#kitchen canister set of 3

[springtyme]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐎𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐: 𝐈 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 ♡

Carmy x afab!reader || Series masterlist || Series playlist

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chapter summary: You and your neighbor share a cigarette, and you have an unexpected chat with his sister... Carmy kind of wants to strangle Richie.

word count: 7.4k

warnings/tags: Eventual smut! (18+, mdni!) Language. Smoking. Food. Angst and fluff. Hurt/comfort. Slow burn. Mutual pining. Strangers to friends to lovers. The beef as found family. Set in season one.

a/n: This chapter was supposed to be about twice as long, but we are gonna wait with the rest till next chapter. this might mean that there will end up being an extra chapter in the end.

"I need some sleep It can't go on like this I tried counting sheep But there's one I always miss"

“I’m Carmen… Carmen Berzatto.” 

Oh… Now the pieces start to fall into place - the tattoos, the exhaustion, the haunted look in his eyes that felt so familiar. A mix of sadness and understanding washes over you.   

“But uh… Carmy is fine,” he adds, the tiniest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Nice to meet you, Carmy.” You smile at him before telling him your own name, feeling a little embarrassed you didn’t tell him earlier, and a short silence follows, before you gently clear your throat. “Well, shall we?” 

“Yeah.” Carmy responds with a small nod of his head as he follows you down the hallway towards your apartment.  The short walk feels oddly awkward and comforting at the same time. 

As you step inside, you gesture for Carmy to follow you into the kitchen. You turn on the cabinet lights and motion for him to take a seat or stand wherever he prefers before grabbing a couple of mugs from the cupboard. There is still hot water on the kettle for you to make a new cup of tea. 

“You want normal or decaf?” you ask, holding up the coffee canister. Carmen’s tired eyes light up a little at the mention of coffee.

“Normal, please, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep anytime soon, and I have to leave for work in three hours” he lets out a soft, breathy sound, something between a sight and a chuckle, the sound weary but genuine, and a clear touch of gratitude in his voice. You put a filter in the coffee maker and pour the coffee grounds into it, the aroma slowly beginning to fill the air. As the coffee brews, you plop a tea bag into your own mug before pouring in the hot water. You take a moment to glance at him, his tired expression evident as he leans against the counter. 

You notice the way his eyes flicker around the room, taking in the small details of your kitchen that must be mirroring his own, before his gaze lands on you. Your eyes meet for a split second before you quickly look down at your steeping tea, feeling  how your pulse quickens slightly from getting caught staring.  

You clear your throat and decide to break the silence. “So, how does a chef end up starting a kitchen fire at 3 in the morning?” you say in an attempt to lighten up the mood, but you immediately cringe at yourself, it probably wasn’t the most tactful question to ask. You’re not normally this awkward, but you also don’t normally have strangers in your apartment in the middle of the night like this. 

“I-ehm… I was actually cooking in my sleep, I woke up to the fire alarm.” He confesses, sounding a little embarrassed as he rubs the back of his neck. 

“Oh,” is all you say, not really knowing what else to come up with. You take a moment to process Carmen’s response, trying not to let your surprise show on your face. Cooking in his sleep? That certainly wasn’t a typical explanation for starting a kitchen fire. “I guess sleepwalking and cooking don’t mix well,” you end up replying, feeling a bit silly for stating the obvious. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding in agreement. “I suppose not.” his voice laced with exhaustion, and another long stretch of silence unfolds between you. You are just about to open your mouth to say something to break it - what, you don’t even know, but you are saved by the coffee machine beeping, indicating that the coffee is ready. You quickly pour the hot coffee into a mug, happy for the natural interruption of the awkward silence. 

“Cream and sugar?” you ask him, smiling politely. 

Carmy nods gratefully. “Just a little cream, please.” You carefully pour a dash of cream into the mug, watching as it swirls and mixes with the fragrant dark coffee before placing the mug in front of Carmen. He takes a sip, his tired eyes closing momentarily as he savors the warmth.

“Thank you,” he says softly, the gratitude evident in his voice. You just smile at him. Taking your tea, you lean against  the counter on the opposite side of him.  

The two of you fall into a now more comfortable silence, the only sound filling the room being the occasional sip of coffee or tea. You cannot help but glance over at him every now and then, taking in the tired lines of his face, the way his eyes seem to hold a thousand untold stories. 

After a few moments of sipping your tea in silence, Carmen breaks the silence, pointing at one of the pictures on your fridge. “Is that from Copenhagen?”

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you look over at the picture. “Yeah, it is. I got a job offer here in Chicago and thought that it might be time to try something new, I moved here six months ago, but before that I lived in Copenhagen. I like it here, and I’m really enjoying my new job,  but I do miss it.” 

“Yeah, Copenhagen’s really beautiful,” he says, still looking at the picture. 

You lean forward, feeling a spark of conversation ignite between you and Carmen. “So, you’ve been?”

“Yeah, I actually lived there for a while, when I worked at Norma.” He says it so casually, but you can’t help but feel a surge of surprise at his casual mention of working at a renowned three-Michelin-star restaurant. 

“Wow, that’s really cool,” you say, genuinely impressed. “What was it like?” 

Carmy smiles softly, a nostalgic glint in his tired eyes. “It was intense, but also really… rewarding?” he says, his voice trailing off slightly as if lost in memories. “The chefs there pushed me to my limits,  I learned so much during my time there, but, yeah, it was definitely hectic...” He pauses, a hint of melancholy in his voice, he seems to be caught in his own thoughts for a moment before he lightly shakes his head and turns his attention back to you. “What about you, what do you work with?”

“I work in theater, I’m a scenographer,” you reply, feeling a sense of pride as you talk about your passion. “I design and create the visual aspects of the stage production, from the sets to the props and the costumes. It’s a lot of work, but I really love it.” 

Carmen’s tired eyes light up with interest. “that sounds really cool. It must be amazing to see your designs come to life on stage.”

“It is,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. “It can be really demanding sometimes, but seeing everything come together during a performance… It’s like the best feeling I know. To know that your hard work is helping give people an experience. I really like that feeling”  

He looks at you with a newfound glint in his eyes. You feel a warmth spreading through your chest from the way his eyes sparkle with genuine interest. “I think I know what you mean,” he responds, a sense of understanding passing between you. “It’s like when you create something with your hands and then see the final product, it’s a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.” 

“Exactly,” you nod in agreement, feeling a sense of understanding with Carmen in that moment that you haven’t felt in a long time. The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, both lost in your own thoughts for a short moment before he breaks the quiet. 

“But, I’ll have to admit, I don’t really go to the theater that much,” he says, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “Or like, at all.”

You chuckle softly, the conversation now flowing easily between you. “Well, don’t feel bad, most people don’t. And, I’ll also have to admit that I don’t really go to Michelin restaurants that often either… or at all.” This makes Carmy laugh – it’s soft and short lived, but genuine, and your heart sillily skips a beat by the gentle melody of it. 

“That’s fair, but I’m not working at Michelin places anymore,” he says, his voice losing a bit of its newfound bravado and his smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over his features. “My brother, Mikey…” Oh… Michael was his brother, you feel a pang of sadness wash over you as you piece together the connection. “He left me his restaurant, It’s an old shithole of a beef spot. I’m trying to get it back on its feet, but it’s been a struggle, you know?”  

You can see the weight of his words behind his tired eyes, the burden of responsibility and loss bearing down on him. 

“I was in New York… I was the Chef de Cuisine at the Eleven Madison Park, and now I’m back here, trying to revive this place that I can’t even believe is still standing,” Carmen’s voice fades a bit at the end of his sentence, a sense of resignation and disbelief evident in his words. “It’s fucking bullshit.” You can hear the frustration and sadness in his voice, and you feel a surge of empathy for him. “But it also means fucking everything to me,” he adds, his eyes unfocused and tired as he gazes off into the distance before blinking and lightly shaking his head, his pale cheek redding a little.

He looks embarrassed at his little outburst, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he runs a hand through his curls in frustration. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word hanging in the air as he looks down at his coffee mug. You can see the conflicted emotions swirling in his eyes, the weight of his past and present struggles evident in his posture. 

“No need to apologize,” you reassure him, and another stretch of silence settles between you, the weight of his words lingering in the air. You don’t really know what else to say, so you don’t say anything, letting the quiet moment linger as you both sip your drinks, the only sound filling the room being the steady hum of the refrigerator. 

The atmosphere  hangs heavy with the weight of Carmen’s words, and you can sense how he is starting to shut down. So, instead of pushing for more conversation, you decide to take another approach. 

“Hey, uhm, can I bum one?” you ask, nodding towards the pack of cigarettes you had watched him put in his pants pocket when you had entered your apartment. You have your own, and you try not to smoke at night, but you make an exception, you crave the comfort of a cigarette and Carmen looks like he does too, and being able to offer you a cigarette might make him feel like he has something to offer and ease the tension.

Carmen’s tired eyes flicker for a second, like he is being pulled out of deep thoughts before looking back at you again.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies, pulling the cigarettes from his pocket and handing you the entire pack. “I would have gone down on the street…” he begins to explain before trailing off. 

You shake your head, cutting him off with a smile. “No need, If you’re fine with the fire escape we can go out there,” you offer in a gentle tone.

Carmen’s tired expression softens at your offer, and he nods in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

The two of you make your way to the window, cracking it open to let in some fresh air before climbing out onto the fire escape. The metal stairs creaking slightly with each step as the cool night air greets you as you both settle against the railing, the distant sound of the city humming below you. 

You pull out a cigarette and pop it between your lips before handing back the packet to Carmy. He takes one, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, the orange flame illuminating his tired face. He has a scar, you notice, on his right cheek, which you hadn’t noticed before. It looks like an old wound, faded and barely noticeable in the dim light of the night. You can’t help but wonder how he got it, but you are pulled out of your thoughts as he flickers on the lighter again, this time holding it out for you to light your cigarette. 

You lean in, the flame dancing before your eyes, casting a warm glow on your face. As you inhale, pulling life into the cigarette, the smoke swirls around you in the night air, the ember glowing brightly in the darkness. “Thanks,” you mumble, as you exhale, letting the smoke escape through your nose as you lean back again.  

For a while, the two of you sit in companionable silence, the only sounds being the never-quiet ambience of Chicago  from the streets below. The night air is cool against your skin, but also somewhat refreshing, and the warmth of the cigarettes and the close proximity of Carmen keeps you feeling cozy and content.

The weight of the conversation from earlier still lingers, but as you gaze out at the city skyline, a sense of peace washes over you. You smoke the entire cigarette in silence before Carmen breaks the quiet. “Did you know Mikey?”

You take a moment to collect your thoughts before responding, the few memories you have of Michael flooding back to you. 

“I don’t know if I knew him. We weren’t close, but we were neighbors for a few months. He was always friendly whenever we crossed paths in the hallway,” you say, watching Carmen closely for any sign of emotion. “I had my couch delivered about a week after I moved in, and despite having ordered it to be brought up to my apartment, the delivery guys just left it down on the street. Michael came down. I think he was on his way to work, and this guy came to pick him up and after asking me what happened, they just picked it up and started carrying it up for me. I tried to stop them, I was so scared, they’d throw their backs out,” you chuckle softly at the memory. “He didn’t have to do that, but he did anyway. I tried to thank them afterwards, venmo them or something, but they just waved it off.” 

Carmen listens quietly, his eyes focused on some distant point in the night sky, a flicker of emotion passing through his expression before he clears his throat softly. “Sounds like him,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with memories as he lights another  smoke, silently handing the pack over to you.

