ll do it shirtless and everything,” your boyfriend said. He wiggled his brows salaciously and you pretended to gag.

“Thank you.” You ran your fingers through Jake’s fluffy hair. You loved it without the gel he typically wore. It stuck out in all directions thanks to the fact that he hadn’t brushed it after rolling out of bed and you appreciated how it made him look so soft.

“Our baby,” the boys intoned. They had taken to answering your thanks with a reminder that you were growing a baby inside of you. A baby that they had been very enthusiastic participants in creating.

Bradley grabbed Jake’s plate and his own and headed towards the kitchen to clean up after breakfast. You were transfixed with the movie on screen as the bachelorette night came on. Something sparkled in your gaze and Jake felt such a surge of want that it could have knocked him off his feet. Instead, he headed towards the bedroom where three overflowing hampers of laundry cluttered up the closet.

Dumping the clothes into one large pile, he set about sorting them into different piles so he didn’t end up with pink shirts from one of your stray red socks. He also made sure to check every pocket of pants and jackets thanks to the infamous “washing Bradley’s keys” incident. He found quite a few different packs of mint gum and ginger chews in your pockets and created a little pile for the future.

He picked up your jean shorts from a few days ago and heard the crinkle of paper. He tugged it out and flipped the paper. It was an envelope and he knew he should just place it on the dresser and let you deal with it but the hospital’s address was written in the corner. He shouldn’t read it. He knows better. But you had been avoiding talking to him and Bradley about something. They both could tell.

His fingers were extracting the letter before he could stop himself.

He unfolded the paper and found a bunch of letters filling the page. Jake didn’t understand a single word written except for two things.

Alleged Father: Seresin, Jacob

Probability of Paternity: 0%

Bile rose in his throat and burned along his tongue but he pushed it down. There was another paper behind it and he extracted the second page with numb fingers.

Alleged Father: Bradshaw, Bradley

Probability of Paternity: 99.99998%

Did Rooster know? Was that why he asked about leaving this place? Was that what you two whispered about? Was that why you shared smiles over Jake’s head, like he was outside of a joke?

What happens if the baby isn’t his? What happens if the baby isn’t his and you two decide you don’t need him? That you don’t want him? Can he handle that? Can he handle this dream being shattered?

His mom was just trying to help. Jennifer saw the possibility when he couldn’t. He was so fucking stupid.

Jake tossed the papers onto the dresser and headed into the closet to grab his duffle bag. He needed space. He needed time. He needed to figure things out.

You couldn’t push him out of your life if he walked out first.

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[gabessquishytum]

Dream’s obsessed with his professor. It isn’t fair: hob is only about five years older than him. Dream’s legal. And he’s desperate to fuck hob. He can barely concentrate in class. There’s just something about him.

And he knows hob likes men. Once, hob got dropped off at work by a some dick who kissed him and palmed his ass in front of everyone.

Dream knows everything about hob. How he takes his tea. What he eats for lunch. He even knows where hob lives. And that on Fridays, hob tends to wear lacy lingerie under his tweed.

To his embarrassment, dream even propositioned hob once. He went in and asked for extra credit and reached for hob’s dick. But hob jumped away, babbled about not taking advantage and left his own office.

Dream’s thought way too much pulling on hob’s tie, guiding his mouth to his cock, or maybe using it to tie his hands at the small of his back, so dream could really take his time exploring his body, without hob worrying so much about dream being his student. But Dream’s had no luck.

So when dream is at a nightclub and sees hob at the bar, doing a line of shots, he knows it’s his chance. Hob seems bent on getting drunk, and that’s Dream’s gain. By the end of the night he fully intends to fuck hob’s brains out, and if he’s lucky, get him addicted to dream’s cock.

Oh, poor Hob.......... at least he's about to get some VERY good dick.

He wakes up early next morning with the hangover about to set in - he NEEDS a cup of tea of he might actually die. But he can't move, because someone's lying on him. Dream is lying on him. Holy shit. Hob wracks his brains to try and remember. He was wasted... he remembers Dream helping him into a cab... everything is so fuzzy. He feels sore, so he's pretty sure that they had sex! The worst of it all is that Dream is so fucking gorgeous, Hob can feel himself getting hard despite the panic and the hangover.

His morning goes downhill from there. Dream is so nice! He helps Hob to the bathroom and holds back his hair when he's sick. He makes tea and dry toast and finds the paracetamol. Hob is on the edge of tears! He took advantage of such a kind, gentle young student! He should go and resign immediately and go and live as a monk somewhere....

...yeah, Dream won't be letting him do that. He takes Hob’s face in his hands and speaks sternly: "I wanted you, so I took you. Do you understand, darling? I was, and continue to be, the one in charge here. Now be good and drink your tea, you'll soon feel better."

Hob’s dick leaks into his boxers and he whimpers pathetically. He's so turned on by being bossed around by his own student! He's pretty sure that Dream has rewired something in his brain to make him even more submissive than usual. He's starting to think that maybe Dream was the one who took advantage of him... and fuck is that doesn't make him MORE horny.

He does get a small nugget of compensation: Dream kneels down and sucks his cock as he sits at the breakfast bar. He's very, very good at it. Hob dazedly allows himself to be taken back to bed after that - he seems to have resigned himself to the fact that Dream is in charge. He's even eager as he gets on all fours on the bed. If he's going to be treated as a cock-slut, he might as well be good at it.

[justatasteofyourpoison]

The morning after the night before…

(A Hazbin Hotel/Alastor x Fem reader fanfiction)

Part 5

Pairing: Alastor x Fem Reader

Plot: A hungover you speaks to Angel and Husk to try to dig up more information about the Radio Demon’s past ruts…

Warnings: 18+, swearing, alcohol consumption, adult themes, fluff

Word count: 1.1k

————————————————————————

You awoke in a haze, ears ringing, head pounding, face down in the pillow. You turned over with a groan and looked at the time - 11am. “Oh God how much did I drink?” you questioned, trying to make you body sit itself up in bed. After a triumphant effort you sat up and looked around the room.

You noticed your clothes were carefully placed on the chair in the corner, a pint of water sat on your side table and you were wearing your pjamas, things usually impossible for drunken Y/N. Someone must have got you home safely. You took a large swig of water, it flooding your hungover body with life like the desert rain and you could finally start to think. “Only Angel Dust would go to these lengths for little ol drunk me” you thought feeling incredibly greatful to be blessed with such a good friend. “I should go and thank him.” You swung your legs round to meet the floor and paused for a moment “I feel like something happened last night. Maybe some food and a chat would set me straight” you mused groggily.

As you put your dressing gown on and headed to the door you noticed a bow tie that Alastor had accidentally left in your room after a late night rendevouz a few nights back. You smiled to yourself as you remembered the night’s antics. But then it finally dawned on you what last night entailed. Angel Dust was questioning you about your involvement with Alastor and how you were the first girl he’d seen with him. Your gut wrenched. You knew you wanted to speak to Alastor more than anything, but didn’t want him to see you so hungover and disheveled. You decided to freshen up and speak to Angel Dust before facing the Radio Demon…

The toaster popped with a clunky bang and you swiftly chucked the two slices on a plate, no butter today, dry toast and tea was your hangover cure. You exited the kitchen to the lobby and saw that Angel Dust was already sat at the bar. “She lives!” He exclaimed throwing his gangly arms in the air as he clocked sight of you. “She does, just” you said sleepily taking a seat next to him.

“You look like shit toots, glad we didn’t stay out any longer!” he laughed giving you a pat on the back. “Thanks for getting me back safe Angel” you said greatfully.

“Don’t sweat it hun. The amount of times I’ve ended up in the gutter I wouldn’t wish it on anyone” he shrugged taking a sip of his coffee.

“Angel…” you started sheepishly. “We talked last night didn’t we?” you said avoiding his gaze. “I knew this would come up” Angel said coolly “Look Y/N, I’m not gonna tell anyone about you and Mr Creepy Radio Pants” he said in a quieter tone.

“And I really appreciate that” you said genuinely “but, I feel like you let me into an insight about Alastor last night. You said how he never really dated anyone?” you questioned.

“Ah yeah no, he is an enigma when it comes to relationships and sex ‘n’ all that” Angel reflected “that’s why when he started sneaking around with you I was surprised. But you said how he’s in a rut, so I guess a man has needs right?”

“Definitely true” you responded. “But Alastor has been in hell a long time, so would have rutted every year. But you say you’ve never known him showing interest in relieving himself with anyone per say. So my question is - why me now? And what did he used to do while he was rutting?” You said gazing up at the skulls that loomed over the bar ominously. “Don’t get yourself worked up sugar. Maybe he has been off getting his dick wet in the past, who knows? As I said - he’s an enigma. You gotta talk to him sweety.” He said with a sympathetic smile.

“Afternoon folks” a raspy voice chimed. Husk appeared behind the bar and grabbed a green bottle off the shelf before pouring himself a small glass. The sight of alcohol being poured made you feel queasy. “Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he laughed taking a sip of his whisky. “Always love your honesty Husk!” you chuckled.

“You guys have a good night and stay out of trouble?” He said, darting his eyes towards Angel.

“Yeah good fun, some revelations too…” Angel chimed grinning at you. “Angel don’t, please” you whispered, your eyes pleading.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Husk said casually leaning on the bar in front of you and smiling wryly, “that she’s fuckin’ the Radio Demon?”

“DOES EVERYONE KNOW?” You exclaimed a little too loudly before slumping you head down on the bar. Husk placed his face by you head and whispered “Remember my room is next to Alastor’s. If you didn’t want anyone knowing maybe you shoudn’t have been so damn loud!” He stood up and roared with laughter. You felt your face burning scarlet against the bar. “I’m sorry little lady, me and Angel have had our suspicions for some time.” he said pouring himself a larger glass.

“She’s having a crisis cos I told her she’s the first one I’ve seen him sneaking around with. Got her questioning things…” Angel said trying to pull you back up from the bar. Reluctantly, you sat up and faced them. “Do you know anything Husk? Have you ever heard of Alastor rutting and going off with anyone?” you said quietly.

