#steam retort machines

[seo-baicai]

Advancements in Steam Retort Machine Technology: A New Era in Food Processing

In the ever-evolving food processing industry, the steam retort machine has emerged as a crucial technology, ensuring the safety and quality of canned and packaged foods. Recent advancements in steam retort systems have brought about significant improvements in efficiency, automation, and sustainability, making them more essential than ever.

Enhanced Efficiency and Automation

Modern steam retort machines are now equipped with advanced automation features that streamline the cooking and sterilization processes. These systems utilize sophisticated sensors and control mechanisms to monitor temperature, pressure, and time, ensuring optimal processing conditions. This level of automation not only reduces labor costs but also minimizes the risk of human error, leading to consistent product quality.

Additionally, manufacturers are adopting energy-efficient designs that reduce steam consumption and overall energy usage. This shift not only lowers operational costs but also aligns with global sustainability goals, making food processing more environmentally friendly.

Improved Safety Standards

The safety of food products is paramount, and steam retort machines are at the forefront of ensuring this safety. With enhanced monitoring systems that provide real-time data, operators can quickly identify any deviations from set parameters, allowing for immediate corrective actions. This capability is critical in preventing foodborne illnesses and ensuring that products meet stringent safety regulations.

Moreover, recent innovations have introduced features such as automated sealing and pressure regulation, further enhancing the safety of the retorting process.

Versatile Applications

The versatility of steam retort machines makes them suitable for a wide range of applications beyond traditional canning. They are increasingly used for processing ready-to-eat meals, sauces, and even pet food. As consumer demand for convenient and safe food options continues to rise, steam retorts provide manufacturers with the flexibility to meet these evolving needs.

Industry Impact

The advancements in steam retort technology are expected to have a significant impact on the food processing industry. As companies strive to improve their production efficiency and product quality, the adoption of modern steam retort systems is likely to increase. This trend not only benefits manufacturers but also enhances consumer confidence in the safety and quality of processed foods.

Conclusion

The steam retort machine is undergoing a transformative phase, driven by technological advancements that enhance efficiency, safety, and versatility. As the food processing industry continues to adapt to changing consumer demands and regulatory requirements, steam retort machines will play an increasingly vital role in shaping the future of food safety and quality. Manufacturers who invest in these advanced systems will be well-positioned to meet the challenges of the modern market and deliver high-quality products to consumers worldwide.

[mmarketdbmr]

Retort Machine Market Companies: Growth, Share, Value, Size, and Insights

"Retort Machine Market Size And Forecast by 2029

According to Data Bridge Market Research analyses that the retort machine market will project a CAGR of 6.90% for the forecast period of 2022-2029.

Retort Machine Market is witnessing remarkable growth, establishing itself as a dominant player in the industry. With increasing demand for cutting-edge solutions, Sterilization Retort Market continues to push the boundaries of innovation. Companies within Thermal Processing Equipment Market are investing heavily in research and development, ensuring that new advancements meet consumer expectations. The competitive landscape of Retort Machine Market is evolving, with key players striving to gain a significant market share. As businesses recognize the potential of Food Retort Systems Market, investments are expected to surge, further accelerating expansion.

Retort Machine Market is experiencing a surge in technological advancements, reshaping the industry's future. The rapid adoption of new technologies within Retort Machine Market has led to increased efficiency and improved consumer experiences. Companies operating in Industrial Autoclaves Market are leveraging data-driven strategies to stay ahead of the competition. With governments and private sectors supporting Batch Retort Machines Market, the industry is poised for long-term sustainability. As demand continues to rise, Retort Machine Market remains a crucial sector for global economic growth.

Our comprehensive Retort Machine Market report is ready with the latest trends, growth opportunities, and strategic analysis. https://www.databridgemarketresearch.com/reports/global-retort-machine-market

**Segments**

- By Type: The retort machine market can be segmented into rotary retort machine, water immersion retort machine, spray retort machine, and others. Each type offers unique features and benefits catering to different industry requirements.

- By Application: The market can be segmented into food industry, pharmaceutical industry, chemical industry, and others. The food industry segment is expected to dominate the market due to the increasing demand for shelf-stable food products.

- By Heating Source: Segmentation based on heating sources includes steam, electricity, hot water, and others. Steam-based retort machines are widely used due to their efficiency and effectiveness in sterilizing products.

- By Region: Geographically, the retort machine market is segmented into North America, Europe, Asia Pacific, Latin America, and Middle East & Africa. Asia Pacific is anticipated to witness significant growth owing to the expansion of the food processing industry in countries like China and India.

**Market Players**

- Allpax Products LLC: A prominent player in the retort machine market, Allpax Products offers a wide range of retort and sterilization solutions tailored to meet diverse industry needs.

- Surdry S.L.: Specializing in the manufacture of autoclaves and retorts, Surdry S.L. is a key player in the global retort machine market, known for its innovative technology and reliable products.

- Steriflow: With a focus on providing high-quality retort systems for the food industry, Steriflow is a leading market player renowned for its advanced thermal processing solutions.

- JBT: JBT Corporation is a well-established player offering an extensive portfolio of retort machines and sterilization equipment for various industries, ensuring product safety and quality.

- Lyco Manufacturing, Inc.: Lyco Manufacturing is a trusted name in the retort machine market, known for its cutting-edge retort systems designed to enhance efficiency and productivity in food processing.

The global retort machine market is highly competitive and driven by technological advancements, increasing demand for processed food products, and stringent regulations regarding food safety. Key players focus on product innovation, strategic partnerships, and mergers & acquisitions to strengthen their market presence and cater to evolving industry requirements. (Source: https://www.databridgemarketresearch.com/reports/global-retort-machine-market )The global retort machine market is experiencing robust growth driven by a combination of factors such as technological advancements, increasing demand for processed food products, and stringent regulations related to food safety standards. As key players in the market continue to focus on innovation, strategic partnerships, and mergers & acquisitions, the competition intensifies. This dynamic landscape prompts companies to enhance their offerings to meet the evolving needs of various industries such as food, pharmaceuticals, and chemicals that rely on retort machines for sterilization and processing.

One of the significant trends shaping the retort machine market is the rising demand for shelf-stable food products, particularly in the food industry segment. As consumers seek convenience and longer shelf life for food items, manufacturers are increasingly turning to retort machines to meet these demands. This trend is boosting the adoption of different types of retort machines such as rotary retort, water immersion retort, and spray retort machines, each offering unique features tailored to specific industry requirements.

Geographically, the Asia Pacific region emerges as a key growth driver for the retort machine market, attributed to the rapid expansion of the food processing industry in countries like China and India. The escalating demand for processed foods in this region, coupled with the focus on enhancing food safety standards, propels the adoption of retort machines. Additionally, North America and Europe are key regions in the market, characterized by established players like Allpax Products LLC, Surdry S.L., and Steriflow, known for their innovative solutions and reliable products.

As market players strive to strengthen their market presence, collaborations and acquisitions play a crucial role in shaping the competitive landscape. The aim is to leverage technological advancements and expertise to develop cutting-edge retort systems that enhance efficiency and productivity in food processing. Companies like JBT and Lyco Manufacturing, Inc. are at the forefront of delivering high-quality retort machines and sterilization equipment, catering to a wide range of industry needs while ensuring product safety and quality.

In conclusion, the global retort machine market is projected to witness continued growth driven by factors such as technological innovations, increasing demand for processed food products, and a focus on food safety standards. Market players are expected to ramp up their efforts in product development, strategic partnerships, and expansion into emerging regions to capitalize on the lucrative opportunities in the evolving market landscape.The retort machine market is poised for significant growth, driven by several key factors that are shaping the industry landscape. One of the primary drivers is the increasing demand for processed food products globally. As consumer preferences shift towards convenience and longer shelf life for food items, manufacturers are turning to retort machines to meet these requirements effectively. The technology offered by retort machines ensures that food products are sterilized and preserved efficiently, extending their shelf life without compromising on quality. This trend is particularly prominent in the food industry segment, where the need for shelf-stable food products continues to rise, driving the adoption of various types of retort machines tailored to specific industry needs.

Moreover, stringent regulations related to food safety standards are propelling the demand for retort machines across different industries such as food, pharmaceuticals, and chemicals. These regulations mandate the use of advanced sterilization equipment to ensure that products are safe for consumption and meet regulatory requirements. As a result, market players are focusing on developing innovative retort systems that not only comply with industry standards but also enhance efficiency and productivity in food processing and other sectors.

The Asia Pacific region stands out as a key growth driver for the retort machine market, fueled by the rapid expansion of the food processing industry in countries like China and India. The growing population, urbanization, and changing consumer preferences in the region have led to an upsurge in the demand for processed foods, thereby bolstering the adoption of retort machines. Additionally, North America and Europe remain crucial regions in the market, characterized by established players that offer cutting-edge solutions and reliable products to meet industry requirements effectively.

In the competitive landscape of the retort machine market, key players are focusing on strengthening their market presence through strategic partnerships, mergers, and acquisitions. These initiatives allow companies to leverage technological advancements, pool resources, and enhance their product offerings to address the evolving needs of various industries. Companies like JBT, Allpax Products LLC, Steriflow, and Lyco Manufacturing, Inc. are at the forefront of delivering high-quality retort machines and sterilization equipment that ensure product safety and quality while improving operational efficiency.

Looking ahead, the global retort machine market is expected to witness sustained growth as market players continue to innovate, expand into emerging regions, and collaborate to capitalize on lucrative opportunities. With a focus on enhancing food safety, meeting regulatory requirements, and catering to the increasing demand for processed food products, the retort machine market is poised for further expansion in the coming years. The convergence of technological advancements, changing consumer preferences, and regulatory frameworks will continue to shape the dynamics of the retort machine market, creating new opportunities for innovation and growth in the industry.

The market is highly fragmented, with a mix of global and regional players competing for market share. To Learn More About the Global Trends Impacting the Future of Top 10 Companies in Retort Machine Market :   https://www.databridgemarketresearch.com/reports/global-retort-machine-market/companies

Key Questions Answered by the Global Retort Machine Market Report:

What is the current state of the Retort Machine Market, and how has it evolved?

What are the key drivers behind the growth of the Retort Machine Market?

What challenges and barriers do businesses in the Retort Machine Market face?

How are technological innovations impacting the Retort Machine Market?

What emerging trends and opportunities should businesses be aware of in the Retort Machine Market?

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[logaenhowlett]

I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - L.H.

Summary: The small things are never just small things. For Logan, they're the constellations charting the story of him and you.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff (your heart may not be able to handle this), Established relationship, Domestic AF

A/N: I'll jump at any chance to write for Origins!Logan (he's my man fr). Here's another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was ELATION. Title creds to Shelby Lynne.

MASTERLIST

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the backyard!”

Keys follow a graceful arc as Logan tosses them into the tray by the door. And as always, they land with a soft clink, a quiet exhalation of metal on ceramic signalling the end of his workday.

The tray itself - a chipped, sun-faded thing you'd unearthed at an antique market one afternoon - bears the loving imprint of time. He remembers the way your eyes lit up immediately, declaring it "perfect" before playfully haggling with the vendor, your laughter ringing through the crowded stalls like a cascade of wind chimes.

Boots thud against the floor. As he toes them off, the memory of your gentle chiding surfaces; "Baby..." drawn out in an affectionate warning as you gestured to the offending muddy tracks.

Logan glances down, half-expecting the telltale streaks of dirt. Instead, the polished wood gleams back, pristine and devoid of smudges. And he knows, with a sweet certainty, that you'll be pleased.

His jacket sways the already-leaning coat rack, adding to the precarious balance of hats, scarves and dog leads you insisted on buying for the neighbour's German Shepherds. Those evenings - leash in hand as the dogs bound ahead, your face alight with a smile rivalling the setting sun - nestle warmly in the depths of his heart.

Couch cushions, dented from countless hours of cuddling and late-night reading, yield lightly beneath his touch as he ventures through the living room. On the coffee table, lit candles cast shadows across faint, nearly invisible rings of condensation, ghosts of beer bottles past.

The fireplace crackles merrily, chasing away the frosty air he'd braved last night to gather the wood piled neatly beside it. "Do you have to?" you'd murmured as he reluctantly unwound himself from your embrace. "I'll be quick, darlin'", the promise sealed with a kiss upon your nose.

Framed photographs adorn the mantlepiece above. One catches Logan's eye in particular: your first Christmas together. The ridiculously ugly sweater you'd crocheted with painstaking - and slightly misguided - enthusiasm encases him. He's tucked into your neck, seeking refuge from both the camera's flash and the itchy wool, but a small, happy smile betrays his discomfort.

Warm apple pie, its sweetness a siren's call, beckons him into the kitchen. A traitorous urge tempts him with visions of a generous sliver. But then he remembers your hand, light yet firm, swatting his greedy fingers away. "Dessert's after dinner, Lo," followed by his usual retort: "As long as you're on the menu, baby."

With a chuckle, he retrieves a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge, briefly studying the disarray on its shiny surface. Sticky notes, some containing important reminders such as "Bring eggs please!" and "I love you" scrawled alongside silly doodles, compose a riot of colour and ink.

Just beyond the kitchen's threshold, a laundry basket rests patiently under the hallway light. Messy sheets from the morning spill over the rim, tangling with several orphaned socks and those boxers - the unbelievably soft ones you'd gifted him - that Logan swears he can't live without.

Familiar notes sound from the record player. Whistling along, he heads towards the bathroom, the basket bumping gently against his hip. And soon, the rhythmic whir of the washing machine falls in with the melody.

The chipped bathtub stands as evidence of an incident both clumsy and intimate from last week. Steam billowed in a thick cloud as warm water lapped at your shoulders. And in the heat of the moment, Logan's claws scraped a jagged scar across the smooth porcelain. The sudden snikt had been a jarring interruption, but the shared fit of giggles quickly dissolved any tension.

All these thoughts of you urge him straight towards the backyard. And happiness hits him square in the chest, because there you are - kneeling amidst flowerbeds, hands working the rich soil as you nurture your plants.

And then, the pieces fall into place.

Nights whiled away on the porch steps, dreaming about your lives together. The letter, a clerical error addressing you as Mr and Mrs Howlett, which you'd jokingly hung on the wall, echoing a quiet promise. Musings of tiny footprints padding across the floor of what's currently the spare bedroom.

This is it. This is his future.

Without warning, his arm curves beneath you, sweeping you off the ground. "Logan!" you exclaim, clutching his shoulders.

“Marry me. What do you say, sweetheart?"

[gold-onthe-inside]

corrective maintenance

a reactive maintenance strategy employed to restore a system, machine, or software to its optimal working condition after a failure or malfunction has occurred.

who? spencer reid (s7) x analyst!reader what? the much demanded sequel to greylist; your complicated and suppressed feelings for spencer result in an argument, the blowback of which leads to a fight with penelope. content warnings: a little more background to reader given (neglected childhood, not many friends) word count: 2.1k a/n: finally put this thing together, reader and i will both have eye strain by the time we're 60

It’s just past a quarter to 11 when you trudge back to the apartment, the painkiller Spencer had given you just barely dulling the ache in your head. You close the door with your back, slipping out of your heels, the keys clattering in the clay bowl, pink with white cat-eyes. “How was your night?” came Penelope’s voice, floating over with a cup of coffee, wearing a red silk robe.