You take one, grateful for the distraction as you light it and take a long drag, the smoke swirling around you as you exhale. The quiet moment lingers between you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. You can feel Carmen’s grief and exhaustion radiating off of him, the burden of loss and responsibility heavy on his shoulders. 

The silence stretches, and you start to worry that your story about the couch wasn’t the right thing to say, that maybe you had overstepped by bringing up memories of his brother. You rack your brain for something else to say, anything to lighten the mood or make him feel better, but you come up empty. Instead, you simply sit in silence, the only sounds being the gentle buzz of the city below and the occasional drag of your cigarettes. 

You can sense that Carmen is grappling with his own thoughts, his tired eyes gazing out at the twinkling lights below, lost in his own world. After a while, he breaks the silence, dumping his cigarette butt in the rusty tin can you have standing out here for the purpose. 

“I should probably get out of your hair and let you get some rest,” Carmen says, his voice resigned but appreciative. 

You nod in understanding, feeling a sense of disappointment at the thought of him leaving so soon. A part of you wants to tell him to stay, but you also understand that he probably needs some time to himself. “Yeah, of course,” you reply, trying to keep your voice light and he gets up. 

The polite, well mannered side of you tells you to get up and follow him to the door, but your intuition tells you to stay. It seems like he needs some space to process his thoughts and feelings, and you don’t want to intrude on that. So, instead, you simply smile at him and nod towards the window. “Thanks for the company, Carmy. And hey, if you ever burn down your kitchen again, don’t hesitate to knock on my door, okay?” you tease, you want to say something deeper, but you hold back, not wanting to push too much.

Carmen lets out a soft chuckle, his tired eyes lighting up with a hint of amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the coffee and the chat,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips as he gives you a small wave before disappearing back into the apartment. A few seconds later you hear the click of the front door closing after him, and you feel a mix of emotions swirling inside you. 

You sit there for a while longer, the cigarette between your fingers slowly burning out. The weight of the night settles around you, the city’s hum a distant lullaby. You take one last drag of your cigarette, scrunching your nose at the light burn of your lips as you realize it had burned down to the filter.  

With a sigh you dispose of the butt in the tin can, letting it join the others, before standing, leaning against the railing and gazing out at the city lights twinkling below. The night air is crisp against your skin, the silence of the night wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You stand there for a little while longer, lost in your thoughts as your tired eyes capture the beauty of the cityscape below you. The events of the evening swirl around in your mind, the unexpected encounter with Carmy. You don’t know if you overstepped any boundaries, if you said the right things, or if you offered enough support. But you hope you did the right thing. 

With a final sigh, you step back inside, closing the window behind you and letting the night air dissipate. The apartment, that has felt empty since you moved in, feels even emptier now, and that is when you realize that Carmen had been the first person who you have invited into your home since you moved to Chicago. You can’t help but ponder over that as you head back to the kitchen to clean up and finish your tea. Maybe you should invite some of your coworkers over sometime, or actually start on trying to make some friends here. 

You go over to the coffee maker to pour out the leftover coffee in the pot, but you are surprised when you see that it has already been done, and the mug Carmen had used is hanging from the drying rack, along with the other dishes that had been sitting in the sink waiting for you to finally rack up the energy to wash, now cleaned. 

Maybe it’s just because you really, really hate washing dishes or maybe it’s the realization that you have been more lonely than you realized, but the sight makes a weird feeling settle in your chest, and it is too much for you to start processing right now, so you simply set down your mug on the counter and turn on your heel, leaving the kitchen and head to bed. Had you stayed in the dark kitchen for just a short while longer, you might have noticed the forgotten phone next to the sink. 

You make your way to your bedroom, peeling off your hoodie and sweatpants before sinking into the comfort of your bed, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within you, that you’re not ready to decipher. All you really want to do right now is to let all thoughts and feelings fade away into the peaceful void of sleep. You don’t have work tomorrow, thank god, so you allow yourself to drift off without setting an alarm, letting the warm duvet envelop you as the beating of your heart slowly lulls you into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

· · · · ·

Carmen is flipping through the pages of the folder, he’s barely registering the ideas and suggestions she had put together  for the restaurant.. He doesn’t want to be an asshole, really doesn’t want to, but all this is a lot  and he can’t really deal with a lot right now.

He can feel the beginning of the well-known pounding in his temples, another day, another headache. He wants to be able to fix this place, and he is happy that Sydney wants to help with that, but all he can focus on right now is to get through the day. There is three hours to opening, one of the fucking ballbreaker machines are broken, and he can’t find his fucking phone, he thinks he might have forgotten it at home, he was a bit of a zombie when he left this morning. Last night was something… he’ll probably need 3-5 business days to process, or even better repress it completely from his memory, despite it being difficult. 

“On page 27, randomly, there’s actually some pretty good layouts of just that,” Sydney says, clearly trying to sound casual, but her voice betrays  a hint of eagerness.   

“Page 27?” he asks, feeling overwhelmed by everything in front of him.  

“Yeah, it’s mostly graphics,” Syd replies.  

He knows Sydney’s right, she is smart and capable, and he is not doubting that she has a bunch of good ideas. She is probably way more qualified to run a business than he is, or ever will be, but he can’t see how any of this is realistic. She is right, they are sleeping on to-go’s, but there is no way they’ll be able to manage that right now. 

And, yeah, there is no doubt that they need to make some serious changes, but all Carmen can focus on right now is to keep his head above water. He has issues keeping vendors current, and even scraping enough together to actually pay the staff. 

“Yo, Carm!” Marcus voice calls out, interrupting them. Carmen hands the folder back to Sydney before stepping out of the little office to see what’s now going on. 

Following Marcus’s voice, Carmy swings the doors open to the front of the house where he finds the baker leaning against the front of the counter, and Richie standing behind it with a woman, probably around his mothers age, who Carmy’s never seen before.   

“Yo, what’s going on?” Carmy asks, trying to push aside the headache that is threatening to take over while trying to understand what’s going on with Sydney hot on his heels. 

“No. I can handle this myself, cousin. I got this,” Richie tells him, holding his hand up as Carmen steps into the room. “So… You’re not Ron…” Richie says, now addressing the woman. 

“Ron’s gone. Gone, gone,” she answers, which isn’t helping Carmen understand the situation in the slightest. 

“Ron’s dead?!” Marcus exclaims, leaning a little further over the counter. 

“Who is Ron?” Carmy asks, trying to get a handle on the situation.

The woman turns towards Carmen. “My partner Ron Pager. He passed away. I’m running his routes now.” 

“Everybody’s dying,” Richie says, annoyed, making a half turn in frustration. 

“Nancy Chore, Chicago Board of Health,” the woman introduces herself, offering an explanation to Carmen. “I’m here to inspect the property.” 

Of, course… An inspection, why the fuck not?! Just what this day needed… 

“Okay, Nancy, hi. I’m Carmen Berzatto,” he extends his hand, introducing himself. “I’m the owner.”

“He’s the owner’s brother actually. He’s also dead,” Richie says, causing a raised eyebrow from the older woman. 

“He doesn’t look dead.”

“No, no I’m not dead. My brother is dead.” Carmen clarifies, even though he feels a bit dead right now. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the woman says with a sympathetic nod. 

“I’m sorry for your loss too,” Richie says to the health inspector, not missing a beat as he continues. “Can I see some kind of identification?”

“Yeah,” the woman replies, holding out her very legit looking badge per Richie’s request. 

“Interesting,” the taller man says, his arms folded over his chest. 

“Is it? What’s interesting about that?” Carmen says, he can’t fucking deal with Richie’s antics right now, he just wants this inspection to be over as soon as possible. Carmy’s been trying to make everyone step up their game in the two weeks he’s been here. He, himself stayed until late last night to deep clean. There shouldn’t be any problems, and if Richie will just behave, everything should be going smoothly… Hopefully.         

“It’s an interesting logo on her badge,” Richie says defensively. 

Carmy decides to ignore him, turning his attention to the inspector. “Nancy, if you need anything, just find us. Make yourself at home. Okay?” He turns around to go back to the kitchen, he has a lot to do and he doesn’t have time to deal with Richie’s shenanigans right now. “Where’s Tina and Ebra!” he calls out as he makes it back to the kitchen with Sydney following him back again, seemingly not done with telling about her ideas to improve the restaurant.      

Carmen had hoped that the interruption would make her forget about it for a while, his head can’t hold any more right now, but he is also mildly curious to hear ideas, and he also doesn’t want to seem like an asshole, it is really nice of her to want to help, so he lets her follow him around as he makes it through the restaurant. 

“I also noted on the prog that it’s not necessarily flour that is expensive, but shipping, so we could just have somebody go and pick it up.” Sydney says as they make it back into his office. 

 “Yeah, Marcus,” Carmen agrees. He can definitely see the logic in that. It’s a good, and actually feasible, idea.

“Okay, sure. Marcus. Great,” she says a little confused. 

“No, it can only be Marcus,” Carmy explains. 

Sydney makes a face of befuddlement. “Why can it only be Marcus?”

“Sweeps, Tina and Ebra don’t drive,” he clarifies. .

“Uh, well, what about Richie?” she asks questioningly.   

“Suspended license.” 

“I saw him drive in this morning,” she points out. 

Carmy just shrugs, he is not sending a man with a suspended license out driving doing work hours, if Richie wants to risk it on his own time then that’s his business. 

Sydney shakes her head lightly, getting back on track. “The point is, it’s one of hundreds of things we can be doing to save costs!” 

“Sydney. Sydney. Sydney,” Carmy interrupts her. “Look, I’m sure this is all correct, but it’s a lot. The job you’re describing goes way outside what I can afford to pay a sous, which I can barely afford already. But I hear you. Okay? I have every intention of turning this into an efficient, respectable place of business run by adults…”

He can see that she is about to say something, but before she can get to it she gets interrupted by an outburst from the front of the house. “That’s a fucking ass of shit!” Richie’s voice bellows.   

“Eventually…” Carmy sighs, stepping out of the office once again to see what’s happening.  “Yo, yo, what’s going on?!” He yells as he pushes through the door to the front again, seeing that most of the staff are already there. A pressing feeling of uneasiness, starting to form in his chest as he steps around the counter to get to where Richie and Ms. Chore is standing, who he had almost forgotten was here. 

“Look… It wasn’t dangerous, Ms. Chore…” Richie says defensively, immediately making alarm bells go off in Carmy’s head.  

“What’s dangerous?!” Carmy demands to know.  

“I discovered a large hole in the tile. Looks like a former gas line next to the stove tops. Not only was it not properly dry walled and caulked, but someone clogged the hole with napkins and proxied over it with some kind of plastic. Grease seeped into the napkins and the proxy became unproxied.” Ms. Chore explains, sounding less than pleased. 

“So what does that mean?” Carmy can feel how fury is starting to slowly simmer in his stomach, threatening to soon be brought to a boil.

“A potential cross contaminate. Additionally, no hot water in the hand station.” The older woman explains. 

The last part makes both Richie and Syd erupt in protest, their voices overlapping and echoing through the room as they try to explain that the hot water does work, the water just has to run for a little while, which Ms. Chore doesn’t seem to be satisfied with. “Health code states any sink near a prep area needs to deliver instantly hot water to prevent the spread of bacteria.”  

Carmen can feel how his headache is now blooming into a full-blown migraine as the chaos unfolds around him. The sound of the voices mixing with the sound of the broken arcade game is starting to feel like an alarm going off in his head. It is like the piercing sound is stabbing through his temples and into his brain. He rubs his forehead, while grabbing the counter with his other hand, trying to ground himself as he tries to push back the throbbing pain. A health code vialation is literally the last fucking thing they need right now.  