“Honestly, no” Husk contemplated. “The Radio Demon has always been obsessed with power and I should know.” He scowled at the thought of his deal with the Demon. “But no, I’ve never heard of him being interested in sex or relationships or anything. However…” he placed his head in his hand deep in thought. “At certain times of year Alastor had been more volatile, now that I think of it. He would bite at me over the smallest indiscretions and his broadcasts would be more frequent and more terrifying.” A shudder ran down your spine at his words.

“Maybe he was interested in other things. You know what a power crazed fuck he is!” He said with a warning tone.

You didn’t know how to feel after hearing Husk’s words. On one token you loved spending time with Alastor and the intimacy was out of this world. But what did you really know about him? Was your heart just blindsighted by lust and his charm? Did he have sinister ulterior motives? There was no doubt about it, you needed answers…

__________

All instalments:

[desognthinking]

recruitment drive. 5.3k. (or, the haunted house designers au.)

Suzanne sends the pre-meeting email just one and a half hours before the onboarding call is scheduled to begin. Beatrice knows this because her watch buzzes just as she emerges from the bathroom, wringing her hair dry after her post-run shower.

It’s still the middle of the night back in America. Beatrice thinks Suzanne just doesn’t sleep. 

She makes herself a pot of tea and carefully sets her mug down onto its cork coaster at the dining table. Her phone, face-down on the table, vibrates thrice as she boots up the laptop.

She flips it over: three texts from Lilith. That’s two too many. 

A curious sense of anticipation, and perhaps the shallowest hints of doubt, settles over the skin of her neck as she loads up her unread mail. It’s uncharacteristic of Suzanne to forward basic administrative material at such late notice. Especially since it concerns mere formalities like the Zoom link for later, and the confirmation of the meeting participants – an email that should take less than two minutes to formulate. After all, everyone already knows the team heading the expansion project.

Beatrice had mentioned this to Camila once, recently, during their weekly lunch call. Week six or six thousand into their strictly enforced remote work sojourn (the only way, Suzanne said, she could ensure that no Extra Responsibilities would be surreptitiously taken on) and she was already pacing the room from boredom and overthinking.

Camila had reminded her that, in her defense, Suzanne had just been out on that scouting trip in Peru without reliable internet. Whatever spare bandwidth she did have was probably best served hurdling over the mountains of administrative obstacles these new pop-up Houses inevitably would create. Not fretting over Zoom links.

Camila, as always, is sensible; probably the most sensible of them all. So Beatrice very seriously, and very conscientiously, takes a deep breath and runs through that one breathing exercise she’d found very helpful from her therapist.

Suzanne is a stickler. She holds her cards carefully close to her chest, arranged back and forth in some pattern nobody but she can see, and Beatrice trusts her fully. And that’s all that should matter – as Suzanne had made glaringly clear, even before she’d sat the three of them down one by one in her office, and then emailed them the remuneration clauses – that she’d wanted Beatrice for the job, had worked to convince her for it.

For an industry chest-deep in the currency of terror, Beatrice had – has never been lured by the screams. 

It is tradition for a House’s creative team to prowl the exit on opening night.  Maybe grab a drink and share a toast to the accompaniment of desperate footsteps sprinting out, or breathless, choked sobs at the gates. 

Beatrice doesn’t like that. Ever since she got personally banned by Mary from coldly going through the whole maze (yet again) with a clipboard on Night One while bona fide, ticket-purchasing customers were busy hollering their heads off, she’s preferred to go home right after the ceremony to a mug of hot chamomile and a dogeared autobiography. 

She plans to keep it that way, too. There is nothing more distasteful than cheap gore, or cultish fantasy, or whichever half-baked nightmare slough some over-excited writer could dredge up from the hallucinatory afterburn of a weekend bender.

She carefully takes a sip of her tea, gazing out into brightening but still charred-gray skies. She’d had an interview in Tales of Terror last year, and hadn’t known whether to be flattered or dismayed at the opening paragraph. 

‘You wouldn’t guess this is the home of the woman responsible for some of the most blood-curdling, spine-chilling effects, traps and rooms of the last half-decade. Nothing in her fourth-floor unit screams Creative Psycho. Every pale beige curtain in her flat is drawn wide, light flooding in. There are no letterboxd-worthy poster displays from the indie foreign films she watches religiously for research – only a framed print collection of early twentieth century European urban landscape paintings. There are no carpets, it’s almost unsettlingly clean, and there’s not a single ounce of bedragglement. Beatrice tells us, mild mannered and polite almost to a fault, that this is how she likes it.’

(Are you sure you want me?)

“Precisely,” Suzanne had said, careful and stern, “we need precisely that.” She’d been rolling a brass knuckle tightly over the surface of her desk as she spoke. Beatrice thought it produced a gorgeous, rich sound. 

“We need reinvention. Reinterpretation. Things should not be left to stagnate, for their own sake,” she’d stared at Beatrice meaningfully. “This applies to people too.” 

Beatrice had simply stared back, uncertain.

“Besides,” Suzanne turned away, the edge of her mouth twisting up like she knew something Beatrice didn’t, “As I’m sure you know by now, the workload will be shared.”

It made sense then that Suzanne had last year taken them aside to allocate them as leads to three of the flagship site’s Houses that season. Upon their successes she had allocated them, despite protests, those purely consultancy and remote assistance roles for this year’s season. 

Two years ago Beatrice and Lilith were section heads in their respective maze portions. Camila, then freshly poached by the firm, was primary set designer of the same House. That year they huddled together night after night and sixteen-hour days to cobble together something out of the most dysfunctional House of that year’s stable of nine.

The lead for said House was a man called Vincent. He was woefully incompetent to the point of unintentional sabotage. He had, of course, slunk away quietly upon the season’s conclusion, but until then the three of them had had to spend wee hours crawling up and clawing at walls and reinforcements and contractors that had been given contradictory instructions.

They built an easy partnership, eventually – disciplined and stone-smooth efficient to the extent that Beatrice reluctantly allowed herself to catch a few agonizing hours of unguilty sleep each night.

And through necessity she had come to know them as well, as only a truly nightmarish haunted house build will have you know a person.

After that wretched time they had been wrenched apart. The OCS had multiple Houses to churn out at full steam and speed every season, and a brutal reputation to maintain. The cruel prize of a job well done involved getting split up, even if for bigger, better things.

But the point is, they’re tried and tested. Beatrice likes that. She isn’t sure she would have agreed to taking on this challenge otherwise, and she knows Suzanne knows that, too. 

It is a weight on her shoulders, irregular and uncomfortably shifting across her shoulder blades; a worry that any success she has in executing such an endeavor would be largely circumstantial.

Last summer, long before everything had been set in stone, Shannon sent her a link to an Instagram post. It detailed some theories and speculations over an unnamed upcoming OCS expansion. A strategic leak, perhaps, although Beatrice worked far too distantly from the marketing team to be certain.

They were lying next to each other on the mud-streaked safety mats they put over the wooden boards beside the building site. Her building site. The one with the credits board, hooked up at the exit, that would bear her name first at the top. 

It had been the muggiest, most intolerable time of the day when Shannon, overseeing production on this half of the Houses, had come round, somehow hoisting a bulky IKEA carrier over her neck and under her left arm. She pulled out a variety of chips and buns that she’d gone down to the shops to buy, and handed them out far too cheerfully for someone who must have already half-melted in the heat. When Beatrice raised her eyebrows, glancing over behind the barriers where Mary’s motorcycle very conspicuously was parked, Shannon merely winked – poorly – and pretended to be very innocent. 

She stayed to help, afterwards, peering over the storyboards pinned up on the board like it wasn’t the thousandth time she’d gone over them. That year she’d also had her own House to take care of, in addition to the small matter of co-running the entire season’s program. So Beatrice tried to weakly bat her away, but she pulled out a banana from some back pocket, peeled it, took a large bite with a moan so obnoxiously loud Beatrice turned red, and shushed her.    

At this point construction was going ahead in full force, and Beatrice would frequently navigate every step of the maze and inspect every bolt and hidden door with a pocket-sized Moleskine in her hand and three gel pens in her pocket. Yasmine, her head writer, preferred to make notes directly onto her phone, stopwatch dangling from her wrist and an earbud in her ear as she ran over the preliminary audio cues for each section. Ambling behind them, Shannon found a nail and tried to spin it as long as she could on her fingertip. When the nail rolled off into a groove, irretrievable, she dusted off her hands very innocently on her cargo pants and off the back of her greasy tank top. Then she folded her hands behind her back and looked up very seriously to examine overhead mechanisms that Beatrice ‘might be too short to see clearly’. 

With the work lights strung up, the innards of the House did not look particularly scary. 

To Beatrice it was a purely cerebral challenge, despite the very physical layer of sweat, powder, and grime that pressed itself under one’s skin. A puzzle to fit and form and reverse-engineer under cool light; door mechanisms and false ceilings and spring-loaded foam sprays, optimized and timed within fractions of a second. Clean, clockwork.

And as if to prevent her from getting hauled fully into the vortex of her mind, Shannon accompanied the little pilgrimage around the set, pressing a water bottle firmly into Beatrice’s hands every half-hour. It made Beatrice feel like a moody little child, but she accepted it grudgingly every time. 

At the end of the day Beatrice sent everyone home twenty minutes early, and ordered dinner for her and Shannon to eat out on the boards. Fast food, Shannon insisted, and she would be paying for it, because “do you know what day it is tomorrow?”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s better than your birthday.”

And to Beatrice, that was true, so she kept quiet.

After that, they lay down for a while, two cans of soda cracked open and resting on the square of wood beside them that hadn’t been covered by the mats. Shannon sent her the post, then, and when Beatrice complained limply that she couldn’t read the comments because she didn’t have an account, Shannon rolled her eyes and handed over her own phone. 