“Don’t get me fucking started,” you muttered, finding the energy to peel your coat off and Penelope hid a giddy grin as she sipped her coffee.

“You stayed at his place, huh?” she asked and you glared at her.

“Yeah, because you didn’t have the decency to go to your boyfriend’s place. We have rules about this stuff, Penelope,” you said, exhausted. You didn’t want to get into another fight, not when it felt like a construction crew was working in your frontal lobe.

“Did you at least have fun?” Penelope asked, her voice hopeful, and you scoffed, remembering the last half of your argument with Spencer.

"Just cause I don't have the same weird co-dependency that you lot seem to have with each other doesn't make me lonely," you said, your head still hurting from the hangover, rummaging through your purse for a painkiller but all you found was a couple Altoids, and you hear the pop of a tablet beside you, Spencer standing there, holding out a Tylenol for you.

“Then explain why I was the only one you had to drink with last night,” he said, not unkindly, but he’s probing into areas you’re uncomfortable with. You barely talk about it with Penelope, and you live with the woman.

“Only because Penelope was busy,” you retorted, almost not taking the pill out of sheer spite, but your head hurt too much for you go through with it. You popped the tablet, fully aware that Spencer’s still watching you as you chase it with water.

“And if you didn’t have Penelope?” he asked softly and you look at him angrily. God, why was it so easy for him to get under your skin? “Face it, you’d have been drinking alone, because Penelope’s the only friend you have.”

“And what were you doing, Mr Friendly?” you snapped back. “Since we’re all about facing facts, you had nothing better to do on a Friday night than answer Penelope’s call?”

His face blanched, and if you’d been in a better state of mind, you’d have played it off with a joke, lightened the tension. You wouldn’t have pushed him so far. “Because I’m willing to bet the only reason Penelope called you is because you reliably wouldn’t have plans,” you continued, a sharp edge to your voice. “Derek, who’s always got a date, and Emily who’s always doing something new, and Hotch who’s got a kid at home, and JJ who has her family. So don’t tell me about how lonely I am, Dr Reid, before you take a long, hard look in the mirror.” You let out a breath, running out of steam, looking at Spencer’s hurt expression, his angular face all drooping. You almost apologise. Almost.

“At least I’m not a coward about it,” he said quietly. “At least I keep trying. You’d rather make people not like you than realise they wouldn’t like you after getting to know you. Because what happens when Penelope wakes up one day and leaves you?” When. Not if. The sting is too much, the lump in your throat choking you.

“I have to go home,” you said instead, and he doesn’t stop you this time, in your black dress with the cut-out waist, wrapped up in a coat.

“What?” Penelope demanded, almost a shriek as you finished telling her the story. “That’s… Oh my God, you two are cruel, why would you say that to him? Why did he say that to you?”

You rub your face, tired and sad, your eyes half-closing of their own volition. “I was just… My head hurt and he was trying to be nice, but it just… it was too much, Pen, and then he started reading into it, because fucking profilers and—”

“So you shut him down,” Penelope groaned, sinking her head into her hand, saying your name with such disappointment. “So much for hoping you two would finally get along.”

“I don’t understand your insistence on making us get along,” you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee and Penelope scoffed.

“Because you’re both perfect for each other,” she cried, as if it was obvious. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it—”

“When have you ever been right in saying I can’t do something?” you ask, but she steamrolled over you.

“You’re both insanely smart, you have the same sense of humour, you both devour books, you banter, it’s a made-for-Christmas rom-com,” Penelope insisted, watching you look at her skeptically. “You’ve never even given him a shot,” she said softly. “He… He’s not like every other guy, you know that.”

“He hasn’t even asked for a shot—”

“He dropped everything on a Friday night—”

“Because you demanded it of him—”

“Because he likes you!” Penelope cried hotly, standing up from her seat at the kitchen table. “This whole argument, where you were so mean to him, was all because he was trying to take care of you.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of—” you cried out only for Penelope to interrupt with, “Bullshit!” You stared at her outburst, uncharacteristic of the cheery woman.

“Everyone wants to be taken care of,” she told you. “You wanna act like you’re so above it all because deep down, Spencer’s right. You’re scared. And I wish you weren’t because you’re so wonderful and smart and kind and one day you’re gonna push everyone who cares away because it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to have to keep peeling layers away.” Penelope paused, catching her breath, looking at you, waiting for it to sink in. And it doesn’t.

“Then stop trying,” you said, as if it was that simple. The coffee was too bitter for you, and you leave your half-full mug to go shower, leaving Penelope stunned in the kitchen.

You stay in your cubicle all day, resigning yourself to your code, your pride keeping you from Penelope’s lair. You’d even left early, rather than your usual lazy commute to work in her car. Spencer’s not like Morgan, he doesn’t stick out from the rest of your co-workers, all computer nerds working on other projects, so you don’t see him approach you.

“For the last time, Jerry, I’m not reviewing your code for—” You looked up, pausing at Spencer’s hopeful face sticking up over your walls. “Oh. You.”

“Not the worst reaction I’ve had,” Spencer admitted and you let out a dry huff.

“I’ll break out into a rash for you next time,” you replied and he pursed his lips.

“How’s Penelope doing?” he asked, rather than playing along with your inane game.

“What do you mean?”

“Morgan said she took a sick day, which she hasn’t done since 2009, and I tried calling her but she wouldn’t pick up,” Spencer said and you frowned. “Is she okay?”

“I— She was fine last night,” you said lamely, your stomach bottoming out, and Spencer could read your expression of guilt far too easily for your comfort. “Don’t do that. Don’t profile me,” you snapped at him, standing up and grabbing your coat.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to,” you retorted, starting to head out and dialling Penelope’s number while Spencer chased you.

“Can I at least know what happened?” he asked, hazel eyes on you with as much concern as they had last night. You tutted, hitting her voicemail and enter the elevator to head out, Spencer following you inside.

“You happened,” you muttered, pocketing your cell.

“What?”

“You happened,” you repeat, heated and angry, mostly at yourself. “You just had to pick a fight with me—”

“Hey, I was being nice to you—”

“And so I was pissed off when I got home—”

“And you unloaded it on her,” he filled in before putting on the receiving end of your glare. “You keep doing that, you’re gonna desensitise me to that look,” he pointed out and you sighed.

“Fine, yeah, I did, happy?” you asked bitterly and Spencer looked at you slumped back against the elevator, and he pushed the stop button, essentially trapping you both inside.

“No, and neither are you, and you never will be if you keep acting like this,” Spencer told her.

“I’m getting a little sick of being lectured to, Professor,” you snap at him and he frowns at you.

“And I’m sick of walking on eggshells around you,” he replied. “I don’t know what I did, but for some reason, you’re acting like a killer T-cell. So intent on protecting yourself that you’re destroying every relationship you have.”

“Oh please, the last thing I want is pity from you,” you scoff, stepping away from him.

“There it is, see?” he insisted. “It’s like a reflexive response, to push everyone away if they get too close. If you’re always alone, then no one can hurt you, right?”

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" you demanded.

“No, not when you’re just waiting for me to give up so you can be right,” he replied. “It’s classic avoidant attachment—”

“God, just stop!” you yelled at him. “Stop, stop trying to worm your way into my head!”

“That’s the thing, I’m not!” he insisted loudly, stepping closer to you and you back up against the wall. “You act like all I want from you is some intellectual spar, some— But I’m trying here! I’m standing in front of you right now, with nowhere to go, asking you to talk to me, actually talk to me.”

"About what?" you asked.

"Anything!" Spencer replied, his voice echoing. "You always have some smart-ass remark to throw at me, to just shut me up. So tell me what's going on, tell me why that's easier than just talking."

You look at him, speechless. His hand comes to his face, pushing his hair off his face as he looks away. “God, I sound like a crazy person,” he said, as though the realisation took him back. His hand fell to his side, and he turned to leave. “Just… Just go see Penelope before I make it worse, okay? I’m sorry,” he said, looking at you. “You’re just so confusing, and you have this way of pushing my buttons, and— God, I’m gonna shut up now.” He stepped forward to turn the elevator back on, pressing the buttons that kept him facing away from you.

You stayed by the wall, looking at him. "I'm not used to it," you said softly. "I don't... have people like you guys do."

Spencer paused, before turning back to you. "Penelope said you never talk about your childhood."

"There's not much to talk about," you said, scuffing the floor with your sneakers as the elevator went to the lobby. "My parents both worked long hours. Weren't really around. Didn't have a lot of friends growing up. And I got into tech, but when you're the only woman in the class..."

"It's not very welcoming is it?" he filled in the blanks, and when the door chimed, you found yourself not wanting to go. He stepped out, holding the lift open for you. "So how did you end up an FBI agent?"

"Get to do a lot more interesting work here than at Apple," you replied.

He lets out a sigh of recognition. “I felt the same way when I joined.” He smiles at you softly, gesturing for you to keep talking.

"I just... I dunno, I'm not wired for this stuff," you continued, stepping out of the elevator. "Friends, relationships... Coding's a lot easier."

“I can get that,” he nodded. “It’s easier, less complicated.” He let out a sigh, taking a step closer to you and you looked up. “I’m not gonna let you push me around anymore,” he added and you blinked at him.

“I figured.”

When he moved away, the relief you felt confused you. “Go talk to Penelope,” he told you. “I’m sorry I’m not great at this stuff, and that we fight a lot, and I’m always in the way but— but I want to get better.” He turned quickly, leaving you standing in the lobby, unsure of what just happened.

[munson-blurbs]

Inspired by this TikTok. Thank you to @lesservillain for the idea and to @emsgoodthinkin for brainstorming with me!

Summary: Eddie jumpscares you one too many times, and so you decide to freak him out at work. But who will be more shocked: him, or you?

Warnings: fem!reader, friends-to-lovers, idiots in love, brief description of (fake) gore, joke about throwing up (doesn't actually happen), kissing as a joke (please only kiss w/ consent irl)

WC: 1.3k

It was just a joke. 

A joke that had started when Eddie had barged into your house—the man wouldn’t knock if his life depended on it—and proudly announced, “I got the job!”

The job in question was a haunted house performer at Hawkins’ annual Fall Festival. You’d both been going since you were kids, and his favorite part had always been the haunted house. 

He’d gotten word about his new job in early September. By mid-October, you’re fully sick and tired of his antics. 

“Boo!” he’d yelled as he jumped out from behind the Wheeler’s couch, making you leap out of your seat. 

“Raaahhh!” he’d growled in your ear while you were in the midst of a conversation with Robin, and once your heartbeat returned to normal, you flipped him off. 

His enthusiastic “Gotcha!” during your history quiz was the final straw. You’d yelped, actually shrieked in the middle of class, clapping a hand over your mouth as Mrs. Click glared at you. 

“I’m gonna get you back for that,” you’d hissed once you’d turned in your exam, growing more irritated when he’d just shook his head. 

“You can’t scare me,” he retorted with a smirk, leaning up against a locker. “You’ve never been able to freak me out, and you never will. Don’t even try, little girl.”

Challenge accepted. 

You spend the rest of the week wracking your brain for ideas. What is Eddie Munson afraid of? What will shock him?

The obvious answer is hiding a prized possession and making him think it was stolen or lost. You grin to yourself as you picture him frantically searching for Sweetheart; maybe you could leave a ransom note of sorts. 

But that plan has too many moving pieces, so you scrap it. You’re about to give up entirely when Robin inadvertently gives you an idea. 

“You guys coming to Steve’s party tomorrow?” she asks in between bites of her turkey sandwich. 

“I’m down,” you eagerly agree, itching to have a night out with friends. 

When Robin turns to Eddie, he shakes his head. “Gotta work,” he reminds her, wiggling his fingers to emphasize the spooky nature of his job. 

Robin rolls her eyes. “Fine, okay. Stop by after. I promise we won’t make you play spin the bottle again.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, cheeks redden, and he gets up from the lunch table without another word. 

Bingo. 

The plan is set: on Friday, before Steve’s party, you’ll pay Eddie a visit at the Fall Festival. It’ll be a visit he’ll never forget, you’re sure of that. 

Robin stands with you outside the haunted house, picking at a funnel cake with powdered sugar-coated fingers. “I’ll wait out here,” she promises, “but when you’re done, I wanna hear everything. Especially the look on his face.”

“You got it.” You shoot her a thumb’s up as you jog up to the bored-looking attendant taking tickets. 

You’re in. 

The first room just sets the tone. Eerie organ music pulses through an ancient sound system, and a fog machine creates a steam that prevents you from seeing the floor. Cobwebs hang in the corners of the ceiling, though you’re suspicious that they’re not intentional decorations. 

Eddie’s not in the next room, either; just a woman wearing a blood-spattered wedding dress, wielding a knife and clutching a plastic severed head. She’s screaming something about, “teaching him not to cheat with a bridesmaid,” and looks vaguely annoyed that you’re not quaking with terror. 

You go through three more rooms, getting increasingly irritating with the lack of Eddie in each one. He’s working tonight, so he has to be here—

Loud, stomping footsteps follow you into the dungeon-themed section of the house, and your heart skips a beat as you lay eyes on him. A distorted mask covers his face, but his unruly curls give him away despite the mad scientist costume he’s donning. He holds up a knife and creeps closer, a low growl emanating from his throat. You run until you no longer can, and he easily traps you, the cold metal gate pressing into your back. 

If you’re going to do it, now’s your chance. 

In one swift motion, you turn him so he’s backed up into the gate. A soft, confused “wha—?” leaves his lips as you lift his mask and lean in before you lose your nerve. Your lips press against his; hands on his cheeks as he accepts the way you melt into him.

Why isn’t he pulling away? Why isn’t he laughing and appreciating your prank? Why does it seem like he wants this…like he’s BEEN wanting this?

Fuck. Fuck. 

This isn’t what you were expecting. He’s kissing you back, surprised but hungry, and you’re the one who ends up breaking away. 

Before he can begin to question what’s happening, you dash out of the room. No. No, no, no. Your head spins as you attempt to process the emotions pulsing through your veins. 

It was supposed to be a way of getting him back for his unwavering desire to scare you. Show him what it’s like to be the one on the other side of the joke. Because that’s all it was; a joke. 

So why do you want to kiss him again?

Fresh air hits you like a slap in the face, and once you find Robin, you cling to her like a lifeline. 

“We have to go,” you mumble, dragging her to the exit and refusing to make eye contact. 

“Whoa, what happened?” When you refuse to answer, she sighs but doesn’t relent. “C’mon, did he, like, throw up or something?”

You shake your head. “I think he liked it.”

“Of course he did,” she says with a laugh, “the guy’s in love with you.” She nudges your hip with her own. “Toldja he would lose his shit.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Robs…when I said that I wanted him to ‘freak out,’ what did you think I meant?”

Robin crinkles her nose. “Um, that the Dingus-ette—that’s you—and her doting Dingus were finally going to admit that they have big, stupid crushes on each other?” Her expression falters when you stop in your tracks. “What did you mean?”

“I wanted,” you start, swallowing hard like a gob of peanut butter is stuck to the roof of your mouth, “I wanted to get him back for scaring me. I wanted to freak him out.”

“Mission accomplished.”