“I haven’t even delivered the big one yet.” The health inspector continues and Carmen feels how his stomach drops at her words.   

“There’s a big one?” Fak says from his seat at the counter.   

“And what is the big one?” Carmen asks, breathing through his nose. richie

The woman pulls out a packet of smokes, ‘King Size Sapphire’, Carmen’s eyes immediately looks over at Richie. “Someone left a pack of cigarettes on the stovetop near the burners. Not only very dangerous, but also a potential contaminant.”  

“Motherfucker…” Carmy let’s out. The migraine is now pounding behind his eyes. 

“You can say that again,” Ms. Chore 

“Motherfucker!” Richie echoes, making Carmy’s blood fucking boil .

“Don’t actually say that again, you fucking idiot!” He yells at the taller man, feeling like he could strangle him in this moment.   

“Unfortunately, these violations leave me no choice. I award you a C.” Miss Chore holds the cardstock with a giant orange C out to hand over to Carmy, but he doesn’t take it. He can feel the anger and frustration boiling inside of him, threatening to spill over. The orange letter on the paper mocking him.    

A choir of protests fills the room as the staff tries to defend themselves, but Carmy can hardly hear them over the pounding in his head. 

“You know what, I’m going to caulk that shit right now, okay?” Richie states, trying to plead with Ms. Chore.  

“Oh, it doesn’t matter how fast you do it. I can’t come back to test for 30 days,” Ms Chore says, not missing a beat. 

“It’ll take five minutes, okay?! It’ll take five minutes to caulk.” Richie tries to bargain. “I can caulk! Let me fucking CAULK!” 

“There’s no caulk in the house, dude,” Fak chimes, making Richie yell at him to shut up and Ms. Chore hands over the review paper to Carmy before leaving. 

Carmy thinks he might actually strangle Richie, his head now not only throbbing with pain but with red hot fury as well. 

“You’re bitching me? You wanna run this place?!” Carmen seethes, his voice dripping with anger as he pushes Richie in the chest, his frustration finally boiling over.   

“How do you know they’re not your cigarettes?!” Richie pushes back, making Carmy stumble back a step. 

“Cause I’m not a fucking dipshit!” Carmy yells, seething with a mix of anger and frustration as he is about to push Richie again, but Sydney steps in between before he gets the chance, trying to keep the two men from each other as they yell at each other. Cursing and yelling fill the room as tensions escalate, the staff trying to intervene and the review paper falls to the floor in the commotion. 

“Let’s not do this,” Sydney says, her voice breaking through to Carmy, making him regain his senses. 

“All right. All right,” he says, throwing his hands in the air, trying to calm himself down before turning to Richie. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You are gonna go to the hardware store, you’re gonna get some joint compound. You’re gonna get some caulk and you’re gonna caulk that shit,” he says, his tone firm like he’s giving instructions to a child, despite him saying it with much more anger than he would ever use toward a kid.    

“Okay, well, FYI…” Richie cuts in, as if he’s about to argue, making Carmy wanna punch him. “I’m not your fucking gofer.”

“FYI?! FYI!” Carmen can’t believe he is having this discussion with a grown man. “FYI, you cocked it up, you’re gonna caulk it out!”

“Okay, well, I would love to, but my license is expired, FYI!” Richie retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“I saw you drive in this morning,” Sydney points out, making Carmen turn towards her.

“Sydney, you wanna help, you can take him.”

This makes Richie protest. “No. Time out. I’ll Uber. Thank you.”  

“Surge rates, fucko!” Carmy reminds him, his voice dripping with annoyance. 

“Fine,” Richie says in defeat before looking at Sydney. “But we’re taking my car.”

“I don’t care…” she says, shaking her head. 

Carmen is just glad that they’re leaving. Glad Richie’s leaving because he is fucking angry at him, and glad that Sydney is leaving, because it is clear to everyone that she is far too good for this place, and it makes him feel bad and kind of embarrassed that she has to put up with all the bullshit that happens here.

He just needs a break from annoying pseudo-cousins and over-ambitious sous chefs for a little while. Although Sydney is not officially his sous yet, but he is going to hire her – he’d be an idiot not to, she is probably the best this shitty place will ever see, if she still wants to work here after today, that is…

Carmy picks up the fallen review paper from the floor with slightly trembling hands as the giant orange C is staring back at him. The image burns into his mind, a symbol of failure and inadequacy. He knows that this place is shit and that he needs to make changes, but this is a whole new low.  His head feels like it is about to explode, the pounding in his temples now so unbearable he almost feels nauseous, the ballbreaker jingle of the broken machine, like nails on a chalkboard, echoing in his tired head.  

“Fix that fucking sound. Please fix that fucking sound!” He spits at Fak, half commanding, half pleading.  

“I will fix it. Fak always fixes it. Kids come in, break it, and what happens? I fix the balls. Fak fixes the balls.”

“FIX IT!” Carmy just yells. He wonders if it’s actually happened, after all these years in nightmarishly stressful kitchens, two weeks at The Beef  is what’s finally driven him completely insane as he goes back through the doors to the kitchen.   

Taking a breath and clenching his fists he tries to gather his thoughts. If he changes the plans so that Tina takes over Sydney’s stations while she is gone and he makes family, they shouldn’t get too behind while Sydney and Richie are gone.    

“Yo, Tina! I need you to help me out, chef,” he calls out to Tina, trying to regain a sense of control amidst the chaos. “I need you to take over Sydney’s stations while she’s gone. We need to keep things running smoothly, I’ll make family and help out with prep,” Carmen instructs, his voice firm but tinged with the underlying stress and frustration he’s feeling. 

“Got it, Jeff,” the shorter woman says, retying the strings of her ‘Mrs. Always Right’ apron.   

“Thank you, chef,” Carmy says, really meaning it. He knows she’s having a hard time with all the new changes he has made around the kitchen, and with Sydney coming in and things changing up, but she has been here for a long time and there is a reason for that.  

As they start working and tackling the tasks at hand, Carmen feels how his anger slowly disappears, something else inside him taking over. 

He has no idea how to manage, let alone fix, a failing business, but he knows how to cook. He knows what he’s doing when he’s in the kitchen and he knows that he can rely on his skills and can get into that magical state where he can shut his brain of for a little while, and just fully concentrates on the task at hand – which in this point of his life probably is the closest he comes to relaxing.  

· · · · ·     

You are pulled out of your slumber by the ringing of your phone, the shrill sound cutting through the peaceful silence of your bedroom. Groggily, you reach out to the nightstand where your phone is resting, fumbling for it in the darkness before finally grabbing hold of it. But  as you squint at the screen to see the caller ID, you see that there is none, it isn’t even your phone that is ringing. 

Confusion clouds your mind as you slide out of bed, and it is now clear to you that the sound isn’t coming from your bedroom. You stumble out of the room, trying to locate the source of the ringing, but it stops before you get a chance to pinpoint it. 

“What the…” you mumble before the ringing starts once again, realizing that the sound is coming from the kitchen. You feel a sense of unease wash over you as you make your way to the kitchen, the sound of the shrill ringing growing louder with each step. You enter the room and coming into view is the telephone on your kitchen counter. Confusion wells up inside you for a split second, your groggy mind still in a half fogged state of sleep, before the events of  last night come back to you. Carmen must have forgotten his phone last night. 

You look over at the oven, the digital clock, shocked by how late it is, you can’t remember the last time you woke up this late.  

You step over to the sink, looking down at the phone, the caller ID lighting up on the screen saying ‘Sugar’. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should answer or not. It feels pretty invasive to pick up another person’s phone, someone you don’t really know,  and you have no idea who this Sugar is, maybe a girlfriend? In that case you don’t want to intrude on their personal business, and you’re definitely not in the mood to be interrogated by some angry girlfriend.   

But it could be important, or maybe it is Carmen calling his own phone to figure out where it’s at. You contemplate what to do, but before you can make a decision the phone stops again, the ringing coming to an abrupt halt. 

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, but after a few seconds the phone lights up again. With a fast beating heart you swipe across the screen before picking it up to your ear, bracing yourself for whatever may come. 

“God damn it, Carm!” A female voice crackles through the speaker, frustration and annoyance evident in her tone. “Listen I know-” 

“Hello,” you croak out, interrupting the woman, not wanting to eavesdrop on a private conversation. The voice on the other end goes silent for a moment, and you can almost hear the confusion through the phone. 

“Uh, hi…” the voice says, the frustration in her tone melting away, being replaced with puzzlement. “Is Carmen there?”

You clear your throat, a little embarrassed by the mix-up. “Uh, no, he isn’t.” You cringe internally at the awkwardness of the situation. “He, uh, left his phone here last night.” And you only cringe even more. “I’m his neighbor, we had some coffee last night.” You quickly add, mentally cursing yourself for sounding so awkward, but you push through. 

“Oh..” the woman responds, her voice softening. “I’m Natalie, I’m Carmen’s sister.”

Relief floods through you, feeling a way more at ease now that you know who you’re talking to as you tell her your own name. 

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” Natalie says, genuine remorse in her voice. “I’ve been trying to talk to him for a few days now, and I was starting to worry, but I think he’s just ignoring me.”

You feel a sense of understanding wash over you, having seen the exhaustion and turmoil in Carmen’s eyes the night before, and knowing about what had happened with Michael you can’t help but feel for her. “It’s okay,” you reassure her. “But, yeah, I saw him last night, we had coffee and he must have left his phone here by accident.” You offer, hoping to ease some of Natalie’s worry

“Oh, thank you for letting me know,” she replies, relief evident in her tone. “He can be a bit of a scatterbrain sometimes. I know he’s been dealing with a lot lately, so I appreciate you looking out for him.” 

You nod, feeling a sense of connection with Natalie, despite never having met her. “Of course, happy to help out.” 

You contemplate whether to offer any more information about your interaction with Carmy, but you ultimately decide to keep it to yourself. It’s really none of your business, but you can’t shake off the urge to help somehow. 

“Hey, uhm, if you give me the address I can swing by the restaurant and drop off his phone. I know I would be fucked without mine.” It’s not like you have any plans and you would probably not leave your apartment today if you don’t have a reason to. “I can tell Carmen to give you a call when he gets the chance,” you continue, hoping to be of some use and to ease Natalie’s worries.

“You’d do that?” 

“Yeah, it’s not a problem. Just let me know where to go and I’ll drop it off,” you offer, genuine in your willingness to help out. 

“That’s so sweet of you,” Natalie says, her voice softens even further, with a sense of genuine gratitude. She gives you the address to the restaurant, and you jot it down on a post-it note. The call ends with a warm goodbye from both of you. 

Forty minutes later, after a quick shower and getting dressed and ready, you’re on your way to the train station, the music in your headphones filling your ears as you step out onto the platform. Luckily you don’t have to wait long before the gray train pulls up, you board and find a spot to stand, not feeling the need to sit. The gentle rock of the train lulling you into a sense of calm, as you let your brain disconnect and enter the weird, cathartic state of introspection that you often seem to get in on public transportation while you watch Chicago pass by in a blur of buildings and colors.  

As the train comes to a stop at the station near the restaurant, you step out onto the platform and make your way towards the address Natalie had given you, it’s just a simple eight minute walk and you’re are there a lot quicker than you would have preferred, suddenly feeling a wave of nervousness wash over you, but you try to push through it, reminding yourself that you are just dropping off a phone and there’s no need to overthink things.

The restaurant is easy to spot, a worn sign hanging above the entrance with the name ‘The Original Beef of Chicagoland.’ You take a deep breath before pushing open the door and step inside.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated :) let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapter ♡

@wittyno @eternallyvenus @eddioto

[billielolly]

Sims 3 Build - Brownstone Townhouse

This brownstone townhouse is perfect for a large sim family - with a nursery and all. 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms on a 30x20 lot.