She made a peculiar dialect of eye contact with Beatrice as she did so; weighty, certainly, and telling. 

The post itself featured garish word art splattered over a mangled, heavily-filtered edited image of one of the previous seasons’ Houses – a fan favorite, actually, from the year Beatrice had first joined. Back then she was still working shifts on the engineering team, not even yet being assigned a maze section to look after its technical execution. 

There was a rumor, the post said, that the OCS was considering broadening its operations to seasonal pop-ups in different cities. All-new sets, all-new storylines, all-new takes on the haunted house experience. What do you think? The caption asked, Do you want more of the OCS brand of sleek, seriously messed-up and sickeningly chilling?

Below that a disclaimer: Not appropriate for young children! Please remember that this is not your typical carnival house of mirrors.

A staggering amount of likes and comments. Beatrice clicked to expand the latter, saw the word ‘legacy’ in the topmost one, and then quickly swiped to close the app entirely. 

Mary and Shannon grinned up at her from the home screen, half-buried in sand somewhere on their Greek island-hopping honeymoon. 

Shannon raised her eyebrows as she received her phone back, and Beatrice suddenly understood the meaningful look she’d been given. Are you ready? 

She reached out blindly for her soda can and finished the rest of the drink in one long, shuddering gulp.

At lunch the next day, Beatrice’s fifth year OCS anniversary was celebrated with some fanfare in the makeup and fittings trailer, where Beatrice had spent the whole morning hunched over fabric textures she could barely distinguish from each other.

Everyone came down from their sets, even Mary and Shannon. Beatrice thought they must have been exhausted; they had stayed late the previous night, after Beatrice had left, to thread their way softly through the OCS’ gaping campus of half-built sets. Simply looking over their modest kingdom. It had a certain wistful luster; in this summer twilight it was a garden of greenhouses, transparent and skeletal. A complex slowly unfurled over the years. Ghostly-quiet, too, in a way it could never be in the throes of peak season. 

Mary waited for Shannon at the gates of the House, silhouette sharp against the work lights, as Beatrice had gotten up to pack for the night. Up by the lockers she glanced over, but looked away when their hands fell gently together. They walked slowly away, murmuring things she couldn’t hear. 

When Beatrice bolted the gate to leave, it clacked too loudly, and they’d called over to say goodbye, dark intertwined shadows stretched grotesquely and longingly over sawdust towards her.

Nevertheless they had made it to the celebration the following day, Mary holding aloft a large creamy cake. Unlike the customary employee milestone cakes, dark and billowing and elaborately stylized with elements of houses previously worked on, Beatrice’s was plain white, with light blue frosting.

The celebration moved outside to the large, white refreshments tent, industrial fans blowing hot, coarse air. Beatrice marveled at how everyone seemed to be able to fit under its canvas. The team working on her House had all come, of course, pooling money for a hamper, and so did a surprising number of others across the other sets.

Lilith and Camila arrived together, squeezing through the throngs to the unsteady plastic table at the center. “We were not bringing your gift into this slaughterhouse,” Lilith huffed, “you’ll have to go back to the office to get it.”

“What is it?”

Lilith scoffed. “Why would we ruin the surprise?”

Camila put her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. “What we’re really here to say is that we’re proud we’ve been able to work with you during these five years, and we hope we’ll get a chance to do it again.” Beatrice looked at Lilith, who shrugged, stabbing her paper plate.

Mary, still slicing up the cake and handing them out, stopped to meet Beatrice’s eyes. She grinned.

It was many months later, deep into November, that Suzanne had made the formal pitch in her office. By then social media was awash with rumors of possible locations where the OCS could plant their pop-ups. Names, too – there were spreadsheets and Clue-esque checklists on Reddit lining up members of every significant OCS creative team in its past iterations in vertical rows. There even were columns of ‘evidence’ For and Against each individual’s involvement in the as-good-as-guaranteed pop-ups project.

Beatrice couldn’t tear her eyes away as the online crowd reached a consensus, drawing red circles in damning permanent marker ink again and again and again around the names that everything pointed towards. She closed the browser before getting to the point where the discussions dissolved and devolved into bitter catfights over creators’ artistic styles, as they always did.

Suzanne’s office, for as long as Beatrice had worked at OCS, felt like something out of a natural history museum. It was all burnished wood, walls fully doused in dark, rich green, and glass display cases of her collection of Southern European invertebrate fossils. Symmetrical tiles underfoot and over them, a thick carpet that swallowed the clap of footsteps. In Beatrice’s early days here it had been a terrifying place; severe and gloomy even when the heavy curtains were fully peeled open to let light in. The exacting botanical sketches on the walls, too, did not help in the least. Even now she thought it would make for a wonderful basis for a section in a House – a museum, of course, or perhaps a town hall.

Some might think her an unlikely horror creator – easily spooked by many things and a fervent hater of surprises, but Beatrice thought it was a good thing, for a designer, to be able to find something genuinely terrifying in everything.

She took a seat gingerly at Suzanne’s beautiful oak desk, angled so as to always make her seem taller and larger. So that the light would fall in a certain slanted way across her face, carving a cavern of contrasts down the thin scar through her eye.

“Suzanne.”

“Beatrice.” Suzanne inclined her head, expressionless. From a drawer she took out a stapled set of papers, and flicked through the corners thoughtfully. Her leather chair let out a sigh as she leaned back and appraised Beatrice silently for a minute.

“It’s time” she said, “for a new challenge.” She placed the papers down in front and to the left of Beatrice, next to the handmade tin man figurine gifted from her son. 

For Beatrice it had never really been about the horror; the thrill of smelling blood in the water, and Suzanne knew that.

“Some details have not been hammered out yet, but you have a role here should you accept it,” she said, at the end, sliding the papers into a manila folder. “You all are ready for it.”

Beatrice bit her lip. It was hard to argue otherwise, if not for her, then for the others, at least.

Camila, who she traveled with halfway across the world on a budget airplane that rattled and croaked just to take hundreds of terrible reference pictures in poor lighting with their bad phone cameras. 

One evening, Beatrice had eaten something foul, and she’d found herself slung across Camila’s lap, cringing in the back seat of an overpriced taxi without a working AC. Groaning with each bump of the road and helplessly dipping her head further into the crook of Camila’s arm. Throughout the ride she had gently brushed her fingers through Beatrice’s damp, clumped hair, whispering things Beatrice could no longer remember, and dabbing her clammy, chattering cheeks dry every two minutes with her own sleep shirt. 

Beatrice insisted she get back to the hostel to get some rest while she was kept overnight for monitoring and IV rehydration. It had been a rocky trip, and a break would do them some good. Instead Camila had spent the next one and a half days finishing up three days worth of location scouting, and then had it all packaged into a neatly organized folder by the time Beatrice was ready to go again. 

There was nothing imaginable, Beatrice thought, that could truly faze her.

And Lilith. The most capable person Beatrice knew to spearhead the overall production and creative direction of something like this. 

Not just because Beatrice knew she would genuinely do a marvelous job masterminding and knitting together a house of horrors. Beatrice also considered it important that, if she were to join the team, a satellite unit stationed thousands of miles away from the safety of the Cat’s Cradle headquarters, the team would be led by people she trusted.

Or the equivalent of ‘trusted’. Whatever you call the thing between two people who fly desperately over to each other’s homes with some regularity to scream and claw at particularly unyielding scenes and transitions and then fall exhausted into sleep in each others’ beds.

“Take some time to think about it,” Suzanne had said, afternoon light shining harshly so that the whole room was a prism of contrast. “Let me know what you think.”

So here they are.

“Subj: OCS Halloween Pop-ups - Onboarding”. Beatrice puts down her mug, takes a deep breath, and clicks the email from Suzanne. 

Her phone rings.

“What is it?” Beatrice copies the zoom link at the top of the message and pastes it into the top of a new tab. With her other hand she holds her phone to the shell of her ear. 

“Have you seen the email?” Lilith is terse and tight, even through the phone. Her voice is faraway; Lilith has her phone on Speaker and on a table or drawer somewhere while she looks at something else. Unusual. Her calls are usually curt, succinct, and fully focused. It makes Beatrice’s ears go hot and buzz with static.

“I’m reading it now,” she says, scrolling and scanning the words. 

It’s a short email, in Suzanne’s usual clipped style. No attachments if she can help it. Below the zoom link there is a brief four-point meeting agenda, a reminder to be punctual, and finally a brisk thank you.

In-between these lines Suzanne has appointed lead and three accompanying names of the members of the steering team of the OCS’ first expansion project. 

Lilith’s name is listed second. She's not the Creative Director.

Silence.

“You’ve read it.” The statement is biting; almost a sneer. Beatrice smells the bitterness licking under the corners of its thin, cool veneer. Sticky.

Beatrice rereads the four lines. She rereads it again. She opens her mouth, then closes it.

Ava Silva.

“Who is she?” she exhales, finally. Weakly.

There is a scoff on the end of the line. Echoes of slippers marching down parquet, a door slamming, and then, quietly, an uncontrolled squeak of leather. A furious stream of mechanical clicks, as Lilith’s hands race over the keys of her expensive desktop setup. Beatrice can picture her in her room as if mirrored before her: Lilith still in her terribly fancy robe, sprawled ungainly before the expanse of her monitors in her glassy, austere, home office.

Her voice is suddenly much closer over the call, and Beatrice pictures the phone wedged to her ear by her shoulder.

“Ava Silva,” Lilith spits, in a dry, desiccated whisper.  “Is a Disney rat.”

Beatrice raises her eyebrows, pulling up the matching LinkedIn profile. The most recent post was uploaded a week ago – it seems to be an incredibly effusive Farewell-slash-Thank You post for, indeed, the Disneyland Anaheim Imagineering team and the Creative Development department. She scans the prose: candid and emoji-laden, bordering on unprofessional. 

Beatrice counts seven Disney Princess puns, and one awful Star Wars quote to cap it off. There are eight – yes, eight – images attached to the post, all full-sized so that the page runs on like a travelog blog post. 