She’s no longer looking at you when she speaks, and you follow her gaze to where Eddie’s shuffling over to you. You want to beg her to stay, but she just squeezes your hand in a silent good luck. 

“Hi.” Eddie’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet. “Can we talk?”

You can only nod in response. His mask is atop his mess of curls, and you can see the longing in his eyes. How have you never noticed it before? How did you not notice the need within yourself?

“Actually, I’m lying. I don’t want to talk.” With that, his arms pull you into him, torsos pressed together, and he’s kissing you. It’s like a missing link in a chain you hadn’t realized was broken, and you allow your hands to drape over his shoulders. You can feel him trembling slightly as he deepens the kiss. 

“You okay?” you murmur against his lips. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he answers, ducking his head behind his curtain of hair. “Guess ‘m just a little freaked out that this is really happening.”

A smile twitches at the corners of your mouth, and you lace your fingers with his. 

“Good.”

--

[janeyseymour]

hi i love ur writings so so much i’m so sorry this idea is rushed but i hope its enough

abbot family is trying to encourage melissa to “get back out there” and meet people after everything she’s been through. she brushes them off constantly until they stage an intervention during lunch and even barb is concerned for her work wife. melissa leaves this lunch with some big feelings because little does everyone know melissa has been seeing someone this whole time. comes home to reader smoking a joint while cooking in the kitchen and reader says something along the lines of “you look like you could use this more than me” and they make a plan together to introduce reader to everyone at a 4th of july bbq

you gonna get what you ask for 🤪 Not edited in the slightest. I got places to be and people to see

Intervention

WC: ~2.35k

It’s been a year and a half since Melissa Schemmenti publicly said no to a marriage proposal. A year and a half since the fiery redhead had gone out with anyone, and she really doesn’t have any plans to start dating again- at least that’s what the Abbott crew thinks.

The truth is, the second grade teacher has been seeing you since the night she went to the casino and bar to blow off some steam after reuniting with Gary to return his things and get her stuff back.

You were at one of the slot machines when the redhead passed by you, laughing.

“What’s so funny, Red?” you asked as you looked up at her.

“You ain’t gonna win no money that way,” the woman stopped in her tracks to tell you. “C’mon. Let me show you how it’s done.”

That night, you stuck by her side as you watched her win thousands of dollars at one table alone, clearing out quite a few men.

It’s late when she finally threw in the towel. She offered to walk you out to you car, and you took her hand in your own.

“So,” you exhaled a small cloud of smoke from the cigarette the two of you were sharing. “What are you gonna do with all that money you just won, pretty lady?”

“Take you out on a date,” Melissa had replied cooly. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven?”

Neither of you looked back.

That was a year and three months ago. While your side of the family knew of your relationship with the teacher (and they absolutely adore her), her crew doesn’t have a single clue of your existence or rather large presence in Melissa’s life- despite the fact that you were now living together and your lives were intertwined.

So whenever anyone at Abbott tells Melissa that they found someone they think she might fancy, she just brushes them off.

“Janine, no offense, but if you think someone is worth dating, I would find them to be-”

“Hey,” Gregory cuts her off.

Melissa just shrugs. “My case in point. Greg, you know I love you like the black son I never had, but you’re boring as hell.”

“Ava, I am not about to go clubbing with you to pick up a man fifteen years my junior,” the redhead rolls her eyes.

“C’mon,” the principal chuckles. “They fun! They’re like energizer bunnies.”

“I barely have the energy to stand and get the remote from the other side of the room,” Melissa retorts as she opens her bottle of iced tea.

“I think you would like him!” Jacob pleads. “He saw your picture and said you were fine.”

“I am fine,” Melissa states, gesturing to her figure. “And I’m just as fine without a partner.”

It’s gotten to the point that even Barbara is concerned about her friend’s adamant denial to get herself back out there. So, the day that Melissa has recess duty, she brings it up to her coworkers.

“Now listen, I am not usually one for meddling in someone else’s love life, but don’t you think it’s concerning that Melissa flat out refuses to even attempt to put herself back out there?” the kindergarten teacher asks to the faculty room.

“Weird as hell,” Ava waltzes in, but having heard the question decides to chime in. “But aye, good for Schemmenti, realizing she don’t need no man in life.”

“I just find it odd…” Barbara taps her chin. “Melissa, while one with a tough exterior, loves love. She’s always wanted someone to spend her time with.”

“Maybe we should stage an intervention,” Jacob suggests. “To really show her that she’s good and healed from the failed proposal and to get back out there.

Gregory looks mildly impressed with that suggestion. “That might work.”

They have no idea that the entire time she’s supposed to be out monitoring the children on the blacktop, she’s smiling down at her phone like an idiot talking to you.

And when she comes home that day, she fully goes through with the things you two had texted about earlier.

The Abbott crew plans an intervention for Melissa- a banner, letters, all of it. When she comes into the staff room, smiling down at a midday text you had sent her, the rest of her colleagues are standing by the couch, looking somber.

“Fuck. Who died?” Melissa’s smile drops immediately.

“No one died, Melissa,” Barbara states.

“But we think a part of you might have,” Janine says dramatically, somberly.

“What the hell are youse talkin’ about?” thee redhead rolls her eyes. 

“Melissa, dear,” Barbara says softly, calmly. She makes her way over to her friend and takes her by the hand to guide her towards the seat they had put in the middle of the room.

One by one, they read the letters that they had all written, expressing their concern for their favorite fiery Italian teacher.

“Melissa,” the kindergarten teacher finishes up. “We all love you dearly, and while we understand that it takes some time to get over the heartache that Gary caused, this is a bit extreme. We are worried.”

“An’ I appreciate the thought and care that you guys put into this,” Melissa tells them with a sigh. “But I promise youse: I’m fine. I don’t need to get back out there.” She almost adds on that it’s because she’s happily seeing someone, and has been since three months after her split from the guy that filled the vending machine.

“Just… know that we’re all here through all of your seasons,” Jacob tells her. “The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

“We do care about you,” Janine says softly, and she offers the redhead a hug. Melissa doesn’t necessarily want to embrace the shorter woman, but she goes into the arms of her colleague.

Gregory just gives her a nod that conveys his love for his coworker, to which she smirks and nods right back in his direction.

“Now, can we eat lunch?” the redhead chuckles.

As the day passes on, Melissa comes to realize just how much her coworkers care for her- their gesture, albeit absolutely ridiculous and dramatic, was heartfelt and full of love. Maybe she should just come clean about the relationship she’s in. Or she could just buy them all some Philly soft pretzels and soda instead to thank them. Yeah… that’s what she’ll do for now before she can talk to you about how the two of you want to go public about your being together.

She orders the pretzels to be delivered to the school before the day is done, and when everyone is reconvening back in the faculty room to grab their lunch bags before heading home, Melissa makes sure she’s the first one down there. She has the box on one of the tables, along with a some cans of soda. Whatever they don’t take, the redhead knows will be eaten and drank at home.

“Oi,” she calls to her friends. “Come get a pretzel and a soda as my thanks for carin’ about me so much.”

They all light up at the sight of the gesture, aside from Gregory.

“I do not like pretzels, or soda, and for that reason I will not take one,” the man says as his friends dive in. “But thank you.”

Melissa rolls her eyes. “I figured you would say that. Which is why I got you a bag of peanuts and a water.”

He looks mildly impressed and takes the offered items gratefully.

Once again, they all voice their love and care for the woman that gave them a salty treat before heading out for the night. Everyone except for Barbara. She waits for Melissa to clean up and gather her things before walking out with the woman.

“That was very sweet of you,” the kindergarten teacher nudges her friend.

Melissa huffs. “Oi. Don’t knock me like that.” She readjusts her grip on the small box of pretzels before sighing. “But it was just a thank you for caring.”

“We care about you a lot more than you know,” Barbara smiles. “And just so you know… you are a Philly eleven, and I do think you should get yourself back out there. I know it can be scary to put your heart back out there, but even if it ends in heartbreak and a few smashed in headlights, I will always be here to help you pick up the pieces.”

“I know, Barb,” the redhead says softly, so out of character. “Thank you.”

“Think about it!” the older woman says as she parts and heads off in the direction of her car.

With a sigh, Melissa unlocks her car and gets everything settled before slumping into the front seat.

Coming home with a treat, she texts you.

Is it you? You reply back.

She chuckles at that. She can practically see the smirk written on your face. You’ll see.

When she pulls in, she can smell you before she sees you. You’re clearing smoking, but she can also smell the delicious dinner that you’re making. 

The redhead makes her way into the house, deep in thought of how much her friends are looking out for her, and attempting to piece together how to approach you about the topic of coming out.

It’s odd. Your girlfriend makes her way into the kitchen and places the box of pretzels down, but she doesn’t make her way over to you the way that she usually does. Instead, she’s looking down at the food, brows furrowed and deep in thought. 

You turn the burner down to ensure that the food won’t burn or bubble over before making your way behind Melissa. You wrap the arm that isn’t holding the joint around her waist before holding it up to her lips and offering her some. Even in your somewhat inebriated state, you know something is up with her.

“You look like you could use this more than me,” you chuckle softly.

She shrugs, but does take a hit before blowing the smoke out.

“Hard day?” you ask her gently. “Need to be taken care of?”

Again, she shrugs. She doesn’t really know what to say. This is so unlike Melissa. Usually, she comes in huffing about the ridiculous antics of her boss, she bounces on her toes when she tells you the sweet things the kids had done or said, and she is more than willing to dish out the tea that was spilled in the staff lounge earlier that day.

“Mel?” you ask softly, taking a cheek in your hand and cupping it gently. You force her to look at you. “What happened today?”

She laughs softly, before full out cackling. This sudden change in mood startles you.

“Mel, babe, you’re scaring me,” you tell her. “What happened?”

She sits down and plucks the joint out of your hand. “The crew planned an intervention for me,” she tells you with a chuckle as you go back over to the stove.

You turn. “Oh?”

She nods, a playful smirk on her face.

“For?” you raise a brow. You turn your attention back to dinner. “Can I guess?”

“Sure, hun,” she laughs as she takes another drag.

  “The aggression that you email the parents with?” No. “The heeled boots hitting the linoleum tile too loudly when you’re pissed?” No. “The arson?” No. “The threats of a bare knuckle fist fight?”

“Jesus,” Melissa laughs. “When you list all of that out, I sound like a terrible person.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I love everything about you!”

“I know you do,” she chuckles. “But no. None of that.”

“Then what?”

“My love life.”

“Your love life?” you turn to look at her incredulously.

“My love life,” the redhead sighs. “They had a banner, they had letters, they had the chair in the middle of the room… everything. And for me. When I don’t even have a problem with my love life.”

“So why did you come in lookin’ all sad?”

“Not sad… just thoughtful. The things they said… it showed me how lucky I am to have coworkers that care for me as deeply as they do. So at the end of the day, I had pretzels for them to show my gratitude. And after, Barbara and I walked out together… and… how would you feel about telling people that we’re together?”

You finish stirring the food and plating it before bringing it over to the table where your girlfriend is sitting. You set the two dishes in front of her before sliding into her lap. You finish off the joint together before smiling.

“I’ve been ready,” you tell her. “I’ve just been waiting for you to be.”

“Yeah?” she asks you as she kisses your temple.

You nod before taking a bite of your dinner. Damn, between the two of you, you should open your own restaurant. “We’ve been together for over a year, living together since six months in, I don’t plan on going anywhere, and I would hope you don’t either. I think it’s time.”

“I think so too,” she says softly. “But with the end of the year comin’ up… we’re all crazy busy.”

“So we can organize something for after the school year?” you suggest. “Maybe a fourth of July barbecue?”

So that’s what the two of you do. Your girlfriend walks into school on the last day and tells her friends that she knows that don’t have anything going on for Fourth of July, and they better be at her house for a barbecue. They all look at her, clearly confused. No one- not even Barb- has been invited over to the house since Melissa and Gary broke up. Nevertheless, they don’t argue and all promise to be there.

They all come in one clump, and the faces that they make when you open the door draped around Melissa are priceless.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N,” she says proudly. “The reason that I have been declining all of the people you’ve suggested I date, and the reason I have not ‘put myself back out there’. I don’t gotta when I have her.”

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

Pancakes|Felix

Felix enjoyed mornings.

He enjoyed how he would wake up and feel rested and refreshed. And how the tiredness from the previous day was gone and not a burden to him anymore.

He enjoyed walking into the kitchen and watching the sun shine through the small window above the kitchen sink. He loved how it would cause sparkles to float through the air. Even though he knew it was just sun illuminated dust.

He'd enjoy turning on the stove, and grabbing ingredients to make a wonderful breakfast from the cupboard. Sure, he'd realize that you guys were running out of flour and sugar, and that he'd probably have to stop by the store on the way back from work tonight, but he loved going to the store.

He enjoyed perfectly placing every single chocolate chip into his batter and mixing it all up, undoing the meticulous work he had just done.

He enjoyed how it only took a few minutes for those pancakes to be made and how he'd smile as he placed a plate in the microwave.

He'd start the coffee machine as he washed his favorite orange mug. A mug that used to have a design on it. It had since been rubbed off since he used the mug so much since you had given it to him.

He'd watch the steam come up from the coffee mug and then remember to grab the syrup from the fridge,

He'd delicately drizzle the maple sauce on his pancakes in thin and precise lines.

He'd be tempted to drizzle on more, but then remember he had to keep his physique in tact.

Once the coffee machine was done he'd pour a mug and add just one packet of sugar and a splash of cream.

Then he'd put the syrup in the fridge and swap it out for the orange juice, which he'd pour in a crystal clear cup.

He'd grab his fork and sit down at the small kitchen table.

He'd contemplate buying a bigger table so it would be easier when the guys came over.

Or it'd be easier when he had a family with you.

Then he'd clear the thought from his mind and listen to the birds as they sung their sweet serenade to the rising sun.

He'd slowly chew on his pancakes, and look towards the doorway leading out into the hallway.

His ears would perk up when he heard footsteps walk into the bathroom, and the sink turn on.

He'd smile as he waited for you to walk into the kitchen, sleep still snug in all the features of your face.

He'd laugh as he saw your adorable (yet understandably frustrating) frizzy hair. You'd walk with your eyes half closed, almost running into the table.

He enjoyed watching you take small little shuffles that couldn't even be considered steps towards the coffee machine, and how you'd chug back almost a half of a mug of just black coffee. Then you'd pour in your cream and sugar and top the cup off with the dark drink.

Then you'd find your plate of pancakes in the microwave and warm it up for twenty seconds, Not a second more. Not a second less.

He'd watch you pour a glass of orange juice and set it on the table.

He'd smile as you'd forget to put the carton back in the fridge when you went to grab the syrup.

Then he'd smile even bigger as he watched you pour syrup without any restraint.

Then you'd leave the syrup on the counter and sit down at the table.

He'd laugh quietly as your head nodded down.

He'd tease you later for falling asleep at the table while you'd retort with the answer that you were praying before your meal.

Felix would still be finishing his pancakes while you scarfed yours down, morning energy slowly filling you up.

After you both finished, you'd wash your plates together.

You'd go for your second cup of coffee as Felix was drying them and then Felix would go for his second cup of coffee.

You'd finally be awake enough to ask him if he slept well.

He'd smile as he responded as he always did. With a kiss to your nose and a yes.