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[milf-murdock]

Heyyy been reading your fics since you were writing for matt murdock🥹🤭 idl if you take requests or not but if you dont just ignore this!!🌸

Can you write smthng for reader with asthma? With simon riley or john price☹️🫶🏻 plss

Sweet Anon!!! 🥺 My oh my, you have been here a while!! Your support means the world to me 🫶 I absolutely loved this request! I am a sucker for a sweet Simon and injured reader. I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies though. I don't know too much of what an asthma attack feels like, but I did my best. If anyone has any constructive criticism, my inbox is open and I'm willing to make adjustments to make it more accurate. I hope you enjoy, sweet nonny!!

Asthma Attack - Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

TW: Asthma Attack, potential medical inaccuracies, protective Simon should come with his own warning

“Just one more block,” you thought to yourself, focusing on the steady rhythm of your shoes hitting the pavement. The familiar tightening in your chest set in about two blocks ago, and you struggled to keep your breathing steady. It had been a minute since you’d had a flair up, and you silently cursed yourself for not bringing along your inhaler. You should’ve known better. 

Simon easily kept up pace beside you. He enjoyed joining you on your jogs—the exercise light and refreshing in comparison to the type of intense training he was used to. He didn’t really gain much from the easy workout, but the peace of mind that came with knowing you were safe every step of the way more than made up for it. 

As your flat came into view up ahead, your breathing became more labored, a slight wheeze tinging each breath. Simon shot a concerned look your way. 

“You ‘lright,  love?” Simon’s deep voice cut through your growing panic, grounding you as you barely made it to the steps of your flat. 

You collapsed on the steps, your hand coming up to press against your chest as you struggled to get down air. 

“I can’t—“ 

“I don’t—“ 

“Simon—“

You struggled to get out a full sentence through your choppy breaths, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. You were borderline hyperventilating now, and breaths only became harder to manage. 

“Fuck,” Simon murmured to himself as realization dawned on him. A wave of panic shot through him: you were having an asthma attack. He inwardly began cursing himself for not recognizing the tell-tale signs sooner. He should’ve seen the signs. He should’ve stepped in sooner. 

Simon stopped himself, forcing himself to tamp down on his fear and let his tactical instincts taking over. 

Assess the situation. 

Simon knelt down to your level, pressing two fingers to the pulse point on your neck. “Alright love, I need you to try to take a slow, deep breath,” he coached, nodding to himself as he mentally took note of your elevated heart rate. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

Make a plan. 

Sliding one arm under your knees and one under your arms, he pulled you up to his chest from the stairs.  Your arms wrap around his neck and you try to force yourself to slow your breathing and control the panic. You focus on breathing in the familiar scent of Simon, the faint notes of oak and gunpowder mingling with the salt of his sweat. 

Simon makes quick work of the steps, managing to unlock the flat one handed before stepping inside. “Where’s your inhaler, darling?” He asked as he gently set you down on the sofa, making sure you’re in an upright position. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed the panic beneath the surface. 

“Kitchen,” you manage to gasp out, tears stinging your eyes as you feel your attack getting worse. 

Simon’s back in seconds, shaking the inhaler before ripping the cap off and bringing the plastic cylinder your lips. “Okay, breathe in, sweet girl,” he coaches, pressing down on the canister. You do as your told, pressing your eyes shut as the first hit settles into your lungs. 

“Hold your breath. 1…2…3..4…5. Okay, again,” Simon gave the inhaler another shake before administering a second dose, counting down again.

“Good job, love, keep breathing. Slow, deep breaths, just like that.” The sense of urgency was slowly fading from his tone as he watched your breaths ease up. He pressed another two fingers to your jawline, checking your pulse. 

“Atta girl, give me one more for good measure,” another shake and puff following up the last hit. You finally felt relief as your airways started to expand, taking in full breaths, trying to follow the deep breaths Simon was modeling for you. 

Simon raised a hand to push back a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear. Your entire body was shaking in the aftermaths of your attack. 

“Thank you,” you muttered breathlessly. Your chest was aching and you felt such pure exhaustion sweep over you as the adrenaline slowly left your body. 

Sensing that the emergency was over, Simon gingerly pulled you to his chest. You couldn’t help but notice how fast his heart was beating under the soft fabric of his hoodie. 

“Fucking hell, sweetheart, you scared the shit out of me for a moment there,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “You alright, then?” He pulled back, his attentive gaze raking over your body, conducting his own assessment. 

“‘M’okay,” you whispered, suddenly feeling like even carrying on a conversation was too much. 

With a nod, Simon took the hint, pulling you back into his arms once more. A strong hand rubbed up and down your back, the motion soothing you. “Let’s take a rest then, yeah? Eventful morning.” The subtle nod of your head against his chest gave him all the approval he needed to help you up off the couch and guide you back to your shared bedroom. 

He made sure to get you settled under the fully duvet first before pulling off his hoodie and crawling in on the opposite side. 

“Come on, have a proper cuddle,” he coaxed, pulling you to rest against his bare chest. Exhaustion swept over you, and you struggled to keep your eyes open as  the steady beat of his heart brought a sense of comfort and familiarity. 

“Thank you, Si,”  you breathe out. “Thank you.” 

“O’ course, darling. S’what I’m here for.” Simon held you a little tighter, thanking every lucky star out there that he was here for you and that you were okay. He’d always make sure you’re okay.  

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By His Command 3

Summary: the commander arrives. (Handmaid AU)

Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, possible pregnancy and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: Thank you for reading! Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕

The martha comes to fetch you as the sky dims outside the iron bars. You follow her to the kitchen where she has a sparse array of produce. A few potatoes, some leeks, and a clove of garlic. 

“You will help,” she says bluntly.

“Praise be,” you reply but receive only a sharp look.

“Peel,” she takes out a peeler and puts it before you. “We’ve had no handmaid, so a guardian delivers the produce. It is never enough.”

You nod and go to work. You drag the blade along the skin, stripping it away, and let it drop to the counter. You pick out an eye from the potato and set down the naked spud, grabbing the next. That martha chops with heavy, short thunks against the cutting board.

When you’re done, you gather up the skins. She points you to the bin and you dump them there. You rinse your hands and face her. She puts a pot on the stove, ignoring your expectant gaze. You don’t dare ask what to do next as you only feel in the way.

“We’ll do a stew, bake some fresh bread,” she instructs, “tomorrow, you will go to Loaves and Fishes so we can fill the pantry.”

“Praise be,” you agree. She sighs.

She dumps the ingredients all together in the pot, adding some pork bones for flavour in the broth and some rise to round it out. It’s better than what you got at the center but you won’t presume that you’ll share the same stock.

“Martha,” the wife enter’s in her blue dress. Long straight sleeves and cinched waist. You bow your head so your bonnet hides your face. She sidesteps you, shouldering you away without acknowledgement.

“Mrs. Hansen,” the martha falters, her previous derision gone.

“Toss the stew, we’ve received a duck from Commander Bodecker. You know he loves to hunt.”

She puts a crate on the counter. The martha reaches to slide it towards her and pulls back the cloth to peer inside. You look at your feet, wiggling your toes in your red socks.

“The Commander has returned,” the wife continues, “the table must be set.”

“I will have the handmaid do it,” the martha confirms.

“Pray that she can handle such a task,” the wife rebukes and sweeps around, strutting out without even a glance in your direction.

The martha reaches into the crate and pulls out the dead mallard. You wrinkle your nose at the mussed green feathers. You look away.

“Well, would you rather lay some spoons out or undress this?” She asks brusquely.

You go to the cupboards and pull a door open. You only find plain metal canisters. She comes over and shuts the door, opening the next to reveal the plates. You bring one down, then a second. She slides a drawer out.

“Take one for yourself. Three,” she instructs.

You wince and pull out another plate.

“When you dine with the Commander and his wife, you say nothing, you look at nothing but your plate, you eat only what they allow you,” she hisses.

“I understand.”

“If only you could.”

She counts out the cutlery and puts it atop the stack of plates.

“Napkins beside the stove. Wrap the silverware.”

You go to the drawer nearest the stove and find the pale white napkins trimmed with blue flowers. You add them to your lot and the martha points you through the archway that looks into the dining room. You hear her mutter as she turns back to the duck.

You roll up the cutlery tightly in the fabric. Like swaddling a baby. You go around, chair by chair, plate and cutlery. 

As you arrange the last, only thinking then of the glassware, a soft noise brings your head up. A man in navy blue leans in the doorway. You did not hear him or sense him. You cannot guess for how long he’s been there but you can guess at his identity.

You dip your head down and step away from the table, “Commander.”

He breaks the threshold and strides around the other side of the table. You keep your chin down, jaw locked, as you listen, don’t look. The glimpse of his face floats in your vision. Tidy combed hair and shaved sides, a trim of hair across his lip, and handsomely forged features. 

He stops behind a chair and you feel his gaze on you.

“Blessed be the fruit, Ofloyd,” he rolls the name on his tongue.

“May the Lord open,” you eke out.

He chuckles. You bite your lip. The only people who laughed were the aunts, and it often meant trouble. He grips the back of the chair.

“I am the lord’s agent but it will not be him who does the… opening,” he intones, his tone dripping salaciously. “So, Ofloyd, will you open yourself to me?”

You don’t know how to answer. This is not how the aunts speak; or the guardians; or the handmaids.

“Praise be,” you gulp.

He snickers and twists his grip on the back of the chair.

“You have no idea,” he slips a hand down, brushing along the front of his trousers, “praise, there will be.”

He growls and leans back on his heel. There is no time to respond. He is already on his way. As quickly as he appeared, he is gone again, leaving only dread and the scent of cedarwood.

[iboatedhere]

from that summer prompts list! an spending the whole day at the beach au would be really nice i think :))

Day 1

The screen door rattles as it slams shut behind him, and Alex drops his suitcase onto the worn hardwood floors. 

The cottage is small but beautiful. A little stuffy and warm, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed by opening the windows and letting the cool ocean breeze in. 

He leaves his belongings behind and does a quick sweep of the kitchen. The basics are there, just as the AirBnB host said. Salt, pepper, oil, sugar. A box of tea and a canister of coffee. Prepackaged snacks on display on the counter. There are water bottles in the fridge and a box of baking soda. He’ll need to go to the market in town and stock up on produce, dairy, and good coffee, but it’s fine. It’s nice.

From the photos online, he knows the bedroom and bathroom are down the hall to his left, along with a small linen closet with extra sheets, blankets, and pillows. There’s a door that leads to the basement where the washer and dryer are kept and the hot water heater, which he might need to reset if the power goes out during his stay. 

The living room is basic but homey. A couch and two armchairs, each a little frayed at the edges, are set around a wide driftwood coffee table with stacks of board games underneath. No TV. Spotty WiFi. Perfect.

He steps out the sliding glass doors onto the small deck overlooking the beach. It’s early summer, and kids are still in school, so the beach is quiet and barren. It's just a little lonely, but it's relatable. 

He shakes his head, physically knocking the dreary thought from his brain. This isn’t what this vacation is about. So what if his boyfriend of nearly a year revealed that he’d been cheating on him for the last six months two days before the trip, and so what if both the flight and the booking were non-refundable. So what if he had to dip into his savings to pay for this. It’s better to learn that Peter is a heartless douchebag now than five years down the line when Alex is pushing thirty and thinking about marriage and kids and forever. So what if it’s brought up the same feelings of abandonment and inadequacy he’s shoved deep down inside of himself since his parents divorced. It’s okay. 