The last image appears to be a mountain of goodbye swag. These include, Beatrice notes: a Moana beach ball, a matching Buzz Lightyear set of wheelchair spoke guards and cane covers, and a Sven the Reindeer onesie. The rest of them are all pictures of the woman who must be Ava, with her now ex-coworkers. All adorned with Mickey ears and pin-studded lanyards, in front of various rides and experiences she probably had a hand in creating. 

No, Beatrice scrolls back up to information messily hidden in the overlong farewell paragraph: Specifically, two of these are rides for which she’s been part of the main creative team. Three more that she’s played some role in creating, whether at the design phase or in later consultancy during implementation. 

One picture is a solo snapshot of Ava in a bright yellow baseball cap and remarkably tiny denim shorts, in front of a Disneyland hotdog stand. She’s holding an extra large hotdog, absolutely drenched in ketchup and mustard, high over her head like a trophy. Her smile, Beatrice thinks, is dazzling. 

She swipes down on her trackpad too quickly.

The last picture is of Ava and two others standing on a boulder in front of a massive Zootopia indoor roller coaster, while crowds in the background swarm the attraction in a snaking queue. ‘My pride and joy / baby / first full lead’, Ava has captioned it, ‘aka Great Zootopian Escape 🫡 . Just opened !!! I will be back 2 visit :’)) ’

Beatrice sighs. 

“What the hell is Suzanne thinking,” Lilith mutters, teeth gritted; tone cold. She’s shaken, and Beatrice knows it.

She herself can barely stop herself from scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. That’s enough, she snaps at herself, and her hand leaves the touchpad with a short jerk. There’s no point. 

//

“Good morning,” Suzanne says flatly, the moment the call holds five participants. “Thank you all for joining the call punctually.” Her face is crisp and too-sharp against the blurred-black virtual background.

Like they wouldn’t have come anyway, even if thoroughly rocked. Three stern, stiff and silent faces look straight ahead. Suzanne probably prefers them this way. 

Beatrice looks quickly through the five rectangles on the screen and finds the label that she seeks. 

🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿.

“I would like to welcome a new member to the OCS.” Suzanne begins. She nods: “Ava Silva.”

There is a light smattering of the hand wave emoji reaction floating up from the toolbar from 🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿. The device itself seems to be held up very close to her face so that all Beatrice can see is patchy pixelated bits of nose and cheek, shaking about as Ava presumably works to send the emojis.

Beatrice clenches a stress ball in her fist. It had been gifted to her for April Fools’ Day by Mary and Shannon. Something about clenching and unclenching, although Shannon had been laughing too hard to deliver the line in full.

“Ava has been a Creative Development Director at Disneyland and worked on numerous attractions both there and at Universal.” Suzanne pauses. “So, to put it crudely, this is something of a coup. We are very happy to have her with us to lead this creative expansion of the OCS brand.”

Beatrice’s phone, which has been relentlessly buzzing, skates across the table. She turns it over, a stormy headache already gathering steam: dozens of unread messages from Camila and Lilith, and more still on their way. Sighing, she shoots off a quick ‘Later, please.’ and then puts it on a tea towel on the kitchen island, out of reach.

“As you may imagine, it was not easy. She was… highly sought after by various studios and companies. Miss Silva,” Suzanne deadpans, “you are a difficult woman to track down and convince.”

The image of Ava’s face, very close to the camera already, wobbles further. It jostles like she’s jabbing at her screen fiercely. A good while later, after Suzanne had moved on entirely, her delayed message would finally deliver through the Zoom chat: 

🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿: thats only bc i don’t read my emails lol! Glad 2 be here too 🥰

“You will all be working very closely together. In case anyone has forgotten…” Suzanne begins summarizing the contents of that fateful paper packet that she’d handed over in her office last November. The words, the clauses, are identical, but Beatrice can’t help but see it all in a different light. It sinks in more completely. 

Close collaboration to envision and map out the overall direction and themes for the pop-ups. Planning and writing for each house. Liaising with and consulting Admin back at the Cradle, yes, but otherwise almost entirely shouldering production independently. All of that now with Ava Silva thrown into the works.

For Ava’s sake, Suzanne briefly recaps the typical in-house workflow of the production of a Haunted House. Steering team meetings to establish expectations and aims; brainstorming and ideation and finalization of directions; traditionally an in-person bootcamp-esque intensive where the engine of development truly shifts into gear; followed by an ever-accelerating process of recruitment, research, sourcing, production, and testing. A process that should be second nature suddenly feels daunting.

“Now, this meeting is taking place so late because we have only just secured the venue permits for the pop-ups. I have briefed Ava already, and she will be able to explain this separately.”

Beatrice doesn’t have to turn around to hear her phone begin to rattle furiously behind her again.

“Finally, Ava,” Suzanne says, “let me introduce the rest of the team.”

First there is Camila, who Suzanne praises modestly for her extensive set design and art experience. Beatrice knows she’s always had a soft spot for her – resilient and optimistic and ready to put her teeth into anything. 

But in sharp contrast Camila’s face now is neutral and unreadable. The usually bright, tasteful splashes of color in her room are muted against the only two lamps she’s chosen to keep on, shades down and twisted away so her face sits in half-shadow. 

Lilith, then, in her icy postmodern tech den. Her arms are folded and her eyes are cast somewhere. Distant and acidic. 

Beatrice snaps back to attention when Suzanne mentions her name. She keeps it short and sweet: Beatrice’s original training was in engineering, and so, beyond her job scope, she’s best equipped to provide the team with technical and mechanical expertise. 

Ava nods. From what Beatrice can surmise from her patchy rectangle, she is not in a room at all.

No. She is, it seems, on some kind of wicker chair on a sun-dappled porch or veranda, lined by orange and beige walls and pillars veined with vines and hanging pots. A pair of sunglasses, perched on the crown of her head, keeps slipping down, and every few minutes Beatrice sees her lift a finger to nudge it back into place.

Her iPad seems to be on her lap, because it’s shuffling precariously at a strange angle focused on Ava’s chin as she flits about, constantly in blurry motion. 

When Ava holds up the iPad, there seems to be an inscrutable wall of something behind her, simultaneously metallic yet moving in dashes of color. For a moment, her video lags and freezes, and Beatrice gets a better look.

They’re birds. Dramatic plumages and muted tones of all kinds of domestic birds. In cages of every shape and size and color, decked from floor to awning, hanging off bars and resting on customized stands. The whole place is full of them. The iPad tilts as Ava adjusts herself and Beatrice finds that there’s more to the side, off-camera, too. 

Suzanne does not comment on it. “Ava, any thoughts?” 

Ava unmutes herself, grinning.

Beatrice’s earbuds erupt in utter, screaming, avian cacophony, and everybody winces at the exact same time.

Ava – muffled by bird screeching – yelps, mutes herself, and switches off her video.

The call melts into thirty seconds of stunned silence. 

“Oops sorry”,  types 🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿 in the chat.

Beatrice can see Lilith physically take a deep breath and count one to fifteen out loud. Camila is in disbelief; shocked and a little delighted. Beatrice reflects on the strange, confusing mess of large feelings, and decides that she possibly wants to throw up.

Suzanne bites a lip and frowns.

Deep breath, Beatrice reminds herself. Exhale. Inhale. 

Ava’s camera switches back on eventually, and this time, she has, in each ear, one bud of a pair of half-untangled earphones. The wires are frayed and taped over with red duct tape, and the sounds of the surrounding aviary are now blessedly punched out.

This time, too, her iPad appears to be propped up on something. The earphone cord stretches dangerously taut when Ava scrambles to sit back into her chair. 

“Sorry,” her voice careens back into the call. “I’m crashing at a friend’s home at the moment. It’s also kind of a bird shop.”

“Anyway,” she takes a deep breath, grinning, “I’m so happy to join the team. I love horror, and haunted houses, so much. And like, the OCS is– wow. It’s such a dream.” 

She lifts her arms to either side excitedly to gesticulate, and Beatrice watches Lilith balk at the unabashedly kitschy Universal Monsters tie dye oversized t-shirt. Ava leans in just enough that Beatrice can see the crudely cartoonish red-and-white design on her black flask, swirling about.

Bite me I’m scared scrawled over a crude cartoonish vampire.

“So,” Ava goes on excitedly, “I have a lot of ideas, and I can’t wait to get started.”

[angelmush]

been a while since i made one of these and ppl seemed to enjoy them, but here are my cooking endeavors this week:

- made a couple of easy weekday pasta dishes w pesto (finding it tough to go back to the jarred stuff after a streak of making my own). i made 2 different ones w varying things, crumbles of goat cheese or bacon or broccoli or slivers of asparagus or buttered oyster mushrooms or lemon, generally whatever green-ish thing that was looking sad in the fridge

- had a couple of sort of tasty but mostly sad fried fish sandwiches from frozen cod filets i had purchased on accident. used my favorite pickle chips and kewpie mayo and soft white burger buns, pretty much every other element was better than the fish itself which made for a not very delicious dinner but one that got the job done lol

- a plush vanilla layer cake w blackberries swirled into the batter and topped w a vibrant homemade lemon curd and clouds of whipped cream mascarpone frosting and deep purple sugared smashed blackberries and their juices. stained my fingers but was sticky and delicious and summery, would have been great for a tea party if i’d had one to go to

- i made 2 discs of pie dough, one i popped in the freezer for a future cherry pie (my gf’s request) and one for a gruyère, spinach, sausage quiche im making for dinner tonight bc i have an abundance of eggs and a deep love of breakfast food

- i prepped a chicken for roasting tomorrow, it’s now resting uncovered and spatchcocked in my fridge, coated thickly w a rotisserie inspired blend of spices to dry brine. i boiled some waxy yellow potatoes to make it easier to roast them w the chicken tomorrow when i get home from work . simple + easy for my future tired self

- will also be making a cucumber salad to go with the potatoes and chicken bc we have 8 cucumbers (not an exaggeration) to work through and i need a cold crunchy vegetable to eat every day in the warm months or else i shrivel up and die

- planning to use my leftover roast chicken to make either a caesar salad or a caesar salad wrap or something for dinner the day after tomorrow, something easy to make after a long day at work and tbh very little brings me more joy than homemade caesar dressing and cold romaine

- busted out the ice cream maker !! have plans to make both a pineapple sorbet and a toasted coconut vanilla ice cream (sweetened w condensed milk maybe? for the nuttiness?) so then i can swirl the two flavors together in my little bowl :)

[the1975attheirverybest]

Being Funny In A Foreign Language

Chapter 6- All I Need To Hear

Read all previous chapters here

Warnings: mentions of smut

——

Somewhere, in a tour bus, on a dark American highway, Matty stirred from a dreamless sleep.