And then you'd respond how you always did, with placing a kiss on his lips. Quick and chaste.

He'd have butterflies in his stomach every single time. And the smile plastered on his face was sure to be pointed out by Han or Hyunjin.

Like it always was.

Felix would be thinking about how great that kiss was (even if it was sweet and pure) all the way until he reached work.

He'd think about how great his morning was all the way until he reached home in the evenings.

And he'd fall asleep happily knowing it would happen again tomorrow.

Felix loved mornings.

Because they had you in it.

And well...

He really did love pancakes.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reminder: Enhypen requests are still open/needed. I keep getting Skz but my requests are closed for them atm. All members of Enha/OT7 are open though :) the list will be dropping once I have all requests queued because I want write what you guys want not what I want :)

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9

[aller-geez]

Snow Daze (part 4)

written & illustrated by- allergeez

(If you missed any previous parts, you can find ‘em here! Part 1, Part 2, & Part 3)

It really should be taking so much longer than this for yet ANOTHER chapter to be done, let alone another 6.4k words, but this fic has been so much fun to write, I can’t stop 😅. Anyway, here’s part four, with sneezes from all four of them as they all inevitably caught Vee’s cold, even Rex helping Kriia blow her nose~. What will become of our beloved toad biscuit without the album finished? Read to find out~

Hoping to wrap this fic up with the next and final chapter so be ready for some angsty piece after this 😅

The room was heavy with the sluggish quiet of exhaustion, the low hum of the television blending with the soft crackling of the fireplace. Kriia and Rexar were tangled together on the couch, fast asleep, their quiet sniffling and occasional sleepy murmurs the only signs of life from them. The remnants of the snowstorm outside painted shifting shadows across the walls, flickering in and out of existence with every gust of wind against the windows.

Vaelyn, despite looking like absolute death, sat hunched in the far corner of the bed, his guitar resting lazily against his lap. His fingers idly plucked out a half-formed melody, something slow and aimless, the notes drifting into the air like the steam from the half-finished tea on the nightstand. His notebook lay open beside him, filled with scribbled-out lines and abandoned lyrics, none of them quite right.

Kalypso, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watched him with her usual mix of amusement and exasperation. "So, what’s the game plan here, rockstar?" she asked, her voice dry but not unkind. "Gonna stare at that page until inspiration physically manifests, or are we actually brainstorming?"

Vaelyn sniffled, dragging a sleeve under his nose before glancing up at her with tired, bloodshot eyes. "I’b thigkig," he rasped.

Kalypso smirked. "Uh-huh. And?"

Vaelyn sighed, strumming a few more chords, then muttered, "And I got dothid’."

Kalypso chuckled, shaking her head. "Hopeless. Truly."

But instead of her usual snide teasing, she scooted a little closer, tucking a pillow under her arms as she leaned forward. "Alright, let’s figure it out, then."

And, against all odds, Vaelyn found himself actually wanting to.

The lion tapped a lazy rhythm against the body of his guitar, squinting down at his notebook like it had personally offended him. “Alright, so whad are we thigkig? Love sog? Existential dread? Somethig about beig sick and biserable and trapped in a hellish winder lodge with you?”

Kalypso scoffed, adjusting her position on the bed so she could face him better. “First of all, you are the reason everyone is sick and miserable, so don’t even start. Second—why would I help you write a song when you have lyrics like, ‘Love’s like a vending machine at 3 AM—looks promising, but it just eats your last dollar instead’ already scribbled in there?”

“Hey,” Vaelyn sniffled, flipping a page dramatically. “That’s real poetry. A bedaphor. A social codbetary on bodern relatioships. You would’d get id.”

Kalypso rolled her eye. “Okay, Edgar Allan Sneeze, let’s try something that won’t make the entire band quit on the spot.”

Vaelyn opened his mouth to retort, but his breath caught sharply instead. His lashes fluttered, nostrils twitching as his head tilted back slightly. He inhaled shakily—

And then nothing. The sneeze backed off, leaving him blinking, dazed, and deeply unsatisfied. “Ugh. I hate thad.”

Kalypso smirked. “I love that.”

Vaelyn shot her a glare, rubbing aggressively at his nose with the back of his wrist. “Evil.”

“And yet you still want my help.” Kalypso grinned, but then her eye flicked down to where his abandoned notebook sat open on the bed.

Vaelyn, still distracted by the lingering tickle in his sinuses, didn’t notice when she casually leaned forward.

Didn’t notice when she glanced at the half-written lyrics staring up at her.

Didn’t notice when, with a quick swipe, Kalypso snatched the notebook right out from under him.

Vaelyn’s breath hitched again—then abruptly stopped again—and by the time he refocused, Kalypso was already leaning way back, grinning like a fox with stolen prey.

“KAL.”

She flipped open the first page dramatically. “Ohhh, what’s this?”

Vaelyn dove for it, but Kalypso, with infuriating ease, dodged out of his reach, already thumbing through the pages.

“If I find even one rhyming couplet about your tragic little cold—"

"Give id back!” Vaelyn rasped, lunging again.

"Not a chance." Kalypso smirked, turning another page. “Let’s see what embarrassing lyrical genius you’ve got hidden in here.”

He pushed up onto his knees, ready to reclaim his dignity (and his notebook), but she only held it further out of reach, thumbing through his messy handwriting.

She read a few lines aloud, chuckling at some of the more questionable lyrics he’d crossed out. "‘You set my soul on fire, but not in the cool way—' Vaelyn. What the fuck?"

"Look, id was lade, I was delirious, and I was drunk od NyQuil," Vaelyn grumbled, flopping back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. "Dot all of us are lyrical gediuses all the tibe."

Kalypso snorted but kept flipping. "‘Love is like a mosh pit—cool until you get punched in the face’—honestly? Not your worst."

"Cad you dot?" Vaelyn groaned, rubbing his face.

But then, Kalypso turned one more page and stilled. Her smirk faltered as her eye skimmed over the hastily written words—lyrics very different from the rest.

She read them out loud, but this time, her voice had lost its teasing edge. "‘Every sharp word leaves another scar, but I can’t tell which ones are yours and which ones are mine...'"

The room felt a little too quiet now. Vaelyn shifted uncomfortably, watching her reaction through fevered, half-lidded eyes.

Kalypso didn’t look at him immediately. Instead, she stared at the words for a beat longer before finally glancing up, her voice quieter than before. "This was about last night, wasn’t it?"

Vaelyn hesitated. He could lie. Brush it off, make some sarcastic comment. But for some reason—maybe the fever, maybe the sheer exhaustion—he just exhaled and said, "Yeah."

Kalypso’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook, like she was weighing a response, but in the end, she just let out a quiet sigh and tossed it back to him. "Here."

Vaelyn caught it, sitting up just enough to pull it against his chest. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. But for a second, the air between them felt different.

Before either of them could address it, the rustling of blankets from across the room signaled that their couch-bound companions were waking up.

Kriia stretched with a quiet groan, pressing her face into Rexar’s chest just as her breath hitched. "Hh’tchhh! H’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh! N’gxt! Heh’n’gtx!"

Rexar, still half-asleep, let out a raspy chuckle, his voice thick with congestion as he kissed the top of her head. "Bless you, pridcess," he murmured with a lazy smile. "Such a dice way to wake up frob a nap~"

Vaelyn, desperate to move the attention away from himself, seized the opportunity. "If I did thad to Kal, I’d be throwd off of a building."

Kalypso, as if on cue, shot him a deadpan look. "That can still be arranged."

Rexar snickered. "You two flirtigg or threatedigg each other? ‘Cause with you guys, it’s ki’dda the sabe thigg."

Vaelyn groaned and flopped back onto the pillows. "Kill be."

Kalypso smirked. "Nah. Too easy."

Rexar groggily lifted his head from where it rested against Kriia’s, blinking blearily at Vaelyn as he took in the sight of the guitarist with his instrument in hand. With great effort, he pushed himself upright, careful not to jostle Kriia too much as she rubbed furiously at her nose, coughing softly into her sleeve.

“Heyyy, look at you!” Rexar rasped, his voice thick and sluggish with congestion. He sniffled hard, the sound rough and waterlogged. “What, idspiratiod fidally decide to strike?”

Kriia cracked open one purple eye, barely mustering the energy to glance in Vaelyn’s direction before groaning and burying her face into Rexar’s chest. “Lebbie hear whatcha got!” Rexar encouraged, his usual enthusiasm dampened by fever but still present.

Kriia let out a long, suffering sigh. “You guyssss…” she whined, her words thick and rounded out. “We agreed to pud a pause od sodgwritigg while we’re here… I dod’t have it id be to haddle you guys fightigg right dow…” She pouted, her already exhausted expression looking even more pitiful, framed by dark blue shadows under her eyes.

Vaelyn let out a quiet sigh, scratching the back of his head. He looked almost guilty, his lips twitching downward. “Yeah, yeah, dod’t worry about id,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw. “Id’s dot like I’b gettig adywhere with id, adyway.”

The words had barely left his mouth before his expression shifted, his breath catching sharply. His brows furrowed, lips parting as his body froze in anticipation. Rexar and Kriia, long accustomed to Vaelyn’s theatrics when it came to sneezing, barely reacted—until, of course, the inevitable fit exploded out of him.

“Hh’EISHhh! hh’ISSHHh! Ehh’tSSHhh-! …hehh—hh’EEIISSHHHuhh!!”

The force rocked his entire frame forward, sending his guitar vibrating against his leg as he barely managed to direct the fit into his elbow. By the time the last sneeze tore out of him, he was left breathless, shoulders trembling slightly as he sniffled and groaned.

Rexar wrinkled his nose and gave another thick sniffle of his own, mumbling, “Bless you, bro… You sou’d like absolute trash.”

Vaelyn, still blinking dazedly, waved a hand before sniffling again. “Yeah, yeah, I feel abazing, thagks for askigg,” he deadpanned. “And to top id all off, I still cad’t cub up with adythigg thad flows.”

Kalypso, who had been silently watching from her spot on the bed, smirked. “Damn. Guess this is the end for Toad Biscuit, huh?” She shot him a teasing look. “Tragic. Our beloved lyricist, his brain melted away by fever.” She clutched her chest in mock despair.

Vaelyn scowled at her, already preparing a comeback, but before he could open his mouth, Kalypso’s teasing expression suddenly faltered. Her breath caught, lips parting slightly as her shoulders twitched forward just the tiniest bit before—nothing.

She groaned, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose as frustration crossed her face.

Vaelyn immediately burst out laughing. “Ohhh, dot agaid—”

Kalypso shot him a glare, sniffling sharply. “Shut up.”

But Vaelyn was grinning now, delighting in her misery. “Oh, cobe od, just let id out!” he taunted, his voice still raspy but undeniably amused. He wiggled his fingers mockingly in her direction. “Oh wait—you cad’t.”

Kalypso let out a strangled noise of frustration, rubbing aggressively at her nose as the tickle refused to go anywhere. “You are so insufferable,” she growled, voice thick and marshy.

Vaelyn shrugged, smug as ever despite how utterly wrecked he looked. “What cad I say? I thrive id your sufferigg.”

Kriia and Rexar exchanged a long, knowing look—the kind that screamed, Yeah, this checks out. Before either of them could voice their shared exasperation, Kriia’s stomach let out an obnoxiously loud growl. She scowled, pulling her hood further over her head as if that would somehow muffle the humiliating sound.

“Ughhh,” she whined, curling further into Rexar’s lap. “I’b starvigg…”

A chorus of agreement followed. Even Vaelyn, who had spent most of the morning insisting he couldn’t stomach food, gave a weak nod of concession.

With a breathy chuckle, Rexar fished his phone from his pocket, squinting at the screen through fever-bright eyes. He sniffled wetly, knuckling at his nose with a miserable little grunt before announcing, “Well, id looks like we bissed breakfast id the lobby…”

His stomach responded with its own low, hungry protest.

Vaelyn cleared his throat and rubbed a tired hand under his nose, sniffling thickly as he set his guitar—affectionately referred to as Michelle—to the side of the bed. “Roob service?” he suggested, his voice wrecked with congestion.

Kalypso, still caught in a seemingly endless battle with an infuriatingly stubborn tickle in her sinuses, didn’t trust herself to speak right away. She swallowed thickly, nostrils twitching, and waved a vague hand of agreement.

“I mead, ad this poidt, what other optiod do we have?” Kriia muttered, rubbing furiously at her nose with her sleeve.

“Yeah, yeah, okay—so what are we orderigg?” Rexar asked, scrolling through the digital menu. “Because if I dod’t eat sobethigg id the dext ted bidutes, I’b godda start gndawigg od Vee’s armb.”

Vaelyn, visibly unimpressed, opened his mouth to respond, only for a sharp inhale to cut him off. His expression crumpled, brows drawing together as his breath hitched erratically. He lifted a hand but barely got his wrist up in time before a desperate fit tore through him.

“Hh’EISHhh! ISHHHuh! hh’IIESHHH'uhhh! —Shhh! —shh! —hhehhHH! hhh’ESSHHH!!”

Each sneeze snapped him forward, leaving him momentarily dazed. He sniffled hard, a miserable, irritated sound, and groaned. “Fuhhck… I hate this…”

Kalypso, in a rare moment of actual sympathy, reached over and swatted a tissue box toward him. “Try not to die before the food gets here,” she snarked, rubbing at her own nose as the stubborn tickle resurfaced with vengeance.

Rexar hummed, scrolling further. “Alright, well, we bissed breakfast, but there’s ad all-day menu.”

“What’s the bost expedsive thigg od id?” Vaelyn asked, voice still hoarse but carrying a hint of amusement

Rexar smirked. “Why? You pladding od flexigg your dad’s credit card?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Vee sniffled again and swiped a tissue under his nose. “Godda bake sure you peasadts eat well.”

That was all the encouragement they needed. What started as a simple food order spiraled quickly into an absurdly competitive contest between Rexar and Vee, each one determined to outdo the other in sheer gluttony. Burgers, steaks, seafood platters, pasta—every other sentence was, “Oh, well if you’re gettig thad, I’b gettig this.”

Kalypso, fed up with their antics, rolled her eye and interrupted, “If we’re doing this, we’re also getting a bottle of something strong, because there is no way I’m making it through the rest of the day sober. We check out tomorrow, might as well go out with a bang.”

Vaelyn grinned, half-delirious from fever and exhaustion, but still unable to resist an opportunity to be dramatic. “Oh, dod’t worry, darligg,” he drawled, tapping at the screen until he found what he was looking for. “We’re dot just gettigg a bottle.” He turned the phone toward them, revealing the most expensive item on the menu—a bottle worth a couple thousand dollars.

Kalypso’s expression went from skeptical to amused in an instant. “You’re actually insane.”

Kriia groaned. “You two are the worst.”

The moment the order was placed, Vaelyn barely had time to gloat before his breath hitched again, his shoulders drawing tight. He turned hastily away, but the sneezes came too fast for him to fully brace.

“Hh’ISCHHh! EISHhh! H’ISHHhh! —ish! shh! —sh! ……………… hh—huhhh—hh’EEIISSHHhh’uhh!”

Kalypso smirked. “See, this is why you don’t get a say in anything right now.”