This week is about self-reflection and discovery. He’s going to learn how to be alone and be okay with it. He doesn’t need a partner to be happy. 

Alex leans forward on the railing and watches the waves crash against the shore until a man coming up the boardwalk catches his attention. 

He’s tall and blond; his blue linen shirt is loose across his shoulders and flutters around his body in the wind. He stops halfway, his shoes in his hand, and turns back toward the beach to whistle. A beagle hops onto the path beside him a moment later, shaking the water from his fur and making the man laugh. 

It’s a nice sound. 

The man and his dog continue up the boardwalk and into the house next door to Alex’s rented cottage. He towels off the dog and wipes his own feet on the mat before disappearing inside. 

Interesting. 

Day 2

The town market is small and overpriced, but Alex is able to get almost everything he needs, minus the coffee. 

Fortunately, the market is next to a cafe selling their beans by the pound. Alex buys two bags and a cherry turnover and learns that there's a farmer’s market in the church parking lot on Sundays. 

On his way out, he spots his neighbor sitting on the patio, a book in his hand, a cup of tea on the table in front of him, and the beagle at his feet.

When Alex passes, the dog lifts its head and wags its tail. Alex wants to stop and ask the man if he can say hello, but his hands are full of groceries and coffee, and the odds of dropping everything and embarrassing himself are too great. 

He keeps walking and regrets not stopping the whole way home.

Day 3

Alex spends the whole day at the beach. 

He packs a cooler with sandwiches, fruit, and beer and hauls one of the folding chairs provided by the host down to the water. 

It’s overcast when he gets down there, but by noon, the sun is high and hot, and he slathers on another layer of sunscreen before he reclines the chair and takes a nap. 

When he wakes up, his neighbor has joined him, sitting an acceptable distance away and a bit too close, considering he has almost the entire beach. 

Alex’s first instinct is to be annoyed because what the fuck, but then his neighbor looks over the top of the book he’s reading and makes eye contact with Alex, then looks away quickly, like he’s been caught. 

Interesting. 

Alex stands up and stretches his arms over his head before pulling his tank top over his head and dropping it to the chair. 

He feels his neighbor’s eyes on him the entire way to the water, where he jumps in without hesitation. When he surfaces, his neighbor is watching him again. This time, he doesn’t look away. 

Day 4

“Bone! You need to bone!”

Alex rolls his eyes at Nora’s voice in the background of the call. 

“We're not going to bone,” Alex says. “I don’t even know his name.”

“Maybe you could ask him,” June supplies helpfully. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“To know his name?”

“To bone,” Nora says, sounding closer to the phone. “Alex, your piece of shit ex cheated on you. You’re legally required to sleep with someone else. You should know that. You’re a lawyer.”

“I’m a paralegal.”

“Same diff.”

“Definitely not.”

“You did say he was good-looking,” June says, getting the conversation back on track, and Alex hums as he looks out the back door. 

From this angle, he can see his neighbor on his deck, where he’s been fiddling with his grill for the last twenty minutes. 

“He is,” Alex agrees, looking over his long legs and broad shoulders. “He can’t work a grill, though. What the fuck is he doing?”

“Go help him!” Nora chimes in. “You two can eat dinner, and then he can eat you—” 

Alex hangs up and opens the door, then steps over to the far side of the deck, closest to his neighbor, who is tapping the gauge of the propane tank.

“I think it might be empty.”

His neighbor’s head snaps up. “Pardon?”

“The tank. If you can’t get it to light, you’re probably out of propane.”

“Oh,” he says as he looks down at the tank. “How do I fix that?”

“Get the tank refilled.”

“And where do I do that?”

“At this time of night, nowhere.”

Those broad shoulders fall. “Oh.”

“You can come over and use mine,” Alex yells over. “The host said it was full.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

His neighbor looks down at his dog at his feet. 

“You can bring—,” Alex starts, and his neighbor interrupts. 

“David.”

“Your name is David?”

“No, I’m Henry,” he says before he gestures down to the dog. “His name is David.”

“Okay….well….you can both come over. This place is listed as pet friendly.” 

Henry looks down at David, then at the grill, then over at Alex. 

“I’ll be over,” Henry calls. 

Alex nods. “I’ll be here.” 

Day 5 

“You know, you never told me what your friend does to afford a beach house.”

“Oh,” Henry says as he picks up a pint of strawberries. “It’s hard to pin Pez down. I suppose he does a bit of everything.”

Alex nods as Henry pays for the berries, and they continue their loop around the farmer’s market. 

Dinner last night was fine. Henry seemed nervous the entire time, but Alex can’t honestly say that he was playing it cool. 

It’s like they both knew mutual attraction was simmering beneath the surface, but neither knew what to do about it. Maybe Henry is just shy, and maybe Alex is a little out of practice after spending nearly a year of his life in a dead-end relationship. 

He did learn that Henry was a copy editor who could work from practically anywhere. He has a sister who might join him next month and a brother who thinks what he does for a living is pointless. 

Alex kind of hates his brother, but he likes the way Henry smiles when he talks about his sister and friend.

“You never told me why you’re here alone,” Henry says, and Alex shrugs.

“You’re here alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have David.”

“Okay, point, but do I have to have a reason? Is it a crime for someone to vacation alone?”

“Certainly not, but….”

“But,” Alex starts with a heavy sigh. “I was supposed to come with my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Henry says, sounding disappointed.

“Ex-boyfriend now,” Alex explains. “Turns out he was cheating on me, and all the reservations were non-refundable, so…here I am. Alone.”

Henry knocks their shoulders together with a soft smile. “Maybe not so alone.”

Day 6

The power goes out at exactly 11:59 at night.

“Fuck,” Alex swears up at the ceiling while rain and wind pound against the windows and lightning flashes outside. “Fuck.”

He knows he’s lucky that it stayed on for this long. While he’s no stranger to storms (everything is bigger in Texas), the constant weather alerts and warnings that pop up on his phone, combined with how close the house is to the beach, are making him nervous. 

He could leave, get in the rental car, and go, but when he sits up in bed and looks out the window, he can see the lights on at Henry’s place. 

Of course, Henry’s rich friend would have a generator. Of course, Alex can’t leave without him. 

Alex puts on his sneakers and makes a run for it, skidding onto Henry’s front porch and banging on the door, hoping he’s heard over the rolling thunder.

He hears David bark, then quick footsteps, and suddenly, the door opens, and Henry appears through the screen. 

“The power went out,” Alex says with a thumb hooked over his shoulder. “And I don’t know where the candles are in the house, and I’m trying not to freak out–.”

“Are you bloody mad,” Henry interrupts as he opens the screen door and yanks him into the house. “You could have been struck by lightning.”

“I’m a pretty fast runner.”

“Fast enough to dodge lightning?”

“I made it, didn’t I?”

“I suppose,” Henry says. “Now, wait here.”

Henry disappears down the hall while Alex drips over the hardwood. 

“Should we be worried?” Alex calls after him after a particularly loud clap of thunder. “I’m always seeing ocean homes swept into the sea on the news.” 

“Pez said this place has never flooded.”

“Okay, but climate change is getting worse. Just because it didn't happen last season doesn't mean it won’t happen this season.”

“I don’t think we need to worry,” Henry says when he returns, a towel in one hand and a change of clothes in the other. “But I understand why you are.”

Alex takes the towel and the clothes but doesn’t move from his spot by the front door. He’s not sure what to do with the clothes or with Henry, dressed in sweatpants and the softest-looking t-shirt he’s ever seen. Pillow marks across his cheek and his hair mussed with sleep. 

Alex is leaving in a few days, gone forever, and he doesn’t know how he’ll handle losing someone he’s never even touched.

“I’m going to make tea,” Henry tells him as he moves into the kitchen. “I’m thinking chamomile. Would you like some?”

“Later, maybe,” Alex says as he sets the clothes down on the kitchen table and crowds into Henry’s space. “Is this okay?” He asks as he slowly brings his hands up to cup Henry’s face. 

“Oh,” Henry says, expression falling softly as he nods. 

Day 7 

The storm is over by morning. 

Alex wakes to the sun in his eyes, David curled up at his feet, and Henry’s arm draped over his waist.

“Baby,” Alex whispers, his lips brushing across Henry’s forehead. “We should get up.”

Henry’s face scrunches as he tightens his grip on Alex. “Ten more minutes. Or forever.” 

Alex smiles. 

Forever sounds nice.

Day 371

Alex wakes to the smell of coffee and lips pressed to his cheek. 

He reaches out blindly, smiling when his hand catches the hem of Henry’s shirt. 

“Happy anniversary, love,” Henry whispers, and Alex rolls over and opens his eyes. “I got you a coffee and a turnover from the place in town.”

“You’re up early,” Alex says as he sits up and takes the coffee and the bag from Henry. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I could,” Henry says as he sits down beside him. “I wanted to make sure I got to the coffee shop before they were out of the cherry turnovers.”

“I would’ve gone with you.”

“You seemed pretty tired,” Henry says smugly. “I thought it was best to let you sleep.”

Alex hums and takes a sip. “I’ll repay the favor tonight.”

“Looking forward to it. Until then, plans for the day?”

They could do anything. Head down to the beach or take a drive up the coast. Get lost in a coastal bookshop or an antique store for hours. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is that they’re together. 

[lizzisimss]

Willow Creek 3-bed Family Home

CC used (list below) Bargain Bend in Willow Creek 30 x 20 3 bed, 2 bath $210,528

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[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 4/58

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

When she leaves the guest room, she hears the voices of Cal and the children downstairs in the kitchen. She creeps into the master bedroom and notices that Cal’s side of the bed is rumpled and slept in, while her side remains neatly made. It makes her feel sad in a way she can’t quite understand, like she’s missing something on his behalf.��

She goes into the closet and quickly dresses in jeans and a T-shirt, then heads downstairs. When she enters the kitchen, Cal is standing near the fridge in a suit and tie, and Abby and Peter are sitting at the island eating cheerios. Cal looks up at her and a smile immediately stretches across his mouth, but it falls just as quickly. He’s remembering, she can tell, that she’s not quite his wife anymore. Not the one he might cross the room and kiss good morning. 

“Hi,” she says hesitantly, and he nods in response. 

“Coffee is here,” he says, pointing to the pot. “Sugar is in that yellow canister, and there’s creamer in the fridge.”

She’s equally grateful and embarrassed that he has to tell her where to find such basics in her own house. 

“Thank you,” she says, moving toward the coffee pot. 

She grabs the handle of the carafe and then freezes. Wordlessly, Cal flips open the cupboard to her left to reveal coffee mugs. His shoulder pops and his neck jerks, and guilt twists in her belly. 

“I’ll take Pete to daycare on my way to work,” he says as he moves about the kitchen, clearing dishes and wiping down counters. “Abby usually goes over to the neighbor’s house and catches the bus with their daughter, but I guess she doesn’t need to since you’re home.” He opens a cupboard beside the sink and extracts two prescription bottles. He swallows a pill with his coffee and then turns and hands the other bottle to her. “This was prescribed by your memory care therapist,” he says as she accepts the bottle and reads over the label. “You’re supposed to take it every day.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, feeling useless. 

The bottle is labeled “Numerol” and directs her to take one pill at the same time each day on an empty stomach. She opens the bottle and takes one, then returns the rest to the cupboard where Cal keeps his own medication. A quick glance at his prescription bottle reveals it to be Haloperidol, which she knows is often prescribed for the treatment of Schizophrenia, but can also help lessen the symptoms of Tourette Syndrome. 

“This is my phone number at work,” Cal says, pushing the pad of legal paper from last night across the counter towards her and tapping his finger against a number at the bottom. “You can call me anytime if you need to. Should I check on you during my lunch break?”