He rubbed his eyes, turning to lay on his side. He the top of his duvet was cold. He shimmied his way out of cocoon that he’d created in his sleep, his feet finally touching the floor. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should run into the restroom first or have coffee….coffee won.

“Yo,” he attempted, but his voice was too low. Mark noticed him anyway.

“You’re awake!”

“And you….are….for some reason?” Matty scratched his head, his eyes squinting to adjust to the bright light outside of his bedroom.

“Just couldn’t sleep.” Mark shrugged.

“Right. Sorry, you always say you have a hard time with the movement.” Matty cocked his head. “It’s why you should try drugs.”

Mark chuckled. “I think I’ll stick to my herbal tea. Thanks.”

Matty threw himself down on the couch, laying his head back and closing his eyes. “Fuckkkkk” he groaned. “Think I’m still asleep, actually.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, but I’ll get it. Maybe. In a moment. Once my legs have woken up properly.”

Mark smiled, disregarding Matty’s words, he stood up and poured him a cup of coffee. Peaking in the small fridge for a moment, “you hungry?”

“You don’t have to take care of-“

“So that’s a yes then. Is toast alright? Who am I asking…you like anything to do with bread…”

Matty smiled, touched by how well Mark knew him. He peaked out the blinds, into the pitch black of night.

“Where are we?”

Mark stopped buttering the piece of bread in his hand and flicked his wrist. “Interstate.”

“Which one?”

“I75”

“So…." Matty tried to guess the schedule “we’re on our way to Charlotte?”

“Columbus, Ohio.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Ohio.”

“Eat.” Mark handed him his coffee and piece of toast.

“Thanks, man.”

Matty ate in silence, listening to the sounds of his own chewing, and evading Mark’s curious gaze. He knew Mark had something on his mind. He also had an idea of what it might be.

“What?!” Matty eventually said, swallowing dry.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“But you want to. So, just- go- ahead and say it!”

“Alright.” Mark inched closer towards him, clearing his throat and looking directly into Matty’s eyes. “How are you?”

Fuck. A loaded question. Matty found it impossible to look away, now that Mark had locked eyes on him. He couldn’t lie. It’s all over his face. So; instead, he shrugged, picking up his coffee mug and sipping on it, just to have something to bust himself with.

Mark said absolutely nothing, simply continuing to look into Matty’s eyes with a gentle smile.

The silence was unbearable, Matty eventually spoke just to make it stop. “I’m- im….fine. You know. I’m always fine. It’s all good.”

He pushed the plate away from him, then spoke again. “Am I- like- feeling the best I’ve ever felt? No. But- you know. What about it? It’s not like I’m fuckin suicidal or anything….and, I’m happy the boys have all got places to be and all that cuz….could you imagine if the whole band was getting all this…’backlash’? I don’t even like that word ‘backlash.’”

Matty paused to catch his breath. His own words sinking into his mind. “But yeah…it does feel a bit odd. There’s a lot happening….of course, they know. George’s been texting me. You wanna see the memes?” Matty giggled, recalling their latest text exchange. “I’ll go get my phone.”

Matty reached for his phone at the charging station, plopping down on the bed, scrolling through several unread messages from a variety of friends and acquaintances to get to George’s name. His finger hover over Amelia’s name for a moment. He opened their text chain and typed a quick “hiya. Checking in. You left before we could talk about things. Wanted to make sure you’re feeling okay about it all 😊” he sighed, reading his own words back, he felt gross. Perhaps he could rephrase things? He thought about it for a quick second and replaced the emoji with a “xx.” Then, rethinking it again, he deleted the “xx” and ended the text with a full stop. He sat there, staring at the “send” button. Why hasn’t she checked in with him though? His mind couldn’t help but go over every single torturous detail of the last time that he’d seen her. Had he done anything wrong? Had he failed to make her happy? To follow her orders? He was a bit too stubborn with his begging when she told him she didn’t want him cumming. Did she not want him to? Did he break the rules? The entire night played in his head on a loop. He remembered every moment. Her hitting his face, repeatedly. Him feeling it everywhere, from his what to his toes, begging for more. Being on his knees. Her sweet touch on his pulsing, red face. Her fingers in his mouth, on his crotch, her expression of concern once he’d lost balance and landed on the floor after she withdrew her hand. Though she sounded concerned, she still chose to pick his head off the floor by the roots of his hair. Something about that combination excited him immensely. Still, if he was being honest with himself, he kind of hoped she’d lean down and kiss him. Or say something to indicate that she knew how badly he wanted her. But she didn’t.

The pain was good. Him ending up naked and at her mercy wasn’t where he thought the night would go. But he did push her buttons. It hurt so much. And it felt so good. He loved it. Loved feeling that burning on his skin and knowing that she was the cause of it. But he wished he knew if she liked it too. The entire time, he longed to hear a word of encouragement from her. He recalls her pausing to give his cheek a quick kiss once he’d offered to count. She did actually tell him he was doing good. But how sincere was she? Was it just a platitude? Like a “thanks” you say when someone hands you the tv remote or asks if you want anything from the store? Did she know that he liked taking the pain for her? To please her? To show her that he would do anything for her ? Surely she would have said something if she’d appreciated his suffering. Once they’d stopped, he was sure she’d scoop him up in her arms and tell him how good he’d been for her. That she was happy he’d done as she’d told him. Maybe make him promise to try to eat better tomorrow. Or give him the chance to apologize better. Sure, she’d helped clean him up afterwards, but that’s the bare minimum. She did let him cling to her and bury his face in her for a bit. But he’d wanted more. Was he greedy for wishing that he could lay on top of her or be enveloped by her or feel her skin directly on his? She does have a boyfriend. One that she’d offered to break up with. He was the one to stop her. He told her not to. It’s selfish, but, that night, he really wished that she hadn’t left him alone in the room. He needed her so much. He still does. They did have sex, so, isn’t it arbitrary to draw the line at staying afterwards? Or did they even have sex? She whipped him bloody and then held his hand as he experienced his first orgasm in a long time. And then he cried like an idiot. Does that even count as sex? Fuck. The most sexual contact he’s getting these days and he’s not even sure if it really is sexual contact. What has become of him?

The welts on his ass, sending pain through him every time that he sat down or moved a bit too quickly, were a constant reminder of his failure to make her happy. she hadn’t even called or texted to ask if he was healing up nicely or if he needed anything. Where had he gone wrong? Should he have offered to get her off after? Perhaps. It wasn’t fair that she never got to cum. He just didn’t have the foresight to think in that moment. He wasn’t sure his brain was functioning at all. Everything was fuzzy and unclear. Yet again, his thoughtlessness had let her down. Even when he was doing all this for her, he still managed to make the experience about himself and his pleasure. He hadn’t meant to. It was all supposed to be for her. But somehow he got it wrong.

He deleted the text that he’d been composing, replacing it with a new one. “I’m so sorry, Amelia.” Sorry for what? Sorry is what you say if you accidentally bump into someone or if you reach for their spoon at a restaurant. What kind of words could he use for being a useless human being? What gives him the right to even reach out? Clearly, she hasn’t messaged him because she didn’t want to hear from him. He shouldn’t bother her or remind her of what a disappointment he’s been. He deleted the apology and swiped out of the text chain, finally finding George’s name.

“Okay; here it is.” He stood in the doorway, choosing a selection of texts to show to Mark.

***

Three hours behind, in Los Angeles, Amelia struggled to fall asleep in the plush hotel bed that she shared with Joshua. She couldn’t stop seeing Matty every time that her eyes closed. She’d left him crying, in bed, in nothing but his underwear. After inflecting a disorienting amount of pain on his already exhausted body. At the time, it felt like the right thing to do. He asked for it, even. Thanked her for it. He looked so beautiful wincing and smiling every time she’d hit him. He’d say ‘thank you’ and beg for more, unprompted. The dazed look in his eyes was clear proof that he wanted it just as much as she did. Though it broke her heart that he was all too eager to be punished, he’d been stoic and brave about it. Still, it was the thing that finally made him cum, so it couldn’t have been bad, right? Her heart shattered into pieces at the memory of his pained cries. He was overwhelmed. Scared to even experience pleasure. She couldn’t forget the way he’d helplessly squeezed her hand. As if begging for her to intervene. To implore his body to be less cruel on him. She wished she could help him but she didn’t know how. Did she have the power to slow things down? To heighten the pleasure and lessen the pain ? Shouldnt she know if that’s a power that she posses or not? Had she taken on a role that she’s woefully unprepared for?

she wondered if she’d gone too far. If he’d only gone along with it to make her happy. If she should’ve been gentler, slower. She remembers being on the receiving end of things like this. She never did it just to make Matty happy, though the knowledge that it pleased and amused him to hear her whimper and beg always made her excited to partake. She had no idea if he felt the same though; it never occurred to her to ask. She felt around the nightstand, in the dark, for her phone. The screen lit up, she checked it for any messages from him but there was nothing. She wished he were here right now. Wondered how he’s been doing since she’d left to get to this exhibit. Has he been eating? Sleeping? Is he feeling excited about seeing the boys again soon? About getting back onstage after a small break? He always had has smile on his face whenever he is up there. She’d missed that smile. All she could hope for was that doing his job would remind him that he wasn’t alone, that people all over the world love him, and that things do get better.