Vaelyn, still sniffling, shot her a tired glare. “And yet,” he rasped smugly, “here we are. With ad overpriced bottle of booze comigg. You’re welcobe.”

The knock at the door barely registered over the fevered haze hanging thick in the room. Rexar groaned, peeling himself from the couch with a rough sniffle, careful not to jostle Kriia too much as she mumbled something unintelligible into his chest. He dragged himself toward the door, rubbing at one sleep-heavy eye before swinging it open—only to be met with an entire fleet of resort staff lined up in the hallway, carts of food stretching as far as his foggy brain could process.

There was a brief pause. The bellhop in charge, a well-dressed young man who clearly had not been expecting to deliver an entire banquet to what looked like the aftermath of a plague ward, hesitated. His gaze flickered over Rexar—disheveled, red-eyed, and sniffling—and then down to the order ticket in his hand, as if reconsidering whether he had the right room.

Rexar smirked, rubbing at his nose. “Doh, thad’s correct,” he confirmed, voice thick with congestion. “All of thad is comigg id here.”

The staff exchanged glances, but they were professionals. Within seconds, they moved into an organized shuffle, carting in tray after tray of food. The bellhop began listing off each item, but Rexar was only half-listening, his focus shifting to the dull, prickling itch creeping up the bridge of his nose. It had been teasing him since he’d gotten up, but now, with all the movement and the mingling scents of food wafting through the air, the tickle flared to life with a vengeance.

“Sir, we have the Wagyu sliders, the seafood tower, two orders of filet mignon—”

Rexar nodded along, his breath starting to hitch. “Yuhh-huh, good choices…” His nostrils flared, eyes fluttering as his jaw went slack. “HhHh'—hH’KXTSCHhhOO!! Hh’ESSHHH’iUE!!—et’CHXIEW!!”

A burst of heat flared from his mouth and nose, casting flickering light across the room for a brief second before the flames fizzled harmlessly into the air. The bellhops collectively froze, one letting out a very startled noise of alarm.

Rexar sniffled thickly and let out a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bless be,” he muttered, voice hoarse with embarrassment. “Uh, sorry ‘bout thad—occupatiodal hazard.”

The staff hesitated for a beat before cautiously resuming their work, stepping around him as they wheeled in the remaining carts.

As the sheer volume of food continued to pile up before them, Kriia and Kalypso’s jaws simultaneously dropped.

“Oh by god,” Kriia croaked, staring at the spread like it had personally betrayed her.

Kalypso let out a low whistle. “We ordered this much?”

Rexar and Vaelyn exchanged smug glances, neither looking even remotely apologetic.

“Hey, we were hudgry,” Vaelyn sniffed, reaching for a tissue with a dramatic flourish.

Just as the last cart rolled in, one of the bellhops produced the crown jewel of the order—the absurdly expensive bottle of liquor. The second it was in sight, Kalypso was on her feet, snatching it from the man’s hands with an almost feral possessiveness.

“That one’s mine,” she announced, cradling it like a prized treasure.

Vaelyn snorted, reaching for the nearest fork. “Whadever helps you sleep ad dight, babydoll.”

The last of the resort staff made a very hasty retreat, the lead bellhop forcing a polite smile as he backed toward the door. “If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call,” he said, his tone a little too eager to wrap this interaction up. The moment the door shut behind them, the sound of muffled, hurried footsteps disappearing down the hall was unmistakable.

Not even a second later, both Rexar and Kriia pitched forward simultaneously, sucked into their own sneezing fits like some kind of synchronized misery performance.

“Hh’KXSSHhh! Hh’KZSSH’ue! Hhh’IXTSSHHuhh—!”

“K’tch! Nkch! Hh’gschhh—! Hh'nNGXt! Hh—n’gtx!”

The air was briefly filled with flickering embers from Rexar’s nose and muffled, breathy squeaks from Kriia’s stifles, the two of them rendered completely useless for a good fifteen seconds as they sneezed themselves dizzy. When the storm finally passed, they both groggily muttered, “Bless you,” at the same time, causing them to glance at each other and chuckle breathlessly.

“Oh by god,” Kriia rasped, sniffling into her sleeve. “Why are we like this?”

Rexar flopped back onto the couch, rubbing at his nose with a half-hearted groan. “Id’s Vaelyd’s fault,” he grumbled, waving vaguely in the sickly lyricist’s direction.

Vee, mid-sniffle, rolled his eyes but was too congested to bother defending himself.

With the fits finally over, all four of them crowded around the tables like absolute feral animals, the fever-haze of hunger overriding any and all semblance of etiquette. Two entrees each were chosen with lightning speed before they all retreated to their respective spots—Kalypso and Vee back to the bed, Rexar and Kriia on the couch, nestled under the thickest blankets they could find.

Kalypso, before even bothering to dig into her meal, grabbed the extravagant bottle of alcohol, lifting it slightly to inspect the label. The script was unfamiliar, intricate and elegant, with an emblem that looked like it belonged in a museum.

“Damn,” she mused, tilting the bottle. “This looks fancy.”

Without further thought, she cracked the seal, lifted it to her lips, and took a long, determined gulp, the expensive liquor burning its way down her throat. She smacked her lips afterward, brows furrowing in slight disappointment.

“Hmmm… doesn’t taste fancy,” she muttered.

Vaelyn, chewing his steak with his mouth half open (through absolutely zero fault of his own—he simply could not breathe), lifted an eyebrow. “Lebbie try.”

Kalypso, with a shrug, wiped her mouth and nose on her sleeve before handing over the bottle. Vaelyn took it without hesitation, because really, at this point? Germs were absolutely a lost cause.

The lion turned the bottle over in his hands, eyes scanning the intricate, foreign script on the label as he mumbled an attempt at pronunciation under his breath. Whatever language it was, he butchered it beyond recognition.

Kalypso snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how you say it.”

Vee shot her a deadpan look before flipping the bottle back around. “What eved is this? Whiskey?” He squinted at the deep amber liquid inside, then gave a dismissive shrug before tilting it back and taking a long swig.

The alcohol burned its way down his throat, but he barely grimaced, more focused on the fact that it barely had any taste. His brows furrowed, and he pulled the bottle back to examine it again, frustration creeping into his congested voice.

“Ugh—why does this just taste like whiskey?” he grumbled, turning to Kalypso with a sigh. “I spedt—” He cut himself off, realizing that saying exactly how much he’d spent in front of Rexar was maybe not the best move. “—a lot od this bottle, ad it just tastes like every other whiskey I’ve had.”

Rexar, sprawled lazily across the couch, rolled his eyes. “You’re sick, dubass. Of course you cad’t taste id.”

“Still,” Vaelyn muttered, slumping back against the headboard with an exaggerated sigh.

Rexar pushed himself up with a sniffle, rubbing a hand over his face. “Lebbe try.” He held out his hand, and Vee tossed him the bottle without protest.

Rexar took a deep swig, letting the alcohol burn its way down before exhaling what he could through his nose. His expression remained mostly neutral as he smacked his lips.

“Strodg,” he adbitted with a sniffle, “but id’s fide.” He shrugged and handed the bottle off to Kriia.

She sighed in defeat, her shoulders sagging as she took it from him. “This is a terrible idea…” she muttered, but still, she lifted the bottle with an anticipatory deep inhale.

Tipping it back, she took a slow swallow—then immediately dissolved into a harsh, spluttering coughing fit.

“Shhhit, thad’s strodg,” she wheezed between desperate coughs, her voice cracking.

Kalypso rolled her eye, unimpressed, and held out her hand toward Rexar. “Give it here,” she demanded, wiggling her fingers impatiently.

With a smirk, Rex tossed the bottle back to her. “Kdock yourself out.”

The room quickly descended into a feverish, congested mess as the four of them dug into their meals like wild animals, barely pausing for conversation between sniffles, coughs, and the occasional muttered curse at their shared misery. Plates clattered as they picked through their entrees, forks scraping against ceramic while steam curled from untouched side dishes, the warmth of the food offering some fleeting comfort against their aching bodies.

Kalypso and Vaelyn, seated together on the bed, passed the expensive bottle of alcohol back and forth like it was the only thing keeping them tethered to reality. Vaelyn took a long swig before handing it off, sniffling roughly and rubbing at his nose with his wrist. "Ugh… I cad barely taste this," he grumbled, his voice hoarse and thick with congestion.

Kalypso scoffed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before taking a deep gulp. "That’s probably a you problem," she retorted, setting the bottle down with a dull thunk.

Before Vaelyn could shoot back a response, his breath hitched sharply, and he barely had time to twist away from the food before he was sent lurching forward into his sleeve.

“Hhh-hhh—Eishh! Ishh! Ish! ’shh! …hehhHH! -EEIISSHHuhh!”

The force nearly rocked him off balance, leaving him blinking dazedly as he sniffled, rubbing at his nose with a tired groan. Kalypso made a disgusted noise, reaching for the bottle and taking another drink, as if the alcohol could somehow sanitize the air.

Across the room, Kriia had barely managed two bites of her food before her face slackened, brows pinching together as she hovered a hand just in front of her nose. "Hh’hh—nNCHt!—Nkch!—Ktchh!—hhh’gschh!! Hhh-hh! Hhhihh—!"

Still curled up on Rexar’s lap, Kriia sniffled weakly, her nose twitching miserably as she scrubbed at it with the sleeve of her hoodie. No matter how much she rubbed, the itch remained, teasing her with the promise of another fit that refused to fully manifest. Her breath hitched again—soft, uneven little gasps that barely brought her any relief. She whimpered softly in frustration, her purple eyes glassy and unfocused with fever.

“Ughhh… stuck…” she mumbled, her voice small and congested as she pressed a few fingers under her nose in a feeble attempt to fight it off.

Rexar, ever the attentive partner, reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, yanking out a few and folding them neatly before instinctively bringing them up to her face. He pinched them gently between his fingers, holding them just over her irritated nose.

“C’bod, baby girl,” he coaxed, his voice low and warm, edged with amusement. “Just blow for be, yeah?”

Kriia shot him a tired look—one that might’ve said normally, I’d be mortified, but right now, she was too exhausted to care. With a resigned sniffle, she leaned into his touch, blowing her nose into the tissues as Rexar held them steady. The thick, marshy sound was evidence enough of just how stuffed up she was, but before she could even sigh in relief, the sudden force only aggravated the persistent tickle.

Her expression crumpled, brows drawing together as her breath caught in her throat. The second fit crashed into her without warning.

“Hh’Nkchh! Nngt! Hh’tchh! Ktchh’uhh! Hh’Gschh!!”

She barely had time to react before another shaky gasp hitched through her, her entire body curling slightly as she muffled the sneezes into the tissue still held between Rexar’s fingers. Despite the sharp jolts against his chest, he only smiled lovingly, rubbing slow, soothing circles against her back as she sniffled pitifully.

“Bless you, baby girl,” he mumbled, his voice rough but affectionate. He tossed the used tissue into the trash before brushing his fingers through her crimson hair, gently working through a few knots. “You get so cute ad sdeezy whed you’re sick~”

Kriia let out a tired little huff, too drained to argue as she melted back into him, her fever-warmed skin radiating heat into the crook of his neck. His arms looped loosely around her waist, letting her rest.

From the bed, Vaelyn scoffed, rubbing at his own raw, chapped nose with the heel of his palm. His sinuses were too swollen and sensitive to even attempt blowing properly, and every fit he had left him gasping for air and dazed for a good thirty seconds.

“God, I wish I sdeeze’d like thad,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and thick with congestion. “All soft ad tidy. Id’s like she’s got the fud size versiod of beig sick.”

Kalypso, who had been lazily nursing another swig from the bottle, gave him a side-eye. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be you if your sneezes weren’t obnoxious,” she teased, wiping her mouth. “Honestly, if you did sneeze like that, I think the universe would implode.”

Vaelyn scowled, snatching the bottle back from her and taking a deep gulp, his nose twitching threateningly as if to prove her point.

Kalypso’s sneezes were always a source of frustration—stuck, unsatisfying, and just painful enough to make her scowl with every failed release. And tonight, with the congestion clogging her sinuses and the alcohol dulling her senses, the teasing sensation was even worse. She sat there, lips parted slightly, nostrils twitching as her breath hitched over and over, but nothing came of it.

Vaelyn wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, still grinning despite the miserable state he was in. “Bad, Kal, id’s hodestly just sad ad this poidt,” he mused, sniffling thickly. “Id’s like watchigg a dog try to cadch its owd tail ad still bissigg every siggle tibe.���

Kalypso, caught in the throes of another cruelly unfinished sneeze, shot him a murderous glare, nostrils flaring as her breath hitched relentlessly. “S-shut up—hhhhh—” She gasped sharply, her body tensing with anticipation, only for the sensation to cruelly fizzle out once again.

Vaelyn threw his hands up dramatically. “Ohhh, the tragedy! The absolute sufferigg! Will she ever kdow the sweet, sweet relief of a real sdeeze?” He clutched at his chest, shaking his head in mock pity. “We bay dever kdow, folks. This is a battle that’s beed waged for years—the dose agaidst itself. The stakes have dever beed higher.”

Rexar let out a raspy chuckle from the couch, voice still thick with congestion. “Vee, do ode wadts to sdeeze as buch as you do, bad,” he drawled, rubbing at his own nose before sniffling deeply. “You love thad shit.”

Vaelyn scoffed, tossing his hair out of his face with a flick of his wrist. “Thad’s because I’b good ad id,” he said smugly. “I excel ad sdeezigg. Id’s a taledt. A perforbadce. A full-body evedt. Kal, od the other hand?” He gestured to her struggling form, where she was furiously rubbing at her nose in frustration. “A tragic failure. A cautiodary tale.”

Kalypso finally snapped. “I swear to God, Vaelyn, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I will—hh’ihh—hh'GXT’shh! Huhh’gTSHHh!—ugh—” She barely managed to stifle them into the sleeve of her hoodie, groaning in frustration at how unsatisfying the sneezes were.

Vaelyn smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “See? Eved your sdeezes soud pissed off. Thad’s how you kdow you’re doigg id wrog.”

The food was good, but their fevers and congestion dulled most of the flavor, making each bite more about getting something in their stomachs rather than actually enjoying the meal. Despite their exhaustion, they all ate as much as they could stomach, only stopping when they physically couldn’t take another bite.

By the time the chaotic meal came to an end, the room looked like a battlefield, empty plates and half-finished entrees scattered across the tables and nightstands. Even after all of them had eaten their fill, they still had enough food left over to feed an army.

Kalypso leaned back against the headboard with a groan, rubbing at her eye. “We’re gonna have to bribe housekeeping so much,” she muttered.

Rexar sniffled roughly, looking over the spread of untouched food. "Or we just leave it as ad offeri’g to the gods of bad decisiods," he rasped, nudging Kriia lightly.

Vaelyn sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Or, hear be out—we just do dot deal with it at all.”

Kalypso snorted. “Bold strategy.”

Rexar reached for the bottle of alcohol, taking one last swig before handing it off again. “I mead, we are checki’g out id the bordi’g,” he mused with a lazy smirk. “Dot our probleb adybore.”

The night had devolved into a complete mess of slurred words, half-formed jokes, and dramatic reenactments of the reality show unfolding on the television. Kalypso, Rexar, and Vaelyn had worked their way through the expensive bottle of alcohol, their inhibitions long abandoned somewhere between the second and third round of “Who Can Hold a Straight Face While Vee Sneezes.”