“Oh—” Dana says, surprised by the question. “I don’t think so…unless you want to.”

Cal bobs his head noncommittally. 

“Okay, Pete, time to get a move on,” he says as he scoops Peter off the bar stool and sets him on the floor. “Abby, Mommy can walk you to the bus stop at 8:00, okay?”

“Daddy,” Abby whines, and when Dana looks at her face she finds it twisted up in an expression of agony. 

“What, Abby?” Cal asks, annoyed. Abby gestures for him to come closer and he brings his ear to her mouth. She whispers to him behind her hand, though her childish attempt at discretion is ineffective and it’s perfectly clear that she isn’t comfortable being left alone with Dana. Cal sighs and closes his eyes briefly. “Fine, get your backpack and go over to Daisy’s,” he says curtly, and Abby scrambles out of her chair. “The bus drops her off at 3:10,” he directs to Dana as he ushers the children towards the door. “She can go over to the neighbors or she can come home, either is fine.”

Dana nods, moving to stand in the door to the garage as Cal loads Peter into a black SUV and Abby walks down the driveway and across the street. She feels the weight of her lack of active parenting, but she doesn’t know what her place is here, which parts of the morning routine belong to her. Cal opens the driver’s side door and looks back at her for a brief moment before he disappears behind the tinted windows, and within a few minutes she is alone in the house. 

-

The bath is full and steaming, a cloud of lavender drifting around the bathroom. Dana sets her coffee on the ledge that runs around the tub and turns to face herself in the mirror. 

She looks older, but not in the unkind way that aging will eventually affect her. She looks slimmer, darker, sharper. She looks like all the experiences she can’t remember, but knows her body keeps record of. So far, she’s been careful to avoid her reflection when changing her clothes, but that will no longer be possible if she has any intention of enjoying this bath. She turns her back to the mirror and strips off the clothes she put on just a short time ago. After promising herself that she will love and accept whatever she sees, she slowly turns around. 

The first thing that her eye is drawn to is a dark pink raised scar on her belly. She touches it, feeling the smooth ridges of the long-healed tissue. Whatever it was, it was a serious injury, one that likely required surgery. All over her torso are smaller, less significant, scars. Scratches, scrapes, cuts, burns. She’s littered with them, and if not for the fact that they are in various stages of healing, she might think that she partook in nude weed whacking and fell on an active campfire. Her skin is slightly less elastic, her belly not quite as firm, but for the most part her shape is the same. She turns, craning her neck to see the back of her body. 

“Oh my god,” she says out loud, moving closer to the mirror. 

On her lower back, off-center of her spine, there is a circular tattoo, and closer inspection reveals it to be a snake eating its own tail. She’s never considered herself the type to get a tattoo at all, much less something so…edgy. Just above it there is another large pink scar that matches the one on the front. She turns back and forth, connecting them as having resulted from the same injury, something that went completely through her body. The rest of her back tells a similar story as her front: a network of small blemishes that she doesn’t recall acquiring. On the whole, she finds her weathered body confusing, but not unpleasant. Satisfied that she’s seen all there is to see, she slips under the water in the bath. 

As she soaks, she lets her mind drift. She did not note a scar along her lower belly that would indicate a cesarean section, which suggests that she birthed Abby and Peter vaginally. She reaches down between her legs and touches her vulva. It does feel different, but she’s not sure how to articulate in what way. She imagines herself in the delivery room, her feet up in stirrups and sweat pouring down her forehead as Cal holds her hand. Was her mother there? Was Missy? Missy was still alive when Abby was born. Dana’s throat tightens and she decides not to try and stop it. She’s alone, and she has to allow herself to feel these things eventually. 

She barks out a sob and lets it overtake her. Hot tears roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin to combine with the bath water, and she thinks about Missy and her father. She doesn’t even know what her last words to them were, whether she and Missy were fighting or on good terms. She can’t remember their funerals, or whether she was able to see them once more before they were laid to rest. How could she forget these things? The birth of her children, the death of her family, her marriage to Cal? Her mind feels like a half-erased black board, and all she can discern from the cloud of missing information is Him. He. Someone she misses so acutely it hurts. It all hurts, the blank spots and the information she is slowly learning about what should fill them. She feels so, so lost, like the most intense homesickness imaginable, except she doesn’t know where the home that she’s missing is. 

She stays in the tub until her fingers and toes begin to prune and the water turns tepid. During that time, she comes to the conclusion that the only way forward is back. She needs to try and fill it all in as many of the blanks as possible, so she has something to stand on. She has to be the mother her children know and love, the one they deserve. And if she really did fall in love with Cal once, perhaps she can do it again. Just like Michelle said: a blind date that you can be sure is a perfect match. 

Just as she’s re-dressing, she hears the phone ringing. It rings half a dozen times before it stops, then starts up again. She wanders out into the hallway, following the ringing to a desk in the children’s play area where an old rotary phone is trilling away. She picks up the receiver and brings it to her ear, reminding herself that this is her home and she has every right to answer the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Dana?” her mother asks in a worried tone. 

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, you scared me for a moment there. You weren’t picking up.”

“I was just getting out of the bath.”

“Oh!” Maggie exclaims happily. “That’s wonderful, Dana. You’ve always loved that bath. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m okay,” she answers, then quickly adds, “No new memories or anything.”

“Well, it’s still early,” Maggie says reassuringly. 

“Abby is having a hard time,” Dana admits, sitting in the chair at the desk. “I feel terrible, but I don’t know how I normally am, or what I’m doing differently than I normally would.”

“You and Abby are very close,” Maggie says somberly. “She’s been mommy’s girl from the day she was born.”

“What do I normally call her?” Dana asks, remembering what she overheard Abby say to Cal the night before. 

“Sweetpea,” Maggie says fondly. “Almost exclusively. I think you only call her Abby when she’s in trouble, to be honest.”

“Sweetpea,” Dana repeats.

“Is there anything else you need to know?” Maggie asks, and Dana sighs. 

“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what I don’t know,” she says, feeling frustrated. 

“Be kind to yourself, sweetheart. Beating yourself up over it won’t help anything, it will only make you miserable.”

“I know,” Dana agrees, but it doesn’t change how awful she feels. 

“Call me anytime, okay?” Maggie says, encouraging the phone call to its end. 

“Okay, thanks. Oh—Mom?”

“Hm?”

Dana swallows. 

“Was Missy there when Abby was born?”

“Oh, Dana, yes,” Maggie says emphatically, her voice heavy with emotion. “I was sick so I couldn’t be there, but Missy was right by your side the whole time, and Cal of course. She was the proudest auntie you could imagine.”

Fresh tears well in Dana’s eyes and she bites her lip. 

“Thanks, Mom. Bye.”

-

Rose Family Basics

Calvin Michael Rose DOB 05/29/62

Abigail Margaret Rose DOB 12/12/93

Peter Calvin Rose DOB 03/29/96

Dana Katherine Rose DOB 2/23/64

Cal is a Software Engineer at SymbolTech

Abby is in first grade at Centennial Lane Elementary (Ms. Gibbs)

Peter goes to daycare at The Young School (Pre-K)

Morning:

Kids wake at 6 (Abby on her own, Pete needs a little help)

Cal & Pete leave the house at 7:30 for work/daycare

Abby catches the bus at 8:05

(Dana usually leaves for work at 7:45)

Evening:

Abby’s bus drops her off at 3:10 (goes to neighbors)

Cal is off work at 5:30, picks up Pete and home at 6:15

(Dana usually home from work at 6, gets Abby from the neighbors)

Dinner at 7, kids in bed by 8 or 8:30

Neighbors across the street are the Warners. Parents are Amanda and Jared, kids are Daisy and Eric (close in age to A & P). We swap childcare with them a lot. We don’t really like hanging out with them socially, because you think Amanda is a gossip and “vapid.”

Random things:

You almost always call Abby “Sweetpea,” never her name

Pete is allergic to strawberries

Garbage gets picked up on Wednesday

When Pete says he wants pancakes, he means Eggo waffles

Abby is afraid of dogs

We love you

(410) 730-5919 (Cal work number)

-

She spends hours on the floor in the sitting room combing through documents and pictures. She finds files in Cal’s desk, dozens of photo albums on the book shelf, and a shoebox full of keepsakes in the master closet. At first it felt like an invasion of privacy to go through the house, but her hesitance over snooping fell to the wayside the moment she landed on a picture of Missy with a smiling, drool-soaked Abby propped up in her lap. She pieces it together with little bits of information, answering some questions and coming up with others that she’ll need to ask her mother or Cal about. 

She and Cal were married in the Summer of 1993, and Abby was born in December of that year, though Dana’s belly is barely detectable beneath her billowing wedding dress in the photos. Her father died just a few weeks after Abby was born, and there is only a handful of photos of the two of them together. In them, Ahab’s expression is stoic, but she can see the glimmer in his eye, the pride of a grandfather. On the back “Abby and Papa” is written in her own hand, and she longs to hear him respond to that name. 

Missy died in September of 1995, less than two years after Ahab. In the keepsake box from the closet, there is a newspaper clipping about the seven car pileup that was caused by a jack knifed semi truck, and she learns that Missy was one of four casualties. Her obituary describes her as a free spirit, a world traveler, and a doting aunt to Abby. 

She learns that Cal is half Salvadorian, and an orphan since the age of thirteen. He is an only child, and a former ward of the state who enrolled in the military in order to get the education that eventually led him to a career in tech. In the keepsake box are dozens of cards and letters full of romantic and heartfelt messages to her on her birthdays and their anniversary. In them, he calls her Mija and consistently signs off “good times never seemed so good.”

In the end, she has a small stack of photographs that she brings to the guest room and props up along the top of the dresser. They are the ones that she had some kind of emotional reaction to, whether good or bad. The photo of Missy and Abby. One of Ahab, Maggie and newborn Abby standing beside Ahab’s Cadillac. One of she and Cal next to a “sold” sign in front of the house with toddler Abby sitting at their feet, elated smiles on their faces. One of her in a hospital bed, her face swollen but her mouth beaming and a wailing Peter lying on her chest. 

Emotionally exhausted, she crawls into the bed and considers having another good cry. By all accounts, the life she can’t remember was a happy one. There is no trace of the man—Him. If he really existed, she did not allow any evidence of him into this home. She manufactures memories from the photographs, imagining Ahab taking his newborn granddaughter from her arms and making a joke about men of his era not holding babies. She tries to picture Missy beside her in the delivery room, placing crystals on the bedside table while she was too exhausted to care. She sees herself at the altar with Cal, Abby kicking to make her presence known as her parents say their vows. She drifts off to images of two year old Abby meeting her little brother and immediately demanding that they send him back. 

-

A warm, solid body is pressed to her cheek, and they are dancing. She feels the vibration of his voice against her ear, and the steady thump of his heartbeat. One of his arms is wrapped around her waist, the other hand clasped tightly with hers. His lips press against the crown of her head, and she feels his breath flutter over her scalp as he speaks. He drops her hand, then touches her chin. She looks at his face, his mossy green eyes and full mouth, and she is flooded with want and excitement and love. She pushes up onto her tiptoes, and he bends down to meet her—

“Dana!” 

She startles, her eyes snapping open to find the room dim. She looks to the bedside clock and sees that it’s almost 6:30 pm. 

“Mommy!” Peter calls, and she scrambles out of bed and down the stairs. 

She finds them in the great room, Abby and Peter watching cartoons on the couch and Cal digging around in the fridge, his suit jacket hanging over the back of a bar stool and his tie loosened.  