[zoeykallus]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEN! I know it's your birthday and you will probably not write anything today, but let me suggest something topic related for another time maybe? You said you are having a bad time recently and I thought, why not make a one-shot with your fave clone, some birthday hurt and comfort? Maybe it helps you to feel better about what's going on? Love and best wishes!

Aaawww, Thank you! Oh wow, you are really calling me out right here 😅 But you know what? You might be right about this. Sorry to everyone else who have to wait a bit longer for their requests. Today is my day after all, right? 😅 Okay, here goes nothing...

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to indulge myself 😅

The Bad Batch (Tech) x F!Reader - The Birthday Misery

Stress/Comfort/Generic Happy Ending/Fluff

_________________

The last weeks were exhausting, many things went wrong, things broke that had to be replaced quickly. Everything that can go wrong is going wrong to your left and right. Your salary is practically gone at the beginning of the month. Today is your birthday, and you haven't said anything to anyone, at least not to your new colleagues. Your old ones live way too far away anyway. You can't invite anyone, there's no money. You don't even have a cake or anything decent to eat in the house, no drinks to toast with, not even coffee. With a heavy sigh, you look at the clock and drink the tea you just brewed, because you don't feel like drinking tap water anymore. You hate these months when it feels like you're working for nothing, because you're getting absolutely nothing from the credits you earned, not even on your birthday. You hope Wrecker is kind enough to offer you some of his rations again, what you have in the house has to last at least two more weeks and is actually not even enough for one, if at all. But it's not just the money or the fact that you didn't eat properly in a week, it's the stress that makes you lose sleep, all the things that go sideways, and it feels you are alone with all that's on your mind. Putting on your gear, you make your way to the hangar where the Marauder is. You don't talk to Cid about a raise, that didn't work last time. When you see Tech standing by the ship, you smile, you are always happy to see him. You try to suppress your stomach growl with sheer willpower, you are embarrassed and don't want Tech to hear it. When he looks up and looks at you, you feel warm, but then your stomach growls again, and you fake a cough to drown it out. "Hi Tech." "Hello, dear. Are you not feeling well?" You blink, then realize he's referring to the cough. "No, I'm fine, just a dry throat." You almost jump out of your boots in shock when Hunter suddenly addresses you from the side, you didn't even see him before. "Have you had breakfast?" Several cogs mesh in your head. You know Hunter has very good hearing, and the coughing probably didn't fool him.

„Um, didn't have time, I'm afraid I overslept". Tech frowns and says, "You shouldn't go to work on an empty stomach" "I um-" Before you can reply anything, you hear Cid's voice, "There's the birthday girl." The next moment, her hand falls heavily on your shoulder. You want to sink into the ground, you don't need this attention right now, you can't celebrate either, you don't even have credits for a decent meal. "Birthday?" asks Tech quietly, looking confused. Hunter grins at you and pats you on the shoulder as well. "Happy birthday, ad'ika!" You feel uncomfortable, but force yourself to smile and thank him, before hastily distracting yourself by starting to load the Marauders with the goods that need to be delivered. Tech joins you and lends a hand. More or less casually, he asks, "Are you celebrating your birthday?" This is not a conversation you really wanted to engage in. "Um, no, not this year" "Why not? This would be the first year you've celebrated with us" Evasively, you say, "But I have to work today." "But tonight is your night off" he remarks matter-of-factly. With a sigh, you say, "I'll probably be tired." For a brief moment, Tech thinks and is silent, but then he says, "I'm sure my brothers would love to toast you as much as I would. Isn't that what people do?" His question is innocent and perfectly legitimate, but you feel pressured and retort, "I can't do that" "Why not?"

You set the box you were about to pick up back down with a deep sigh and say, "Please don't tell the others, but I can't even afford the breakfast caf right now. So I can't buy a round on my birthday" Tech blinks again, then reaches into a pocket on his belt. "I could-" "No, Tech, that's sweet of you, but you don't have to" "I know but-" You put your hand on his to stop him from getting credits out of the pocket, gently but firmly. You kiss his cheek and say softly, "That's incredibly sweet of you, but I'd just rather we forget about it, okay?" Tech hesitates, his cheeks blushing a little. You realize you've never been this close to him before. "Well, if that's your wish," he finally says, giving in to you. A little unsure, you say, "Sorry about the kiss, I didn't mean to cross any lines I-" "It's okay, it didn't bother me.... on the contrary" You smile shyly at each other before you both dive back into work to distract yourselves.

You are shaky and tired as you make your way to your apartment in the evening. You're shaky because you're lacking nutrients, you haven't eaten anything all day except for a protein bar, and yet you've been working hard. When the batch had already finished work, you did a few small errands for Cid, today of all days. Outside your apartment, however, you encounter something unexpected. Tech, Hunter, Wrecker, Echo and Crosshair are standing there, each of them having filled bags which contents you can't immediately recognize. "Hey ad'ika!" exclaims Wrecker with a laugh, "You're slow today!" Puzzled, you ask, "What are you all doing here?" "We came to celebrate your birthday," Echo says, holding up one of the bags, "We brought drinks and food. We thought that you would be happy about it" Your heart does a little leap, you get all warm and a little dizzy too. You look from one to the other. "You brought things?" "Of course, the birthday girl is getting spoiled today," Hunter says with a grin. Crosshair grumbles, "Don't look at me, I was forced to come here". You can't help but laugh at his dry comment. "I actually believe you," you say, amused, but with a reproving look at Tech you say, "Didn't I ask you not to tell anyone?" As your stomach growls loudly again, Tech says, "We should go inside and eat something" "Yeah, let's make a base for the Spotchka," Wrecker rumbles happily. Tech has come up with something nice, a tabletop grill on which everyone can make their own food while sitting around it in a convivial circle. Fish, meat, vegetables and fruit, the guys have brought of course also dips and sauces. Echo and Tech shoo you out of your own kitchen to prepare the ingredients for the table grill and distribute them in bowls. As you're about to at least set the table, Wrecker grabs you by the shoulders and gently but firmly shoves you into a chair. "You wait here until everything is ready," he says with a wink. "Um... okay, cool." You grin inanely to yourself the whole time, you can't quite grasp what's happening here yet, but it feels great. The guys are just wonderful. What you thought was going to be the worst birthday in a long time turns into the best birthday of your life so far.

You all eat together, you have not been so full for a long time. After that, plenty of Spotchka flows, dirty jokes are told and board games and card games are unpacked. You haven't laughed so much in a long time.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

@agenteliix

@allsystemsblue

@palliateclaws

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

@malicemercy

@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

@starwarsnerd111

[fkevin073]

Raquel got me into snowbaird so here I am! Lol

Okay so👀

1, 2, 10, 14, 23?

But also nickziggy!😭

1, 21, 23?

omg lol welcome to the club and to another tragic ship for us nickziggy girlies!!

here we go!

snowbaird

who brought up marriage first?

I think I've answered this before so apologies for the short answer but I think definitely Coriolanus. for as cold and rational that he is he just wants to possess her all the time and 'make her his' (because he's a weirdo like that) so he's ready to pop the question at any given moment. I do think in canon universe Lucy Gray would also bring it up because marriage provides her a protection just being his girl doesn't afford her. so that too!

which one proposed? was it private or public?

I think private in every universe - like them in the districts, in the capitol, modern universe, etc. Coriolanus may appreciate a good public image and has interest in selling the narrative, but I think he's also pretty private in his own way, and that's not a moment he or Lucy gray would like to share. I don't think they want to perform their genuine moments after all they've been through, though I don't think Coriolanus is above making them redo it publicly after he's already asked her in private, just for the publicity and all. also Coriolanus definitely proposes because he's too traditional and anal not to.

do they get married through court? church? secret third option?

I don't think there is Church or religion in Panem, so probably the court? I can't imagine either of them being really religious in modern day, but maybe Coriolanus would do it just for appearances... as for secret third option, in canon universe I think Lucy Gray would have them do the toasting ritual from twelve, because even though the covey aren't from there I imagine she'd like it for some reason.

do they follow any familiar, religious or cultural traditions at the wedding?

hmm. we talked about the toasting before. Maybe the covey have some private cultural traditions before hand? Maybe she writes a song as her vows or something, and Coriolanus has to write a poem for her (something he'd only deliver to her privately because again, he's very deeply weird). and maybe for the Snows there's a private tradition of her picking her wedding bouquet from the roses they grow on their rooftop? I like that headcanon

if the couple could describe their wedding in one sentence, how would they?

oou. this is hard. um..... I imagine Coriolanus would be very dry about it because he's a very private person, and Lucy Gray would lean into the romance a bit more. I'm not too sure about this one :/

now for nickziggy

who brought up marriage first?

omg nick hands down no question! he's insane like that. ziggy is more skeptical and non-traditional 100%, but I do think he'd give up marriage if she really didn't want to.

do they have a honeymoon? where to? how soon after?

I think right after the wedding tbh because ziggy doesn't want to have to deal with people coming to say congratulations constantly. about where.... uh, anywhere other than shadyside or Sunnyvale would be great I think for either of them. tbh I think they'd love doing like some cross-country book tour of houses authors they loved live in - or even going to England and doing that. or maybe doing something others rarely do, like going to Antartica or something. anything private - I think a private island would be nick's cup of tea.

if the couple could describe their wedding in one sentence, how would they?

nick - "a dream come true".

ziggy - "none of your fucking business".