Kriia had dozed off hours ago, curled up in a little ball on the couch with her hood drawn over her face, blissfully unaware of the degeneracy surrounding her. For a while, the trio had made a valiant effort to keep quiet, muffling their laughter into couch cushions, exchanging tipsy whispers instead of their usual cackling, and even stifling their sneezes to avoid waking her. But as time went on—and as the alcohol burned away what little impulse control they had left—their ability to be quiet began to unravel.

Vaelyn, already glassy-eyed and lazily slumped against the headboard, let out a sudden, harsh sneeze that sent his entire upper body jerking forward. “Hhh’IIESSHH’uhh!!” The force nearly knocked the half-empty bottle from his lap, and he barely caught it in time, groaning as he swiped at his nose.

“Dude,” Kalypso hissed, smacking his arm. “You’re gonna wake her up, and then she’s gonna get on our asses about being wasted—”

“And thed we’ll dever hear the e’d of it,” Rexar finished, his own voice raspy from strain.

But the promise of quiet quickly crumbled when Rexar, in his alcohol-fueled enthusiasm, decided to dramatically re-enact a scene from the show. With grand, exaggerated movements, he lifted both arms—only to be suddenly interrupted by a breathless, fiery sneeze.

“Hhh’tCHXXSHHh!! Hh’EXSHhh’uhh!! HIIH’NKXSHH!”

A burst of flames shot from his mouth and nose, igniting the curtain beside him in an instant.

For a second, the three of them just stared at it.

Then—

“Oh, shit—”

Complete and utter panic.

Vaelyn scrambled off the bed, Kalypso grabbed the nearest throw pillow and started whacking at the flames, and Rexar—who was somehow still laughing despite the chaos—grabbed his drink and attempted to pour what was left onto the fire, only to realize, belatedly, that it was alcohol.

“REX—!” Kalypso smacked his arm so hard that the bottle flew from his grip, landing with a thud on the carpet.

“Oh, my god—” Vaelyn wheezed, tears streaming from his fever-bright eyes as he coughed into his sleeve from the smoke. “This is—exactly—how we die.”

They managed, somehow, to put it out—though the curtains were now singed and smelled of burned fabric. Just as they were catching their breath, hearts still racing, a sleepy voice cut through the smoky tension.

“…Rex…?”

The three of them snapped their heads toward the couch like deer caught in headlights.

Kriia had stirred awake, still curled in her blanket cocoon, blinking drowsily as she rubbed at her tired eyes. She barely looked concerned, more confused than anything. Her gaze flickered between them and the very obvious scorched spot on the curtain.

“Seriously?” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep. She tossed a pillow weakly in their direction, hitting Rexar square in the chest. “You guys suck at bei’g sdeaky. Also, I cad still see you. I’b dot a T-rex.”

For a second, no one moved.

Then Rexar lost it.

“T-Rex,” he repeated, slurring slightly, before bursting into full-bodied laughter, his whole frame shaking. “That’s mby dabe!!”

Kalypso groaned, rubbing her temples. “Oh my god, here we go—”

Vaelyn just smirked, nudging Kalypso with his elbow. “Y’know, I never thought he’d be this easy to entertain. We should just keep a list of words with ‘Rex’ in them and see how long it takes before he passes out laughing.”

Kriia sighed, but even she couldn’t help but smile at the absolute idiot she was dating. “How drudk are you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rexar, still laughing uncontrollably, wiped at his watering eyes and slurred, “Like... so drudk. But also, like, dot drudk. You feel be?”

Kriia rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “That’s a no.”

Vaelyn snagged the half-forgotten bottle from the floor, giving it a once-over before leveling Rexar with a judgmental squint. "Really? Just leaving our very expensive, possibly cursed liquor to roll around like an abandoned orphan?" He tsked dramatically, wiping the neck of the bottle on his sleeve before taking a deep swig.

Rexar, barely registering the callout through his drunken haze, made a vague, dismissive gesture. "Dude, I'm holding it with the floor."

Vaelyn rolled his eyes, grabbing a few leftover fries off one of the carts and popping them into his mouth. "Unbelievable," he muttered around a mouthful, before washing it down with another gulp from the bottle.

As he set it down, a slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face, his fevered brain latching onto an idea that was, without a doubt, terrible. "You know what would really save this trip?" He drawled, eyes glittering with mischief. "Drunk, sick, strip Never Have I Ever."

Rexar immediately perked up, eyes going wide. "Yes. Yes." He flopped unceremoniously onto the couch beside Kriia, his movements completely uncoordinated. "Kriiaaa, you gotta play—don’t leave me alone with these two menaces."

Kriia, who had been half-draped over the couch, sniffled into her sleeve and gave him a long, considering look before sighing in defeat. "Ughhh, fine. But only because I feel left out being the only one here with a functioning brain cell."

Rexar let out an exaggerated cheer, wrapping his arms around her and planting a sloppy kiss on the top of her hooded head. Kriia laughed, shaking her head as she tucked herself further into his hold.

Vaelyn quirked a brow, pleasantly surprised. "That was way too easy. I was expecting more of a fight." His attention slid over to Kalypso, smirking as he waggled his brows. "So, that’s three for sick, naked, boozy game night. You in, Kal ?"

Kalypso stared at him, unimpressed. "...I hate you."

"That’s not a no," Vaelyn sing-songed, already passing the bottle her way.

Kalypso stared at him, her expression deadpan. “I also hate that you just called it that.”

Vaelyn’s smirk only widened, mischief flickering behind his fever-bright eyes. He swayed slightly as he took another long pull from the bottle, his voice turning syrupy with amusement. “C’mon, Kal, live a little.” He gestured broadly, nearly knocking over one of the many plates still scattered across the table. “We’re sick, we’re drunk, we’re already suffering—might as well make it fun suffering.”

Kalypso exhaled through her nose, her patience hanging on by a thread. She glanced at Kriia, who was still curled up against Rexar, absentmindedly scratching at his scalp while he hummed happily into her touch. The two of them were already fully committed to this disaster, and the sheer joy on Rexar’s dumb, congested face was enough to tell her there was no talking them out of it.

She looked back at Vee, who was watching her expectantly, bottle in hand, expression somewhere between smug and hopeful. His nose was red and twitching, lips slightly parted as he hovered on the edge of another inevitable sneezing fit. Kalypso rolled her eye, already regretting what she was about to say.

“Fine.”

Vaelyn barely had time to let out a victorious HA! before his breath hitched, his body snapping forward into his sleeve with a harsh, desperate fit.

“Hh-! Hh’ISCHHh! EISHhh! H’ISHHhh! —ish! shh! —sh! ………………hh’EISHHhhhuhh!”

Kalypso sighed, reaching for the bottle as he blinked dazedly, sniffling thickly. “I’m not doing this sober...”

To be continued…

[coco-bean-1218]

Well-Behaved Women Never Make History

Chapter One: Something In The Way

Chapter Soundtrack

Summary: Claire leaves her home and starts her journey to Camp Toccoa.

A/N: Hello, everyone!! Welcome to Chapter One of Well-Behaved Women Never Make History! I am very excited to finally start this story and share it with all of you! I hope you enjoy and feel free to like, comment, and reblog!

Warnings: Swearing, period-typical behavior

Taglist: @whollyjoly @footprintsinthesxnd @panzershrike-pretz @xxluckystrike

Credits: Moodboard 1 made by @xxluckystrike Moodboard 2 made by @footprintsinthesxnd Thank you both so much!!!

June, 1942 Detroit, Michigan 10 a.m. Eastern Time ---

Detroit's Union Station was a bustling hub of wartime activity, its vast halls echoing with the hurried footsteps of soldiers and civilians alike. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the faces of families clustered around their loved ones. Amidst them stood Claire O'Connor, surrounded by an imposing fortress of luggage, her dark brown hair pulled back into victory rolls, dark red lipstick painted on her lips, her stoic expression betraying none of the apprehension swirling inside her. 

"Damn, Claire, are you planning to open a boutique down there?" Emma, her older sister, teased, one hand affectionately resting on her sister's shoulder while her eyes danced with mirth at the sight of the luggage.

Claire offered a wry smile, pushing up her glasses with a finger. "Hey, you know me, I'm always prepared," she quipped, the edge of her humor tinged with nerves. "You can never have too many pairs of underwear."

Their father, Mr. O'Connor, chuckled, adjusting his glasses with a patient smile. "War or no war, I don't think the enemy will care much for your matching luggage set."

"Ha-ha, very funny, Dad," Claire retorted, a tight smile betraying her simmering nerves. Peyton stood beside Claire, a single duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her posture composed—a sharp contrast to Claire's cluttered state.

Mrs. O'Connor, Claire and Emma's mother, clucked her tongue as she adjusted one of the smaller bags atop a mountainous suitcase. "You've got enough to last through the war and back, honey bee," she said, her voice equal parts exasperation and concern. "Remember, you're going to be a medic, not a debutante."

"I know, Mom. It's just—" Claire hesitated, biting her lip. "It feels like I'm packing up my entire world."

"Because you are," Peyton interjected softly, coming to stand beside Claire. Her own belongings were neatly consolidated into her single bag, the stark contrast between the friends' preparations mirroring their differing paths. Peyton's mom stood a few feet away, her pride battling the sorrow in her eyes.

"First time for everything, right?" Claire continued, her attempt at levity falling flat in her own ears. Her gaze shifted between the faces of her family and Peyton, trying to memorize them before the journey ahead.

"Exactly. It's an adventure, Claire," Peyton replied, reaching out to give Claire's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Just think of the stories we'll have to share."

"Right," Claire forced a chuckle. "Yours will probably be publishable. Mine will be too bloody to print."

"Your sense of humor is as dark as ever," Peyton replied.

The arrival of Peyton's train sliced through the air, the shrill whistle echoing off the station walls. The machine billowed steam like a specter of change, heralding the imminent departure. Everyone's attention turned to the locomotive, its metallic body gleaming beneath the Michigan sun.

"Train for Des Moines now boarding!" the announcement cut through their conversation with the sharpness of a knife. 

"Guess that's my cue," Peyton said, her usual grace faltering just a bit. 

"Promise me you'll write?" Claire's voice was steady, but her brown eyes betrayed her anxiety. 

"Every chance I get," Peyton promised, pulling Claire into a fierce hug. "And don't go falling for any charming soldiers without telling me first."

"Who, me?" Claire managed a smirk. "Charm isn't exactly my Achilles' heel, you know that."

"I know, but stranger things have happened," Peyton said with a knowing look. "Just promise me you won't shut yourself off from the possibility of love."

"Oh, I'll keep an eye out for any dashing heroes trying to sweep me off my feet," Claire replied dryly. "But don't hold your breath."

With a final squeeze, Peyton released her friend and turned to her mother, enveloping her in a long hug before stepping back with a brave nod. 

"Go get 'em, journalist!" Claire called after her, her teasing tone belying the tightness in her chest.

Peyton turned at the steps of the train, grinning broadly. "Wait for my bylines, Claire! They'll be front page before you know it!"

As Peyton disappeared into the train, Claire watched the doors slide shut, her heart sinking with the finality of the moment. A lump formed in her throat as she waved goodbye to Peyton, her best friend whom she had known since childhood. The train let out a low rumble, lurching into motion, gradually picking up speed and pulling away from the platform.

"Godspeed, Peyton Nelson," Claire whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Nearly an hour later, the shrill whistle of Claire's train tore through the lingering silence, signaling the impending departure and severing the last tenuous threads tethering her to home. Her family clustered around her like a protective shroud, their faces etched with pride and worry.

"Here it is," her father said, his voice thick with unspoken emotions.

"Looks like it," Claire agreed, hoisting her suitcase with a grunt. Her hands trembled slightly, the weight of her decision settling on her shoulders along with the overstuffed leather.

"Train for Atlanta now boarding," the conductor called out, his voice a steady beacon amidst the clamor.

"Remember to keep your head down and help others do the same," her father said, "And look out for yourself."

"Can't make any promises," Claire quipped, "But I'll do what I can."

"Let's just hope the Army's ready for you," Mrs. O'Connor added, a twinkle in her eye that mirrored Claire's own spark of defiance. "They won't know what hit 'em!" Her embrace was tight, a desperate attempt to imprint the feeling of her daughter onto her very soul. 

"I'll write every single day until you're sick of me!" Claire promised, offering a watery smile. "And when I come back, maybe I'll have a dashing paratrooper to introduce to you. Wouldn't that be something?"

Mrs. O'Connor winked at her daughter, “A fiery girl like you rarely returns with just tales of heroism and bravery. You're bound to turn a few heads, I'm sure of it!"

Laughter bubbled up from Emma, cutting through the tension like a lifeline thrown across turbulent waters. "Oh, brother, that poor man!" her sister said, hugging her tightly.

Her dad chuckled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Just make sure he knows how to handle a fearless woman." 

"And don't let those men step all over you," her mother added in a firm tone, "You know what I say, 'Men ain't shit,' except for your father, of course."

"You know me, I don't like toxic masculinity," Claire replied with a smirk.

As the conductor's voice reverberated through the station once more, signaling the imminent departure of Claire's train, she picked up her mountain of baggage and stepped onto the platform. Claire climbed the steps of the train but paused at the top to cast a final glance at her loved ones. "Bye! Wish me luck!" she called out.

With a deep breath that did little to steady her heart, she entered the train. Claire made her way down the narrow aisle, finding a seat by the window in the last car, where the world could unfurl before her like a map of possibilities. As the vehicle jerked forward, she pressed her palm against the glass, maintaining eye contact with her parents and Peyton's mother until the station was nothing but a speck in the distance.

She settled into the rhythm of the rails, the clack-clack of wheels turning over tracks like a metronome counting down to her new reality. The heat was oppressive air thickening in the cramped space, sticking her blouse to her back and making her glasses slide down her nose. 

As the landscape outside blurred into a collage of greens and browns, Claire pulled out "The Great Gatsby" from her bag. She immersed herself in the opulent tragedy of Gatsby's world, finding a strange comfort in the characters' doomed pursuits. "I always thought of myself as Gatsby and Noah as Daisy." she thought to herself, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

Hours melded together, marked only by the rhythmic sway of the train and the occasional jostle of fellow passengers. When the heat became too oppressive, she switched to Freud, his theories a stark contrast to Gatsby's opulence and glittering disillusionment. "Id, ego, and superego," she mused aloud, her voice lost in the clatter of the train. "Which one got me into this mess? Freud would have a field day with me."

As dusk began to paint the sky with strokes of burnt orange and dusky violet, Claire pulled out a sheet of paper and began a letter to her mom. Her pen hovered above the page before it skated across, detailing the mundane aspects of her journey—never hinting at the undercurrent of fear that gnawed at her insides. "Dear Mom," she wrote, "the scenery is beautiful, although it's hard to appreciate fully when you're being slowly roasted."

Her hand hesitated, hovering above the paper as memories of Noah surfaced unbidden. Claire reached into her handbag and retrieved a photograph. It showed her and Noah, side by side, innocent smiles frozen in time under the banner of their high school graduation. Their graduation gowns billowed like hopeful sails, caps thrown mid-air, smiles wide and oblivious to the future. "Oh, Noah," she whispered, tracing the outline of his face. "Always fixing things, but never saw what was broken." 