“Sorry, I fell asleep,” she says, feeling sheepish. She should have had dinner ready, given that she had nothing else to do all day. Her stomach growls loudly at the thought. 

“It’s fine,” Cal says, casting her a sidelong glance. “You should get your rest, you’re still recovering. I’m just going to throw together some tacos or something really quick.”

“Anything I can do to help?” she asks, and he looks to the children. 

“No, I’ve got it. Why don’t you go say hi to the kids?”

Dana pads over to the living room and sits on one end of the sectional. Abby and Peter are both staring vacantly at the TV, on which a purple dog looks continuously terrified.

“Hey, guys, how was school today?” she tries, but neither child responds. “What did you do at daycare today, Pete?” she asks more specifically. 

“Liam taked my truck so I hitted him with a block,” Pete relays. 

“Oh no,” Dana replies, not feeling quite ready to offer discipline. “That’s not good.”

“Nope,” Pete agrees, his eyes still on the TV. “We don’t fix problems with violence.”

Dana smiles and asks, “Who taught you that?”

Pete shoots her a questioning look like he thinks she might be pulling his leg. 

“You did, Mommy!” he says, laughing. 

“Oh,” she says, pleasantly surprised by her own parenting. She turns to look at Abby, who is sullen and pouty. “Hey, Sweetpea,” she says gently, and Abby’s eyes flash over to her briefly before they return to the TV. “What did you learn at school today?”

Abby shrugs. 

“Would it be okay if I walk you to the bus stop tomorrow?” she asks. 

Another shrug. 

“Okay. Well, think about it and let me know, okay?”

Another shrug. 

-

She listens from down the hall as Cal puts the children to bed. There are intermittent giggles and songs, and she feels like an outcast. 

Tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow she will be their mother. She will be Cal’s co-parent, if not his wife. She will try, really try, to fit back into the vacancy she left. Maybe her memories will return, and maybe they won’t, but with or without them she has to find her place. She has to find a way home. 

-

She’s draped over him, her body covering his like a blanket. Skin to skin, her face tucked against his neck, her heart racing. There is music, there’s always music, floating and drifting though she can’t quite make it out. She brings her lips to his ear. 

“I love you too.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

[pinkbox-anye]

Hi!! I was wondering if I can share a conversion to ts3 I did of two of your objects (I'll give proper credits and link to the original posts) - Oil and vinegar from your kitchen clutter set (https://www.patreon.com/posts/kitchen-clutter-86901066) aaand rhys canisters from your rhys set (https://www.patreon.com/posts/rhys-76549245) I also liked the kettle from this set, but I haven't converted it yet so will ask for permission then if needed. Anyway, thank you for your time! <3 [ps yeah sent you this privately as well but idk if you accept dms hehe]

Hi, yes you may convert and also share :)

[icarusignite]

I thought I dreamed her

Pairing: Lucy Carlyle x Anthony Lockwood @locklyle-week

Prompt: Day 2: Colours/Food

Summary: On their latest mission yet, the ghost takes a special interest in Lockwood and it is up to Lucy to bring him back to reality.

A/N: I went with colours for the prompt. Dunno what this turned out to be lol, I just thought "colours, oh red angst" so here we are. Also not rlly proofread so sorry for typos, wrote this at 3 am

Nightfall seemed to be arriving sooner during the winter months and the world was already shrouded in darkness by the time the ghost-hunting trio, reached the abandoned mansion. The scent of decay was heavy in the air, the once grand facade of the great structure now in a state of disarray, and the ivy that covered the walls only added to the eerie atmosphere. As they made their way up the overgrown path toward the entrance, they could feel a sense of unease growing within them. It was a typical Lockwood and Co. job: a wealthy client had reported strange noises and sightings in the building they hoped to sell, and the team was called in to investigate.

The door creaked open as Lockwood pushed it inward, revealing the darkness within. The entrance hall was thick with dust, and the floorboards creaked under their weight as they stepped inside. The only source of light was the moonlight that streamed in through the windows, casting long shadows on the walls. They crossed the threshold quickly, remembering their rule not to linger in the doorway. Their usual routine was to set up in the kitchen with plenty of light and tea to warm their spirits. There was no functional kitchen here though, and since it was already dark enough to sense the ghosts, they all decided to try and get the job done as fast as possible and leave. They had visited the archives earlier that day, hoping to conduct some last-minute research but there simply wasn't enough information available regarding the building's history and the potential spectres that lurked within. They set up a circle of chains in the room with the largest windows to allow the maximum amount of light to filter in. Then they set up their lanterns to create a well-lit environment that they could return to should things take a turn for a worse.

Finally, they headed upstairs, Lockwood taking the lead, his hand tightly gripping his rapier. He had a sense of excitement in his eyes, despite the circumstances and George was right behind him, holding a canister of iron filings and a digital thermometer to keep an eye on the dropping temperature. Lucy brought up the rear, her silver-tipped rapier in hand, ready for any unexpected threats.

"This place is a dump," George mumbled in disgust, kicking away an old clock after nearly tripping over it.

Lucy wrinkled her nose, her nostrils filling with dust. The darkness was overwhelming on the second floor, and she had to strain her eyes to make out the dim outlines of the furniture haphazardly scattered around them.

Lockwood motioned for them to halt, and they all froze in place, "Did you hear that?"

Lucy strained her ears and the sound was immediately apparent, so much so that she couldn't believe she hadn't heard it earlier. A gentle tapping sound followed by a vicious scraping as if someone was trying to saw at something.

"George, temperature?"

"It's negative 2 degrees and dropping."

Lockwood reached for the first door on his right and found it already slightly ajar. The scraping sounds seemed to be coming from inside and once he nudged the door open with his foot, he flinched.

"Are you alright Lockwood?" Lucy was quick to voice her concern.

Lockwood turned to her with wide eyes and swallowed thickly, "Yeah, just...there's a really strong death glow here. Two of them actually."

George swore under his breath and that was when Lucy allowed herself to fully take in the room they were in. It was a children's nursery, complete with an old broken crib, a rocking chair, and shelves lined with mouldy toys and books. The room was in disarray, with objects scattered all around. But it wasn't the mess that caught Lucy's attention; it was the feeling of great sadness and despair that hung heavy in the air.

"The site of the Annesley family murders, we are definitely in the right place," George mumbled, walking over to the crib, his hand brushing over the railings.

"Lockwood, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine Luce, don't worry about me," his eyes did not stray from the darkened spot on the wallpaper, in one corner of the room. "Let's make the iron circle, and then we can start looking for the source."

Lucy laid out the remainder of their chains in a circle large enough to fit all of them and then took a deep breath, trying to get a better read of the room. She closed her eyes and almost immediately she could hear the sound of a woman wailing, and then a loud thump as if something had been violently thrown against the wall. Her hand came up to cover her mouth in horror. It was one thing to read about the story in the archives and entirely another to listen to the sounds as they painted a gruesome picture in her mind.

"It is said the late Lady Annesley went mad with grief after she lost her husband to the war. She dashed her infant son against the wall and sawed her 10-year-old daughter's head off with a blunt knife. Right here in this nursery," George recited the tale slowly as he looked for any secret openings in the walls where a source may be found.

Suddenly there was a gust of air that slammed the door shut behind them and the temperature of the room plummeted.

"George...temperature?" Lucy kept her voice carefully even, despite the chill that ran down her spine.

"It's minus 17 and dropping," George's response was strained.

"Luce, George," Lockwood interrupted. "Look."

Crimson liquid flowed thickly from the spot Lockwood had been staring at, blooming outward like a cancerous flower, and dripping onto the floor. When enough of it had collected, it rose, defying gravity, and amassed into a figure of a woman. She was made entirely of blood, with her hair and dress swirling around her like crimson mist. As she started to move towards them, the blood that made up her form dripped onto the ground, leaving bloody footprints in her wake. Lockwood was closest to her and as she reached up an arm towards him, Lucy grabbed the back of his coat and yanked him back. Together they scrambled into the circle of iron chains and watched the woman continue to stalk toward them.

"My baby, my darling little boy," she whispered in a melancholy voice, still reaching out toward Lockwood.

"George! Any idea what her source could be? She did not die in this room so it cannot be her body surely?" Lucy was beginning to panic as she watched Lockwood become a little too entranced by the ghost.

"She threw herself off the east wing balcony. Her body is buried in the Annesley family cemetery," George replied deep in thought. "Her children then. The source must relate to her children."

The ghost was beginning to get angry, pacing back and forth, her whispers turning into hysterical shrieks. She moaned and lamented for her son, and when she once again tried to reach into the circle to grab Lockwood, Lucy threw a salt bomb at her, making her erupt in a shower of blood, and then she was gone.

"She'll be back soon. We need that source, now."

Lucy and George worked tirelessly, and Lockwood followed slowly after them. He felt watched, and yet there was no one there. Suddenly, he heard a whisper, almost like a breath in his ear. He turned around to find that the ghost had returned and was standing right behind him, her eyes fixed on his. Lockwood stumbled back and fell, startled, as the woman made of blood reached out to touch him. He heard Lucy shout his name but he was too transfixed by the figure in front of him. Her fingers stopped inches away from him, as if deliberately not touching him, and her hands were cupped as if ready to cradle his face. She leaned in closer and Lockwood closed his eyes, waiting for the end. He was about to be ghost-touched and there was nothing he could do about it. His limbs were heavy and he was overcome with a deep sense of despair. The ghost didn't touch him though, she just kissed the air above his forehead, and when he blinked she was gone.

There were three other figures now, and Lockwood suppressed the urge to gag. The ghastly woman now had a little girl in a headlock and there was a wailing bundle of blankets in the corner that was seeping blood.

Blood.

There was so much blood.

It painted the walls, it drenched the woman and trickled down the ghastly wound in the little girl's throat as her mother sawed away at her. It flowed toward Lockwood from every direction, creating a neat perfect circle around him, still not touching him. He was trapped in a sea of red. He made a choked sound and the woman's attention turned back to him.

"My darling little boy," she repeated.

Lockwood gulped nervously and the woman turned sad. Her eyes implored him and the girl in her arms began to howl. Then her face morphed into one Lockwood recognized, one that made him choke back a sob. It was Jessica, tears trailing down her face as she struggled against a woman who now took the shape of their mother. Lockwood's mother.

"My darling little boy."

He didn't remember much of his mother, her having died when he was so young, but he remembered the words she uttered to him, in a hazy memory of her as she carded her fingers through his hair before bed. The very same words that the ghost uttered to him now. It made his eyes fill with tears as he trembled, limbs still locked in place and unable to move. His sister Jessica was just as he remembered though, albeit younger. Guilt flooded through his veins. He had let her die the first time by not being there for her, and now he would have to witness it happen, still just as helpless to do anything about it. It was a strangely desolate feeling, watching his mother and his sister beckon him with beseeching eyes that now began to cry tears of blood, their eyes becoming a dull crimson. He wanted to lie down just then, let the ectoplasm consume him. He deserved it after all. He had failed his family and now he was failing his friends by being stuck like this, utterly useless.

"Lockwood! Lockwood, can you hear me?" Lucy shouted frantically.

She watched Lockwood's shaking form as he stared into nothingness. She could not see what the ghost was showing him but she could tell from his clenched fists that it was distressing. She could still hear the thumping sound of something being repeatedly thrown against a wall. Lockwood sat near the crib and every time she tried to approach him, a shriek echoed in the still air, and a strong wind pushed her away as if warning her.

"The crib, that's where the source must be," George deduced. "Surely she's not just trying to keep us away from Lockwood."

Lucy tossed him the chain net and took her fighting stance, legs apart and rapier raised, "You go examine the crib, I'll distract her so she doesn't come after you."