:)

thanks for the ask!! ♥️

[saintrocklee]

🌸 flower shop AU part two 🌸

masterlist

itachi starts his day with the same routine he’s had since he was a teenager. he wakes up and makes his bed, folding back the comforter just so and tidying up his pillows. he showers next, making sure to pick out any left over potting soil under his nails. there rarely is any but he thoroughly inspects each finger anyway. he then dresses and collects his gardening apron from where it hung to dry in his laundry room.

itachi let’s the air dry his hair as he makes his morning tea and toast, pulling strawberry jam from his fridge and a knife from his drawer. he eats while skimming through more paperwork that comes with opening a business, checking his phone for updates and emails. his apartment is messier than usual, order forms and contracts collecting in piles underneath pots of plants he needs to move when the shop is ready.

when itachi arrives at his shop his eyes slant over to the chipped door just to the right of his own. the lights are on inside the tattoo parlor, and he can make out movement from where he’s standing. there’s a spontaneous urge, to see if it’s you, but itachi is far too busy for anything unplanned and makes his way to his own shop.

only there’s a folded note stuck in his door just above the knob. it’s thick and folded once over. itachi has an idea of where it came from and opens it, only to fight back a chuckle at what greets him.

There are far too many dead fish in the sea. If flowers don’t work out for you, maybe you can host classes on the art of shaking hands.

the note isn’t signed but there’s a beautiful drawing of a koi fish, it’s scales in the shapes of tiny flowers. the ink used is such a dark blue it’s almost black, and itachi finds himself tracing over the drawing with his thumb. the fins looked like leaves, and the detail behind each stroke leave him a little bit elated. the time you must have spent on this …

he tucks the note under his arm and opens his door, the bell above welcoming him joyfully. there’s still much work to be done to the shop itself, but itachi had a small office in the corner of the space that was mostly finished. he goes there first to unpack his bag and finds himself standing in the middle of the small room, holding your drawing in his hands. one wall of his office was taken over by a giant bulletin board that had copies of permits and his schedule tacked to it. he finds one more tack on his desk and pins your note to the corner, careful not to stick the pin anywhere near the drawing. it adds a little bit of life to his space, some originality that he finds endearing, and lets himself look at it for a minute longer before going back to work.

[endlessnightlock]

71.

"Would you just shut up please?"

A continuation of this bed-sharing prompt. 

Part One  

Part Two

Peeta went upstairs to his family’s apartment, moving slowly to prevent more of my fussing about being careful. For a person who couldn’t get up from the floor last night and stumbled on his feet getting out of bed, he’s pushing his luck today. “I grabbed these to stuff in the cracks around the door,” he says, reappearing with an armful of worn, threadbare sheets. “Ought to keep the snow outside.” 

The wind is even stronger today than last night, and snow is steadily making it’s way into the kitchen between the door and it’s frame. Frigid air whistles in also, invading my ears while the white stuff lands on the floor. There’s something this strong winter wind howling outside that makes it seem as though it’d be easy to lose your mind. 

Sliding off the stool by the kitchen work counter, I join Peeta by the back door. Carefully, he stuffs edges of the sheets wherever a draft comes in. wanting to keep the small bit of space we established this morning, I lean against the door and peer out the window into the wall of blizzard snow. Tiny, frozen flakes ping against the window panes and wood siding with a delicate thunk sound. “Wonder how long this storm’ll last,” I muse, shivering at the thought of being outside in that.

“We’ll be fine here,” Peeta says. “We have enough wood to keep the smallest oven going, and enough provisions.” He frowns, stuffing the last of the sheet into the base of the doorway before looking up at me. “You think your mother and Prim are alright, will they worry that you never made it home last night?”

I shrug. There’s enough food at home to last them three or four days so I’m not concerned. And the other—

“They stopped worrying about me a long time ago,” I say nonchalantly. “They know I’m good at finding places to hole up and wait things out.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t worry. I would,” Peeta admits, standing after managing to block the snow’s way inside the kitchen. I step aside, allowing him room to shove another sheet between the window pane and it’s frame. “Glad you didn’t try to go home last night.”

“I’m capable of taking care of myself,” I tell him. 

“Someone I loved? I wouldn’t want them out in that,” he sucks air in through his teeth. Glancing at me, he raises his eyebrow. “It’s wicked out there,” he adds, moving around me and effectively dropping the subject. Which is good because it was on the tip of my tongue to ask why he used the word loved. 

Since he isn’t opening the bakery today, there isn’t a whole lot for him and I to do to pass the time. He puts a kettle of water on the stove, and once it’s boiling, pours the water into a pot for tea before offering to make us something for breakfast. Although I protest, not wanting to owe him anything, he rolls his eyes at me. “Consider it payment for last night’s nursing,” he says, squatting next to the wood stove, sliding a peel with slices of bread on it inside. Eyes almost twinkling, he glances at me and adds, “Don’t worry. I was just going to make toast. You won’t owe me your firstborn or anything.”

“Your second born, maybe,” he adds when I remain quiet, peering inside the open door. “Only if you have an overabundance.”

I cover my mouth to keep my laughter in. “Got you there, I’m never having kids,” I reply.

“Well, I guess you got me then. Perfect,” Peeta says to himself, sliding the peel back out. On it’s blackened, worn-smooth surface, lie two thick pieces of hearty bread. “No butter, but we do have some honey. Go sit at the counter, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I’m not---”

“Katniss, would you just shut up please?” He interrupts, laughing when I scowl at him. “I’m not going to eat in front of you. I know you’re hungry. You know you’re hungry. Don’t be so stubborn.”

A few moments later we’re sitting on stools at the work counter, having tea and toast. 

“Sorry, it’s a little dry,” Peeta apologizes, dunking one end of his slice in his tea mug. 

“It’s perfect,” I say quietly. My slice of bread sticks in my throat, but not because of it’s texture. I’m certain what we’re eating is the same kind he threw to me that day he saved my life. 

“Nah. It’s perfect when it’s fresh.”

“I know, but this is good. Thank you,” I add, meeting his eye, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Thank you for the other time you fed me, too.”

Peeta sets his slice on the counter, brushing his hands together to rid them of any crumbs. “Do you mean from when we were kids?”

I raise my eyebrows at him. Obviously. “It meant a lot to me,” I say.

Peeta looks away, cheeks pinking under my scrutiny. “I think we can let that one go.”

“Why did you do it, though?”

He meets my eyes again. “Because you needed it.”

“But your mother hurt you for burning it. I heard her do it!”

“And I survived,” he says, and I’m suddenly embarrassed about bringing that up, the way I paid attention to it all and how I’ve done so with him since. 

“It’s not that big a deal. I was worried about you, the way you came to school after your father, well, passed, looking so thin and just, you looked hollow, like the life was sucked out of you or something. And I wanted to help you, hell, anything to help before then. My chance didn’t come until that night. So I gave you some bread, and my mother hit me. But you lived.”

Silence settles between us, the thick sort where someone is sure to blurt something out any moment. I go first. “Why me, though?”

“Why not?” he counters, picking up his mug of tea and taking a drink, grimacing at the flavor. “You don’t always have to do something expecting things in return.”

“Yes you do,” I counter strongly. What nonsense is he saying? “That’s exactly what you do. If you do something for me, I owe you. If I do something for you, then you owe me.”

“So you think you owe me?” Peeta asks softly, leaning forward on his stool.

I drop my eyes to the counter top, avoiding his gaze. “I owe you a lot, and I can never repay it.”

“I wish you didn’t feel that way,” he says hesitantly. “The thing is, I would have given you that bread anyway. That was always going to happen. But Katniss, I like you. I always have.”

“You like me?” I ask, confused. Obviously he doesn’t dislike me or we wouldn’t be sitting here talking. It seems to me he likes everyone. No one ever has a bad word to say about him.

Peeta stares at me pointedly, until I realize what he’s getting at. 

Oh. He likes me. I laugh nervously because what is actually happening right now? My heart flutters in my chest, heat creeping up my neck. “I didn’t know,” I admit.

He smiles ruefully, moving his hand forward, touching my fingertips for half a second before scooting it back. “I never got up the nerve to talk to you before, why would you? So you can understand why I don’t want you to feel you owe me anything.”

“I just...I don’t understand.”

“What is there to not understand?” he pries.

“I don’t know,” I say dropping my face into the palm of my hands. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that,” I mumble through my fingers.

“Does that make you uncomfortable, knowing I like you?” Peeta asks, sounding unsure of himself for the first time. “I don’t expect anything from you---”

“No!” I pop my head up, immediately cringing upon realizing I shouted at him. “Sorry, er. No.”

He laughs. “Okay. Good. I’m glad. Are you, uh, done there?” 

Biting my lip I nod, pushing my tea cup away. My toast is already gone.

“What should we do now?” Peeta asks, taking my cup away.

I swear my heart stops. “Huh?” I ask. I don’t know what to do about him liking me. 

“Well, there isn’t much to do down here. I can’t really prep anything, since I don’t know when we’ll be open for business again. Do you want to go upstairs to the apartment? There are some books up there, or there’s always television.”

I sigh in relief. Of course Peeta meant what are we going to do this afternoon, not what we’re going to do about him liking me. What is there to do about that, really? At least I don’t need to answer that question today. “Yeah, let’s go upstairs.”

[jaemmingjaem]

good signs, vital signs, fragments of light

Locklyle Week 2023 Day 1, March 20: Firsts

Words: 1.457

Rating: G

Summary: The more he thought about it, the more he reached the conclusion that it just wouldn't do to have an unhappy associate. What kind of boss would he be if his employees were always sad?

Lockwood would have none of that. Lucy Carlyle would laugh in his presence, or else she wouldn’t be an associate at Lockwood and Co. at all.

This work is also available in ao3

Lucy Carlyle wasn’t the sunniest person in the world, was the conclusion Lockwood came to in a conversation with George. 

“Seems like a bit of a downer, doesn’t she?” George wondered aloud during their breakfast. 

“She’s just shy. Give her some time and she’ll probably come around to us.” 

Some people took more time to be comfortable around others. Lucy seemed to be one of those. The girl never smiled, and preferred to spend time in her own room, if they weren’t working on a case. 

As the days passed, the more it bothered him that she never seemed happy. There had to be something wrong with her. It wasn’t normal to be this… closed off. 

The more he thought about it, the more he reached the conclusion that it just wouldn't do to have an unhappy associate. What kind of boss would he be if his employees were always sad? 