Her fingers traced the lines of his face, the awkward angle of his glasses—a mirror image of her own. She wondered where he was at this exact moment, if the sea was kind to him, or if the churn of the engine lulled him to sleep each night. "Be safe," she whispered into the fading light, her lips brushing against the cool surface of the picture. The train carried her onward, through the dusk and into a future as uncertain as the war itself.

The night stretched before her, each mile a note in a song of departure and anticipation. Claire leaned her head against the window, watching towns and fields blur by, while inside, her heart beat a staccato rhythm of longing and fear—an intricate dance of the times.

As the morning sun pierced through the curtains, bathing the train compartment in a soft golden glow, Claire stirred awake, her cheek imprinted with the pattern of the window's glass. She blinked groggily as she stood up and reached for her luggage to retrieve a fresh outfit from her suitcase. 

Stepping into the narrow hallway of the train car, Claire made her way towards the washroom at the end. The rocking motion of the train beneath her feet quickened her pace, her hand steadying on the metal railing that lined the corridor. 

She reached the washroom door and gave it a gentle push, stepping inside and locking it behind her. The tiny room was a welcome refuge from the constant movement of the train. Claire changed into her fresh clothes — a burnt orange and white striped blouse and matching orange skirt that billowed softly around her knees — and stuffed yesterday’s clothing into a laundry bag. 

As she adjusted the collar of her blouse, the train lurched unexpectedly, causing her to stumble mid-button. Catching herself on the sink, she cursed under her breath and quickly finished dressing. 

With her heart still hammering in her chest from the sudden movement, Claire took a moment to collect herself before unlocking the door and stepping back into the hallway. 

Upon reaching her seat, the conductor’s voice echoed through the car, announcing their arrival in Atlanta. Claire collected her books and the letter to her mother, tucking them into her bag next to Noah's photograph. With a hefty sigh, she hoisted her bags—one, two, three—onto her shoulders and hips, a cumbersome dance that drew snickers from a couple of soldiers nearby. Atlanta, the city humming with the war effort and Southern charm, sprawled out before her, daunting in its vastness.

The stifling heat of Georgia smothered Claire the moment she stepped off the train, a harsh welcome to the South. She maneuvered through the bustling station, dragging her excessive luggage behind her, the clicking of her heels lost in the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of countless conversations. 

The bus was already rumbling when Claire approached it, and as she climbed aboard, she felt every eye bore into her. She was a curiosity— a woman unaccompanied by a man among rows of young soldiers whose lives were set on a wartime metronome.

"Camp Toccoa," she said firmly to the bus driver, who raised an eyebrow but handed her the ticket without comment.

"Hey, doll, you boarding with all that?" one of the soldiers called out, nodding towards her luggage pile.

"Unless you see it sprouting legs and walking itself on, yes," Claire retorted, her voice edged with the wit she wielded like armor.

Another soldier piped up, "What's your story? Headed to entertain the troops?"

"Medic training," she clipped, pushing her glasses up her nose with a stubborn tilt of her chin. "I'll be patching up your sorry asses on the battlefield. Consider yourselves lucky."

Murmurs rippled through the bus as she maneuvered to an empty seat at the back, her bags wedged between her and the aisle. The curious glances didn't cease, though they became more surreptitious. Claire could feel the weight of their stares, the silent question marks punctuating the air around her. 

"Never seen a dame wanting to be in the thick of it," a soldier across the aisle muttered to his neighbor. "She's got guts, I'll give her that."

"Or she's crazy," the other replied, not unkindly.

"Both," Claire interjected before she could stop herself, eliciting a few chuckles. It was an odd sensation, this camaraderie laced with isolation. She hunkered down in her seat, pulling out her unfinished letter to her mom, and tried to resume writing, but the words seemed frivolous now, floating aimlessly on the page. Instead, she tucked the letter away, leaning her forehead against the cool window glass, allowing her thoughts to drift.

"Hey, combat medic," the same soldier ventured again after a few moments, "You got a fella waiting for you back home?"

Claire answered, staring blankly at the seat in front of her, "Nope."

The soldier whistled low. "Well, that's a damn shame. A pretty gal like you, brave enough to sign up for this mess," he said, gesturing to the bus full of soldiers. "There must be plenty of fellas fighting over you back there."

Claire chuckled bitterly. "Fighting over me? More like running in the opposite direction," she replied, a self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. 

The soldier's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "Nah, I can't believe that. A dame like you? Trust me, there ain't a fella worth his salt who wouldn't be lining up for a chance with you."

Claire sighed, her eyes fixed on the soldier's earnest expression. "Well, I guess they must have missed the memo," she retorted with a forced chuckle.

"I'm Danny, by the way," the soldier said, extending his hand towards Claire.

"Claire," she replied, shaking his hand. 

Danny had thick, dark hair and eyebrows, deep brown eyes, and a slight stubble showing he had recently shaved. He was handsome, no doubt about it.

"You said you're gonna be a combat medic, right?" Danny asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes. "At Camp Toccoa, if I heard you correctly. Ain't that where the paratroopers train?"

Claire nodded, a glimmer of defiance in her eyes. "Yeah, that's right. We'll be jumping out of perfectly good planes."

Danny whistled, impressed. "Well, I'll be damned. I could never. I'd crash land, splattering my guts everywhere like a burst tomato."

Claire laughed, "Thanks for the visual. I'll think of that as I plummet to my death."

When the bus finally came to a halt, the driver's voice announced, "Camp Toccoa, final stop!"

Claire stood and wrestled with her suitcases once more. Danny offered to help, but she politely declined. With a determined stride, she walked down the narrow aisleway towards the steps. 

"Good luck, Miss Medic!" Danny called out.

"Yeah, you too, Dollface," she teased with a wink. With a final heave, she managed to walk down the steps of the bus into the sweltering heat. 

"Watcha thinkin', Danny?" his companion next to him asked.

Danny grinned, shaking his head, “Nothin’ much," he replied, his gaze set on Claire as she stood outside the entrance to the camp.

The camp sprawled before Claire, a collection of low-lying buildings nestled amidst the dense Georgia forest. Stepping onto the dirt road, she was greeted by the stark white letters on the wooden sign: 'Camp Toccoa.'

She stood there, alone now, the dust settling around her feet. Before her lay a path lined with uncertainty, with courage demanded and comfort stripped away. To enter meant embracing her choice fully, to become part of something far greater than herself. 

---

[rinwellisathing]

For my BG3 sequel campaign, we gave Barcus the husband he deserves. Meet Kellen Stonegrind, Dwarven bard and barista from a family of coffee makers south of Baldur's Gate. He moved to Reithwin town to open a coffee shop when Aylin and Isobel cleaned up the area and resettled it.

He met Barcus at one of the Ravengard family's festival events and Barcus had some smart ideas to improve his machines for grinding coffee and steaming milk, the two have been together ever since. Barcus owns the shop and Kellen runs ghost tours and helps come up with new drinks and pastries. The shop is the old Waning Moon, now called Wroot's Brilliant Retort.

The player characters and their NPC friends meet there to hang out and make plans. Kellen is very much a husband guy and Wulbren Bongle is preemptively banned for being a shit to Barcus. Also the store sells the local honey Halsin and his daughter harvest as well as Shadowheart and Isobel's wine.

[simslegacy5083]

NSB (Straud Legacy) Gen 9 Ep 55: Hungry For Love

Watching his friends and relatives, including his ex Isra, find love, get married, and expand their families made Luigi’s plan to focus on improving himself over pursuing romance challenging.

Even sims he barely saw anymore called him up to talk about their relationships, leaving him jealous and dissatisfied with his lonely life. It made him wonder why no one was asking HIM out. Was he not good enough company for any sim to want his warm, soft presence in their life and bed?

---------------------------------------------

Even his relatives who were neither warm nor soft were doing better than him. He did his best to soothe Tess’s circuits when she called in a tizzy about Hunter’s upcoming proposal but hung up the phone with a lingering feeling of being left behind.

Luigi hoped to talk things out with his no-nonsense housemate, but even she showed up for breakfast wearing a sparkling engagement ring.

Too overcome with envy to show the proper excitement on his friend’s behalf, he stumbled through a half rant, half apology for his emotional disarray. Bonnie just sighed and let him vent, knowing her friend well enough not to take his self-absorbed reaction to her and Leroy’s engagement personally. When he ran out of steam, she assured him his “happily ever after” was out there somewhere if he just made a little effort to find it.

---------------------------------------------

Luigi couldn’t deny Bonnie’s wisdom about leaving out the welcome mat for love, but before he signed up for Meet and Mingle, he got another call.

At last! His teammate Jade, who had been so adamant that their fling was a “one time thing”, was actually interested in him! He wished he knew what had changed her mind, but he was far too excited to worry about that, agreeing to meet right after class at the old arcade in Cooperdale.

---------------------------------------------

He started things off by leading her over to one of the bubble machines scattered throughout the venue, flirtatiously joking that they simply had to sample the “Jade Dragon” flavor in honor of Jade’s fiercely competitive spirit.

The bubbles loosened their lips and relaxed them both. Jade maybe relaxed a little too much, flippantly complaining that her husband, Brice, could never be bothered to do anything fun like this anymore… she only seemed to realize she’d said it aloud when she saw Luigi’s dumbfounded look.

Another married sim?! Luigi supposed it didn’t have to be a deal breaker, as long as he didn’t wind up in a weird open relationship with a distant cousin.

---------------------------------------------

When Luigi inquired about the details of Jade’s committed relationship, she admitted that her husband would “kill her and the other guy” if he found out that she was seeing someone else, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt anyone!

She knew Luigi could keep a secret; he’d never breathed a word about their shower escapade after all. Brice was such a “stick in the mud”, she deserved to have a little fun and Luigi certainly seemed to know how to show a girl a good time!

---------------------------------------------

Mind blown, Luigi retorted that his discretion wasn’t an open invitation to pull him into drama he knew nothing about. Was this why Jade had told him their little fling after the game was a “one time thing”? At her guilty look he suddenly felt cheap and used, bitterly embarrassed by his earlier hopes.

Before he did something he knew he’d regret Luigi stood, grinding out “go home to your husband” before turning and storming out the door. He didn’t know why it seemed married sims had a “thing” for him, but he’d clearly have to vet his dates more thoroughly moving forward!

---------------------------------------------

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[mapleleavesart]

Oh You’re Warm Blooded? Great, Welcome to Being My Personal Heat Pack

Mikey x Yokai OC (Mei)

Word Count: 2258

Content warnings: fluff, a freezing cold-blooded turtle, kissing, fluff, cuddling, Mikey's hands get placed over/around Mei's stomach/waist cause he feels like a corpse, concerns about mental health/ implied depression, do any of these really need to be warned about? Probably not but imma state it anyways

Was going outside in the dead of winter a bad idea? Yeah, probably. The four turtle brothers only ever went out for snow days in the first few weeks of cold, snowy weather, just enough to get a taste before holing up inside and brumating for the worst of NYC’s winter. Even when they did leave, all of them had several jackets on. And they were only out for a few hours at a time, lest they start slowing down and go into brumation early. Did they have to huddle together under the heat lamp for hours afterwards to recover? Yep. Did Mikey tell anyone he was leaving?

… Well, he told Pops and Draxum he was going out (they were sharing a pot of tea; nobody else was to be seen). They told him to put on an extra jacket, stay safe, don’t be too long or go too far, etc. Parental fretting. You know how it is.

 Did Mikey leave the lair anyways, simply because he wanted to see his most favorite person ever?

Also yeah.

The Hidden City didn’t get snow. Natural snow, that is. Sometimes the witches from Witch Town cast weather spells to mimic the surface’s weather, or for certain festivities. Not today, thankfully. That didn’t make the underground cavern any less cold though. 

Mikey shivered. His right hand was tucked into his coat pocket while the other held steaming-hot cocoa, he had a beanie on his head, and nearly every piece of winter clothing he had in his closet on. His breath lingered in the air like he was a fog machine

But Mei was enjoying herself, so he wouldn’t say anything.

“Ooh~ sparkly.” Speak of.

Mikey stopped to look at the store window the Qilin was looking through. Many pieces of jewelry were on display, all beautiful in their own ways. Kinda like people. “Something catch your eye?” He asked.

“Well, obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped and gone ‘ooh, sparkly!’” Mei retorted with an eyeroll and small snort . Her lavender scales glinted in the cold light. It was mesmerizing. He forced his gaze away and back to the display. 

“Anything worth taking a closer look at?” He asked. Sure, girls typically loved jewelry and sometimes impulse-bought pretty things, but Mei was pretty good at thinking things through.

Mei gave a small hum. “No. They’re pretty to look at, but I don’t need any more,” she decided. She turned from the shop window and continued walking. Mikey followed. Mei took a sip of her drink- hot cider of some kind. Her muted orange turtleneck sweater hung off her frame, loose and thick and soft-looking and probably very huggable. Thick, beige pants that most certainly were fleece-lined were plaid-striped with various shades of coffee with various amounts of creamer. The pastel colors made her teal eyes really pop.  “So, conversations,” Mei started, knocking him out of his thoughts of ‘i’m cold but she’s beautiful i don't want to leave but i’m freezing down here, holy shell-’

“Mhmm?”

“How are you doing? Mentally, I mean,” she added as an afterthought.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Mikey answered, giving her a small smile.

“You sure?” She tilted her head at him, voice and eyes softening. “You’ve been awfully quiet today. You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m not majoring in psychology without good reason,”

Oh. Had she really noticed his quietness? Was it that obvious?

“Oh, I’m not- no, I mean-” Mikey took a deep breath to calm his flustered heart. He focused on the soft clip-clop of Mei’s hooves. “Yes. I know you’re here for me if I need to talk. No, it’s not that. I’m good, really, it’s just…” Mikey shrugged, “...cold.”

“Cold,” Mei repeated. She looked around the street. Most Yokai were still inside, but a few were out and about, hurrying from one destination to another. “Not… sad, bored, upset, or exhausted?”

Mikey hummed his agreement, taking another sip of his sweet hot chocolate. “And it has nothing to do with you, I swear,” he added oh-so-helpfully.

Her head tilted the other way. He spared a glance at her. How was she not cold? The tips of her ears looked paler than normal. Her eyes flicked up and down his body. Her scaled eyebrows furrowed. “But you’re dressed up in, like, ten more layers than I am. How are that cold? How’s that work?”

The question wasn’t demeaning or rude, just genuine and curious and worried  and without harm.

Mikey turned his face up towards where the sky was supposed to be. “Cold blood," he shrugged. "You know how it is."

Mei stopped again. This time to stare at him like he grew a second head. "No, I don't," she blinked. Then held a hand up, palm forward, "wait, backtrack, you're cold blooded?" 

Mikey also stopped and also stared. The realization smacked him in the face. "You're not!?"

"You are?!"

"I'm a reptile, of course I'm cold blooded! How are you not?"

"Most Yokai are warm blooded! I never would have asked you to come out in the cold if I had known!" She made her cup float and reached for him. "Show me your hands,"

Mikey obliged, taking his hand out of his pocket and resting it on one of hers. She lifted it closer to her snout and turned it supination- palm up.