Lockwood would have none of that. Lucy Carlyle would laugh in his presence, or else she wouldn’t be an associate at Lockwood and Co. at all. 

He had always been a man of action, so he started with little things that might have cheered her up. ‘Well done, Ms. Carlyle,’ he started to say at the end of every job, or maybe ‘Splendid work!’ for a change, in the hopes that flattery - as genuine as it was, - would be able to make her feel good. But the girl just nodded flatly at him with lips in a thin line, and retreated to her own attic bedroom as soon as they got home. No amount of compliments made her warm up to him. But he still kept trying. 

He made jokes. George’s humor seemed too dry for her, too sarcastic, but, for some reason, the creases of her eyes always seemed to tighten when he joked. There were still no traces of a smile. But the sparkle in her was enough to keep him trying. 

Or maybe the ritual of drinking tea together late at night, after a particularly hard case. How he noticed she only ever read romances, so he made sure of always putting the best ones on the corner table of the library for her to find. The fact that she seemed to enjoy the sound of his guitar, so the door of his bedroom was open every time he played it. The sound carried all over the house, and the door to the attic was kept open wide as long as there was music to be heard. 

Then, it was the toast. He noticed that she made one for herself everyday. Just like him. Only, hers had a little more butter. Really, it was just an act of common courtesy to start making two toasts instead of one, since he woke up first. Anyone would do that for another person. 

‘ Here you go,’ he’d say with her plate in his hands, wearing his best grin. And she’d stare at him confused, blindsighted for a moment, until her hands finally stretched to reach the food. The fingers in her hands were calloused, like any other agent’s. The touch was almost a whisper as the plate was exchanged.  

‘You never made me morning toast,’ George complained. ‘Not even when my dog died.’ 

Well, George was George. He’d be fine if Lockwood didn’t make him toast. Lucy was different. In the mornings, bedheaded, the sunlight dropped into her eyes, and they seemed to shine with a light of their own. She never smiled, but said ‘ thanks’ in a quiet voice, and so making toast mattered. 

There was an infinite number of things he could do, if she’d just look at him with eyes like… with eyes. Everyone had them, right? She was no different, and neither was the way she looked at him. 

***

And then there was the ghost of Mrs. Baker: the vindictive spirit of a preschool teacher who chased them across the garden of her old home with a ruler. It made Lockwood happy he’d never gone to school. Kids before The Problem must have had it rough if everyone had teachers like Mrs. Baker. 

During that particular case, George had been too slow to set the iron chains around them, and so they had no place to hide from the apparition. Lucy was running after her with the rapier, in a somewhat unsuccessful manner, while Lockwood and George looked for the source between the rose bushes. Not their brightest moment. 

“Ow!” Exclaimed George. “Why couldn’t she have died somewhere less prickly?”

“Just look for it, George. Miss Carlyle, how are you holding up?”

The associate had a sword up, trying to keep the apparition of the old lady at bay. “She’s quite evil for a teacher! Blabbering about beating bad kids with that ruler. No mention of her Source yet.” 

“Well, maybe it’s the ruler. Just keep listening and try to get her away from us. Tell me if you need help with her.” 

The socks under his boots were probably dirty with mud, at this rate, and the suit he wore was less than respectable. Digging the source had been a bad idea . He should have made Miss Carlyle do it. 

“Miss Carlyle? Any trouble yet?”

“None.”

“Great!” Not for him, or his white button shirt, though. His hands dug into the soil once again. “George, please tell me you’re close to finding it?”

Somewhere around the camellias, George was having difficulty in holding a shovel and trying to avoid Mrs. Baker’s fury. Lucy protected his back with her rapier blazing in the air. He must have been close. 

“Close is subjective. We’ve been digging this small garden for hours now, and we have found absolutely…” His shovel made a hard clang. “ Finally ! It’s here, found it!”

Lockwood joined them. Mrs. Baker’s attacks turned more lethal, and her translucent form shook with fury. 

“I can see a skeleton!” George yelled. “Pass me the net!”

Lucy was still fending off the attacker. Lockwood wondered vaguely if she was tired. Maybe he really should have distributed the work better. Next time, she’d look for the source while he fought off the ghosts. He would be clean, she wouldn’t have to spend that much energy. It was a win-win situation for all of them. 

The standard silver net they kept in their belts was already in Lockwood’s hands. In a beat, he threw it at George, who stumbled in his catching attempt and ended up falling over what was presumably the skeleton of Mrs. Baker. He fumbled with the net, Lucy was screaming for him to hurry up, and, suddenly, the night was blissfully quiet once more. 

They all breathed in. Lockwood smiled, and George sighed. Lucy did one of those upturn to her lips that showed neither teeth nor emotion. 

Again, there was a feeling to his chest, like he had missed an opportunity to see her happy, truly happy. 

After a moment, George went into the hole between the beds of camellias, and surged with something that looked like a lump in his arms, as if he was cradling a baby. 

“It’s a skull!” He grinned. 

Lucy got close to take a look at it, crushing the flowers even more as she walked over them. “It looks like the one we have.” 

“So much they could be a pair.” George agreed. 

“We should keep it. Put them in matching jars,” added Lockwood. 

Lucy’s mouth quirked. The smile was just there, bubbling, almost on the surface. Lockwood stared at her, waiting. “And make them wear matching hats during Christmas.”

The grin that came to his lips was immediate. Lucy’s eyes were sparkling under the moonlight. 

“They’d look lovely as a set in the living room.”

George snorted. “Inspector Barnes will be thrilled when he comes to see us.” 

And that was what broke Lucy Carlyle. 

For the first time since he knew her, she laughed. The sound was light and breathless, maybe a little bit too loud in the darkness of the night. But it was genuine. She looked happy. 

That put a warm feeling to his chest, like they were going in the right direction as a team. He felt proud of her (and of George too, but on a smaller scale). 

He flashed dashing white teeth at her. “As always, well done, Miss Carlyle.”

She was still giggling, drying tears from her eyes. It wasn’t that funny, but the girl needed a good laugh. Lockwood could only be happy that she was happy. 

“Lucy.” 

“I’m sorry?” He asked, confused. 

“Call me Lucy. ‘Miss Carlyle’ is too long.” 

“Okay,” he said. “Lucy.” He tested. 

The smile grew on her face. The feeling in his chest grew with it, like they were intrinsically connected.

@locklyle-week

[stargazeraldroth]

I like to imagine that the Stars specialize in cooking the cuisines of the cultures or ethnicities they’re associated with, either via general aesthetics or because of their creator’s ethnicity or native culture- If, uh, that makes sense, haha. Hope you don’t mind me ramblinggg- Also Ink gets more because he’s got two cultures I associate him with whoops-

Like! I think Ink would be good with French and Japanese cuisine, since Comyet has stated he’s french and his aesthetic is largely based on Japan, I believe? Or maybe just eastern Asian culture, but I’ve largely seen most people specifics Japan. From French cuisine, I really enjoy the idea of him making, like, macarons and crêpes (both French and Japanese styles!), as well as more savory stuff, like aligot and gougère (both involve cheese because for some reason Ink strikes me as the type to enjoy cheese???). He also strikes me as the sort to like drinks with fun names, like rinquinquin (a peach flavored alcoholic beverage!). From Japanese cuisine, I could see him loving mizu manjū (very pretty clear buns with a bunch of different fillings, they’re gorgeous and very artsy looking!) and shirokuma (shaved ice mixed with condensed milk and decorated to look like a bear!), and I could see him really enjoying age-onigiri (rice ball that’s been fried!) and takoyaki. Drink wise, since Comyet says he likes burnt food, I could see him enjoying akumochizake (sweet rice wine made with charcoal or ash), or maybe matatabicha (tea made from silver vine, because Ink has big cat vibes haha).

Dream would be good with Spanish cuisine (though I imagine he specializes in sweet no matter where they come from, but that! Isn’t! What I’m focusing on!). If we’re talking Spanish sweets, I see him being good at most of them, but I think he’d like smaller stuff or handheld foods the most, like pionono (small cylindrical pastry soaked with syrups and topped with toasted cream) or churros (which are actually commonly a breakfast item in Spain, he’d love it!), and for savory food, I could see him enjoying stuff easy to eat on the go, like pinchos morunos (skewers of diced pork or chicken marinated with olive oil and other spices) or pa amb tomàquet (toasted bread rubbed with tomato and seasoned with olive oil and sea salt!). For drinks, I could see him liking agua de cebada (malted barley mixed with sugar and lemon!) or calimocho (red wine mixed with cola).

Blue is difficult for me because I can’t find anything solid about associated cultures or where his creator might be from, so I usually imagine he specializes in Mexican foods (with a bit of American), mainly because he’s so associated with tacos and also I like doing research on different cuisines. Obviously there’s his aforementioned tacos, but I could also see him being very good with stuff like enchiladas or machacado con huevo (eggs scrambled with shredded dry beef!), and for sweets, I could see him making stuff like hot milk cake (butter sponge cake made with scalded milk) and marquesitas (a crêpe that’s been rolled like a taco and filled with a variety of sweet things). For drinks, I could see him making café de olla (coffee made with cinnamon and unrefined whole cane sugar which is specifically prepared in an earthen clay pot- Blue seems like a coffee drinker to me, haha).

This got too long but I wanted to ramble so I hope! You don’t! Mind!!!

My brain's only processing half of this but yes, I agree! I don't really imagine Ink as someone who drinks alcohol very often, but I also imagine he has a higher tolerance for it than most people. Dream also has a higher alcohol tolerance, but through self-conditioning rather than naturally high tolerance. I headcanon Blue and Stretch as Canadian, but it's interesting to see your headcanon too!

I imagine Dream as the main baker of the group, so I can see Ink going to him like "I wanna try this!" and showing (well, more like describing) the food or drink to Dream. And you can bet your entire bank account that Dream has snatched recipes from the two, particularly dessert recipes. I don't make the rules (yes I do).