“Spirits, your fingers are almost blue! Why didn’t you say anything?” Mei demanded in an oddly motherly tone, wrapping her own hands around his. Her hands were so warm… no wonder she wasn’t as cold as he was.

“You were enjoying yourself… I didn’t want to ruin it!”

“You could’ve said something!” She shot back, tone now creeping toward concern. “This is very worrying! We can go shopping some other time, we could’ve stayed inside! I don’t want you to just- I don’t know, drop to the floor in brumation like you’re dead or something,” she rubbed his hand as if trying to get his blood flowing again. Because that would help.

“Sorry,” Mikey apologized. “But I didn’t want you to feel bad for accommodating me. I want to spend time with you. I wanted to make you happy, ‘cause when you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Mei let out a little whimper-like noise, or perhaps it was a coo? “Mikey…” her expression couldn’t land on an emotion. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped when Mikey shivered again, and she stopped herself. “Here, let’s get out of the middle of the walkway.” Mei didn’t let go of his hand and dragged him over to a nearby bench. Her cider followed her in the air. She sat down, her long tail curled to outline the spot next to her, and tugged him down next to her.

Mikey of course obeyed, because who was he to deny her?

Mei wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Her tail plopped itself into his lap, a comforting, heavy weight. Mikey could feel a tug on his mug- his previously only source of heat- as Mei’s magic pulled it out of his hand. It watched it go up to hover alongside hers. “You’d better not mix those up, hot cocoa is sacred,”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Should I ask Shangti to come pick us up? I’m sure he won’t mind taking us - well, you - back to the manor. Or I could carry you back. Or levitate us back-”

“Shangti have a car or s’mthing?”

“... a what?”

“Carrying it is then.”

~~~

Ten minutes later and they were drifting down from the air. The Tian Manor stood below them, seated on a cliff overlooking the rest of the Hidden City. He’d never been inside before- at least, outside of the times where he snuck onto Mei’s bedroom balcony just to see her, back when they were still a secret.

The building itself was almost 100 feet tall with three floors and ionic columns made of white marble marching up the sides. The walls were made of dark green stone- malachite, if he remembered from Mei’s history ramble- with a marble-like swirl pattern within it. They went through the front doors, through a mud room, and entered a huge foyer. They went under the landing of the two giant staircases circling the foyer.

“You have such a pretty house…” Mikey murmured, his voice muffled from his nose being tucked into his jacket and pressed against Mei’s front from the way he was being princess-carried.

“Glad you think so. Hopefully you’ll be ‘round here more often from now on. You know, when you decide against freezing to death.”

“Oh, please, it’s not that cold. At worst my heart stops beating for a while and I go comatose for a few days.”

He was promptly dropped onto a couch. “Sorry. What?”

“Box turtle thing,” Mikey exclaimed, making himself comfortable against the armrest. Mei disappeared from his sight, presumably to find some blankets or something. Their cups still floated in the air.

The mutant took the chance to examine whatever room he was in. The couch faced something that looked like it might be the Yokai version of a TV. Closer to him was a coffee table a shade lighter than the dark red-brown leather of the couch. Underneath the screen was a fireplace. Over to his left was something akin to a pool table.

“Game room?” He guessed.

“Hm? Oh, I suppose you could call it that. We call it the den,” Mei replied, popping back into sight with a bundle of rich, emerald green throw blankets. She helped him wrap himself up comfortably until it felt like he couldn’t move. Then she helped him free his arms so he could drink his now-room-temperature chocolate.

Mei, the solution to all of his problems today, crouched down by the fireplace and cast a small fireball spell. The hearth bursted into dancing yellow flames. His cocoa was once again torn from his grip and went to hover by the fire to reheat it. 

Mei sat down next to his blanket burrito and took his hands. “You feel like a corpse,” she noted.

“Happens to the best of us,” he replied with a small smile. She gave him a look before scooting closer. She took his hands and pressed them against her sides, under her sweater and against her scaly skin. Her elbows tucked against his hands to keep them in place.

Mikey’s eyes widened. Holy shell she was so warm. Is this what warm blooded creatures felt like all the time?!

He felt Mei’s muscles stiffen. He glanced up at her face to see it scrunched up, probably in effort not to recoil from his undoubtedly cold hands. He was pretty sure he was making a weird face too.

“What, never touched a corpse before?” Mikey tried to joke. It was Mei’s turn to shiver. Mikey was pretty sure he was blushing, if that was even possible.

“Miguel,” the yokai scolded. “Enough with the death jokes. They’re not funny.”

To you, he thought. Out loud, he apologized. “Sorry. Leo must be rubbing off on me.”

Mei huffed. Mikey shifted how his hands were positioned. It could've been ten seconds or a minute or an hour before he managed to compose himself enough to mumble, "your scales are soft,"

"... Thanks."

Mei didn't meet his gaze, but her cheeks were darker than they were supposed to be.

"What, I can't compliment my gorgeous girlfriend?"

Mei's face darkened further. It was adorable. "You warm yet?" She asked to avoid the question.

"Hm… mostly. My lips are still a little cold," he started, blinking up at her innocently, "care to help me with that?"

Oh, if only he could record the look she gave him. It made him want to giggle like they were fifteen all over again. So he did. And in the process of that, he pulled Mei by her waist so the Yokai flopped into him with a strangled yelp of surprise.

"ACK- Mikey!" She complained, wiggling against his hold. But alas, he was a building-thrower and the most Mei worked out was when she practiced her archery. Within a second Mikey had one arm wrapped firmly around her torso, pressing her against him now. Mei quickly gave up and lay limp against his plastron. Her tail flopped around clumsily behind her.

Mikey pulled out his most charming grin. "Can I get my daily dose of kisses now, my love?"

All of Mei's muscles melted with her annoyance. Her face and gaze softened into something adoring. Her hands moved to rest against Mikey's chest. Mikey moved his hand to rest against her warm cheek in turn. 

She sighed dramatically. "Oh, if I must." 

Then she leaned forward and pressed a gentle, warm, long kiss on his lips. It left his green skin tingling. "You're such a dork." All of the love in the world was stored in her voice. Mikey could feel his tail beginning to wag from its confines.

"Yeah. But I'm your dork, aren't I?"

"Yeah," she pecked his lips again.

And so they stayed like that, cuddling and trading sweet kisses, until the two fell asleep, until the sun reached its peak, and until a dark teal Qilin adjusted their blankets and answered the texts blowing up Michaelangelo's phone. They stayed like that as Shangti reassured the little box turtle's worried family that he was okay, that the Titans would take care of him, and that the two would return as soon as they awoke.

And so, they stayed.

[chibidarkness1111]

He watched as the bus doors squealed open.

"My friend is a legit Resonant you know!" A girl had bragged. "That motorcycle belongs to her!"

"Yeah. Bullshit." Her boyfriend retorted.

In front of the high school, each student departed the bus like sleep-deprived sardines, all donned in their pastel purple and dark blue uniforms. Some almost tripped over the cracks in the pavement while others nearly hauled their weighted backpacks into the ground with them. The early morning sun made each of their breaths visible in the chill, every yawn and mumbled curse to the world left their lips in a hum of disgruntled bemoaning, only to evaporate like their hopes that today might be a good day at school.

The cacophony of gossip and motorcycle sightings died down as the kids walked on to their most hated place. In less than a minute School Bus #13 was just as empty as it had been when the key was inserted into its ignition, leaving the doors to enclose the uniformed Driver and the purr of the engine inside.

However, perhaps 'growl' would be the more apt description.

Compared to the kids, Thirteen always started the day in the worst mood.

Reclining in the seat on instinct, the Driver sighed in relief at his Mechanism's compliance on the first morning route, lifting his hat just enough to run a gloved hand through his hair, he pulled at the dark circles around his eyes. "...See? That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Thirteen shot exhaust through its tailpipes as a rumble of utter obstinacy nearly shook the 20-something from his seat. Good thing Management heeded his words enough to install better seat belts into this thing. That's a 'no' if he's ever heard one.

The Driver sighed for the fifth time that morning. "Listen, I get it. Summer break was nice and all but trust me, productivity is the key to happiness. You just gotta let yourself get back into the swing of-"

The engine flared in defiance at the Driver's pre-packaged platitudes. The heat was enough to send his positive facade out the window like one of those bratty Private School kids had finished some snack food they know they aren't allowed to have on the bus.

"Okay, smartass! Chill!" He ordered, knocking at the steering wheel as if it would do something. "Fuck. Who the hell thought it'd be a good idea to Mechanize a school bus to hate children?!" Slumping in defeat he waited for the steam to settle, and the wheels started turning by themselves. "...And why did I have to get stuck with it?"

The Driver could still see the memories of when he'd been designated as such, as clearly as the Central Lake's sparkling waters. With mankind's technological advances and academic achievements only growing throughout the years, the day of his graduation from Hydrangea Lake Community College, and the long-awaited Mecha-Resonance Ceremony thereafter would be a moment he would never forget.

Everyone with a pulse also has a Soul, the proof had been undeniable for centuries before he was born, and with this knowledge comes the impact in which fully developed Souls interact with the Soulless, like machines. All of the History books he could remember passages from depict a time in which machines were mindless and purely man-operated, back when a toaster would only toast bread if a person was there to physically pull the lever. But even now such times felt so behind him that they might as be fictional.

Everyone with a pulse will inevitably give the Soulless machines a part of their Soul, and therefore a pulse of their own. To which it becomes Mechanized. That toaster you use every day will always be happy to toast your bread for you if you take good care of it. If not then prepare for a charcoal block at best and a potential house fire at absolute worst.

But even that scenario is ridiculous to him and shakes his head to be rid of it.

Inanimate machines will stay that way without a human to build a strong enough bond with, without a purpose to work toward. No one likes their toaster enough to give it a Soul.

Heading off down the intersection leading to the neighborhood where the first round of Forevergreen Private School kids live, the Driver can't help but be envious of people who are no longer in his life.

His best friend dreamt of becoming a Fighter Pilot when they were little and was overjoyed when the Mecha-Resonance Ceremony came. He discovered that the Mechanism whose given Soul most aligned with his own ideals, hopes, fears, and insecurities, was none other than the Fighter-Type Combat Bird: "Peregrine Falcon". The very same Combat Bird that seized victory over the Empire of Smoke and Steel in the Independent Skies War all those centuries ago. All those past Pilots had cultivated "Peregrine Falcon's" Soul to accept only those whose Souls could qualify as future heroes of freedom and justice... what an honor it must've been to Resonate with such a powerful Mechanism.

"I could've been the proud person to have Resonated with a sport's car. Why did I get stuck with a school bus that hates kids...?" He groaned to himself, not unlike how Thirteen growled at him only half an hour ago.

Granted, the Driver did have to admit that he was never one to get along with children either. Hell, if he were blunt he might've confessed to halfway wishing that Thirteen really would careen off of the bridge with himself and all these contemptible little shits inside of it, letting them all crash and burn in what would only be known in the news as a "tragic De-Resonant Accident" as opposed to anything intentional and consensual (between the Driver and his Mechanism at least).

But it was the sound of Thirteen's ear-splitting horn that snapped his darkening mind back to reality. This bus never did like it when his mindset started spiraling, especially on company time.

What a killjoy...

Lights were all he could see as Thirteen retaliated by turning the corner into the Southeastern boulevard hard enough to bash his skull against the wall. Blinking didn't seem to fix it until the pain dulled enough to have mercy on him.

"Bitchass!! I was joking-!"

Thirteen's doors opened on their own with that signature creak, letting the newest round of upper-middle-class pretty boys aboard and shutting his complaints up instantly. Time to be a professional. Forcing a smile he once again saw how the teens' forest green uniforms matched the surrounding treeline a little too well. He could've sworn one of them appeared from thin air until he passed by, more invested in his phone than where his feet were going.

Almost bumping into the Driver, his pale face came alight with embarrassment before he sheepishly scrambled back to Thirteen's last row of seats to join his... friends?... brothers? He'd taken note of their names and counted them as passengers hundreds of times now and never cared to know who they were to each other... only that this one was particularly clumsy. How many times had that boy done this by now?

A person's Soul is only considered fully developed when their brain stops developing as adults. So just then when he flailed to keep from hitting the dashboard, on that boy's phone screen, was he looking up sightings on that lone Mechanized motorcycle too? Was that damn bike just a popular thing with the kids? It could've been his Dad's lost Mechanism right? The Driver had seen a similar motorcycle in the area after all. Or was that recent news story about teenage Resonants actually...?

The bus' low grumble of irritation indicated that it was time to stop wondering.

"...tch! Fine. No escapism allowed."

Productivity and all that horseshit...

Mecha setting where deviant science has been used to create great and terrible beast-machines which can only be tamed by specially gifted pilots who forge psychic bonds with their machines, except for some thinly justified reason this is how all motor vehicles in this setting work. In the notional anime that takes place in this setting, the lead character is a pilot whose bonded beast-machine is, like, a bus.

[merakistar]

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[henrisolivier]

"But mon biquet, pain is the lesson." Henri retorted. His gaze remained fixed on her as he tried to imagine the hardships that had befallen her in life to mold her into the fragile creature she was today. Her parents ( or lack thereof ) were likely the biggest factor. Elisabeth's own downfall had started with her ignorant parents allowing a sense of isolation to fester in her like an infected wound. She had grown up with a clear understanding of her place as an outsider.

He finally tore his intense gaze away and continued preparing their coffee. Henri found two mugs and sat them down before finding a half-empty sugar shaker and placing that too next to the brewing machine. "You are here. You survived the worst," he carefully removed the pot and began pouring into each of their mugs as he continued speaking. "Why give up now?"

Why let the past win after all the energy put into besting it? In Henri's mind it was that simple. She was stewing in her pain like so many others in this building and if it continued they would be no better than the undead outside. "Perhaps Valerii's arm was not the only broken limb you need to cut off.." He returned the pot to its station and held the sugar against his forearm and chest, using his hands to hold the steaming mugs and make his way over to her booth.

"Sometimes its the people in our lives who are making us sick. People we care about," He paused to put a mug down in front of her. "People we thought care about us."

Placing the sugar against the table he slowly moved it towards her. "But if they did care about you, Charlotte, you and I would not be having this conversation."

Giving a little scoff that she couldn't help, Charlie settled into the booth with hands on her stomach and head against the back. He had no idea how right he was, though a lot of that was of her own doing. She'd done her best to hide just how much she was struggling, mostly because she didn't want to add the burden of worrying about her to anyone else's plates.

"Life isn't kind." There was nothing behind the words, no bitterness or malice, hardly even sadness though of course it was there. Mostly, was acceptance, just a fact. Life had never been easy for the likes of any of the Rose's as far as Charlie was aware, and from what she gathered from all the stories she'd heard over the diner counter, it hadn't been for anyone really. Maybe The Wexley's but did they really count? "I think I'd rather a reminder of that lesson, without the reminder of the pain part."

Giving a little chuckle to herself as she watched him go about the kitchen, she found herself confused but touched by his kindness, the understanding he showed, as well as the fact that it seemed like he actually saw her. A rare thing for a woman so often compared to wallpaper and old sconces. "It's just been hard to sleep since the fall... since..." Since she'd cut off Val's arm and watched one of her best friends die right in front of her eyes. "You know all that stuff."