Lucy threw out another two salt bombs but it did not do much to deter the angry spirit and she winced as another howl permeated the space. George worked with frenzy, pressing his fingers in the divots of the warped wood, pulling away splinters and railings. Finally, the base of the crib came away in his hand and revealed a hollow compartment. He reached in to draw out an ornate wooden box and suddenly the bloody woman was right in front of him, screeching in his face. Lucy shifted to shield him as she drew an elaborate pattern in the air with her rapier. She didn't want to use a magnesium flare in such close quarters, not after what had happened the last time she had used one and set a house on fire.

"George!?"

George threw the metal chain net over the box he had opened and the ghost immediately disappeared. lucy whirled around to face him and gave an exclamation.

"You stopped to open it!"

"Had to make sure it was really the source," he protested.

"Of course it was really the source. That ghost was going to bite your head off."

"Call it a researcher's curiosity."

A groan came from Lockwood's direction and both their heads whipped toward him, their curiosity forgotten. They were by his side instantly. Lucy grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, trying to snap him out of his daze. His eyes were still wide open like he was ghost-locked.

"Lockwood! Lockwood, can you hear me?"

Tears flowed down his face and he trembled. Lucy brought her hands to his face and pressed her forehead against his, his own hands scrambling up to cover hers as his breath came out in short uneven bursts.

"It's alright. I'm here. You're alright," Lucy soothed as he clung to her.

Eventually, he blinked rapidly and slumped against her. When he looked up, the first thing he was met with was her eyes. Her dark coffee-coloured eyes shone with concern for him and as he tried to slow his breathing down, he allowed himself to find comfort in their warm steadfastness. In the flecks of gold he found within them, he was momentarily able to forget the sea of red that had threatened to drown him just moments earlier. She was here. She was really right here in front of him and she was real. She was real, not the blood-soaked images that still flashed in his mind.

"Ahem," George's glare at their actions lacked the usual bite, "Are you alright Lockwood?"

Lockwood sighed, swiping at his eyes in frustration, "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help back there."

"Oh, you were definitely of help. Kept the ghost nice and distracted while we hunted for her source. I am certain she would have been a lot more trouble than she was if she hadn't latched onto you like that."

Lucy regarded them in silence before voicing what everybody was thinking, "Why did she latch onto you like that? It seemed as though she was targeting you personally. What did you see when you were ghost-locked?"

Lockwood ran a nervous hand through his hair, "Speaking of sources, what was her source then?"

George grimaced, "The infant...she kept his body in that box I reckon. His body was never found in the initial investigations and that box was full of bones."

Lucy made a face and Lockwood only slouched further into her side, his head tucked into her neck.

"Well, now that that's dealt with, I'm going to go downstairs and pack up our stuff. We should head home," George shot one last knowing look at the other two before he departed.

"Are you sure you're alright Lockwood?" Lucy's hands came up to thumb away the remnants of tears under his eyes.

Lockwood placed his hand on hers, holding it there against his face as he leaned into it, finding comfort in the feeling of her skin against his. After a few moments, Lucy wrapped her arm around his waist and helped him stand.

"Can you walk? Did you hurt something?"

"No I'm alright Luce, I can walk on my own."

Nonetheless, Lucy's arm remained around his waist as they walked down the stairs together, her mind filled with thoughts about the broken haunted boy and what he had seen that night.

[gendervapor14]

DoflaminBROS Week 2023 - Day 5: hurt/comfort

here is the next tragic tale for the DoflaminBROS Week 2023 event! this one is the longest. didn't like it at first, but it grew on me. hurt/comfort is one of my favorite genres, it was just a matter of figuring out what exactly to do with it. extra thanks go out to @fakescorpion for giving me some inspiration!! <3

characters: rosinante, doflamingo, donquixote pirates additional tags & content warnings: canon-compliant, PTSD, hurt/comfort (i hope), implied alcoholism

special thanks for @gali-la for beta reading!! this one needed some extra love hehe i appreciate it so much (hugs hugs)

It was too overcast for any starlight to illuminate the edges of the sea, but the bonfire on shore provided plenty of light for the impromptu party. Gladius sat near the edge with Baby 5 and Buffalo, tossing salts into the fire to turn the flames brilliant, unnatural hues. Corazón kept his distance, although it was rather entertaining. Any moment free of destruction was the closest he’d get to heaven, as far as he was concerned.

Machvise “thrifted” a rusty grill a week ago, which became a Family restoration project. Giolla insisted it needed to be repainted. Gladius wanted a good look at the gas canister. Buffalo offered to test it out on his pet lizard, who mysteriously went missing that night. Corazón had no trouble keeping his lips sealed. Trebol got some coal. Señor Pink offered his lighter. Lao G practically bought out the local butcher. Family barbeque, to commemorate the day Machvise joined the crew.

Corazón played along agreeably, but maybe that was because he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Even then, Diamante decided to whip together his infamous “Hell’s Omelet”, which included every type of pepper on the face of the planet. Corazón didn’t eat many of Diamante’s meals. Wasn’t a huge fan of barbeque, exactly, but he was probably in his teens last he had any, when that vendor was kind enough to offer some of his meals after Rosinante’s squad rescued his daughter from a group of bandits. 

This slice of heaven was nice, though. The kids were being kids. Executives were minding their own fucking business, talking about old times. Doflamingo was laughing boyishly. Corazón considered this a chance to shut down. Sat there on a log on the outskirts of the darkness, a good place to disappear. Let his eyes rest with a heavy, silent sigh. The scent of smoky charcoal slipped into the scene, mingling with the bonfire, the warm breeze from the quiet town beyond. 

“...Doffy?”

Rosinante raised his head at the sound of Trebol’s voice. It was clear as day. The kids stopped laughing. The executives stopped chattering. Wind, fire, waves, and his brother. His brother, standing there, staggering away from the executives, hand around his throat. Choking? What was he choking on? The meat hadn’t even been cooked yet. Machvise practically just threw it on the grill.

The officers cried out the Young Master’s moniker in a choir of concern. He brushed past all of them, glaring vehemently at that grill. At the acrid plumes of smoke merging with dense clouds. “Put it out!” Doflamingo’s wheezy voice cracked around the edges as he gestured his arms wildly. “Put it out now, put the fire out, put everything out!”

“The grill?” Giolla questioned innocently, holding the whimpering Dellinger close to her chest.

Rosinante hadn’t even realized he stood until he was walking. Until Doflamingo dismissed himself abruptly, lumbering towards the gangplank, towards their empty vessel.

Diamante’s arm caught the heart seat’s before he could trail his brother. “Corazón, what the hell’s going on?”

Corazón yanked a page from the inside of his coat. “Stay here.”

By the time Diamante skimmed over it, Corazón had already made his way to the ship.

Earlier in the evening, Giolla set out four bottles of wine on the kitchen table for the intended afterparty. Rosinante noticed two of them were missing on his way to the captain’s quarters. He tore the fridge open. Skimmed the contents. Little silly to assume there’d be leftover lobster lying around, and even if there was, it probably wouldn’t taste any good cold. He didn’t have a lot of time though, or at least, that’s what he convinced himself. He grabbed a sandwich, god knows whose it was, but he’d take the fall for that later. There was a bottle of seltzer there too, half empty, but it would do. 

Doflamingo’s room was dark. The door was open, though. Corazón was unable to clear his throat to notify his presence. Couldn’t knock either, not with his hands full. He opted to take a risk and balance himself on one leg for a sweet second, tapping the heel of his shoe against the doorframe. His eyes were still adjusting to the dim lighting, but he could make out the shifting blond fuzz of  his brother’s head. 

“What is it.”

Corazón couldn’t answer. Not like Doflamingo would be able to read his notes anyway, unless he turned a lamp on, which was as pointless as asking him to wave a white flag. Rosinante shuffled into the room blindly, praying to any betraying power that he wouldn’t trip now of all times, and hit his brother in the face with a cold sandwich.

The gods apparently smiled down on him. He navigated his way safely in front of the future warlord, who was seated on the edge of his bed. He offered the plate and the bottle. Noticed then that Doflamingo’s hands were occupied, draped between his knees, restlessly stirring the contents of a wine bottle.

“What is this?” Doflamingo grumbled, setting the bottle aside to snatch the plate out of his grasp. “Buffalo’s lunch?”

Rosinante’s free hand closed in on the bottle of seltzer. Offered that over, too.

“Why are you giving this to me?” His brother's voice was lined with something thin and coarse.

There were no chairs nearby, so Rosinante snagged half of the sandwich for himself and sat there on the floor before him. Doflamingo remained still when Rosinante took a bite. Motioned his meal towards the plate, encouraging him to do the same.

“You…I thought you didn’t like bread.”

Rosinante just shrugged and took another bite.

It must’ve dawned on him. Doflamingo’s head turned down to the dish. He stared at that stolen gift a little too long. 

“You’re a good brother, you know. I wish we could’ve been there for you sooner.”

thanks for hosting this @opdoffyzine & @corazine !!

previous entry here!

[jeanbury74]

A CC filled lot this time. English-ish House is up on the gallery. 3 bed, 2.5 bath, with a pantry and laundry room. ID jeanbury. All the CC used is written below. Beware, it's a long 'un!

876 simmer-Oslo wardrobe, lowboy dresser, nightstand and standing mirror.

9 sims-DIY stars wall hanging.

Adrestea Moon-Storybook Lover and PJR Paintings.

Ars Botanica-Peonies Pitcher and Peony Jule Cup.

Ameyasims-You're So Vain: Vanity Brush and Hand Held Mirror.

ATS4-Breakfast: Milk Pack, Coffee Jars, Coffe Jar, Milk Bottle, Instant Drink, Tea Tin, Tea Box, Cocoa Powder Box. Fruit Juice Packs, Fruit Juice Glass Bottle, Coffee Bag. Baking: Wooden Spoon,Mechanical Scale, Timer, Canister, Baking Decoration Jar, Dried Fruits, Mixing Bowl, Baking Aids, Flour, Nutella, Baking Aids Stock, Dried Fruits Stock, Electronic Scale, Measuring Cup, Sugar, Jar, Measuring Cups, Rubber Spatula, Pastry Wheel, Candied Fruits. SnowyDay: Gloves, Wall Scarf #2, Wall Beanie #1, Fur Boots, Boots Snowcalf, Wall Coat #1 and #2 Bag Clutter: Tic Tacs.

Awingedllama-Apartment Therapy Potted Vine Round Mirror, Hanging Ivy.

Charley Pancakes-Insomnia: Organic Cotton Bedding. Miscellanea: Book Collection, Standing Books, Book Series.

Desimmy-Tiny Nifty Pictures.

Dew At Home-Hallway Hanging Scarf.

Duckey-Springtime Melody ,mug, Forever Spring Canvas Art, Lil Lilies, Friends and More Friends(these are table mounted frames that are called friends. That's all the information that was given)

Faaeish-BB Wall Decor Pegs and Toy Camera.

Felixandre-Chateau: Alarm Clock, Bedding, End Table, End Table 2, Drawer, Table Lamp, Rug Square, Telephone, Dresser. Grove: Salad Bowl, Lady Sam's Peony Vase, Bedframe V1. Grove-Timbershelf Inside Corner, Flagstone Floor, Cups, Stacked Plates, Stacked Plates 2, Stacked Plates Small, Wall Basket Small, Casserole, Bowls.

Felix and Harrie-Livin Rum: Box Files, Rug, Book Row, Book Series. Orjanic: Table Lamp, Bench, Cushion 2, Book End. Baysic: Toothpaste Container. Florence Fresco Mural. Tiny Twavellers:Hedge Wall.

GhostlyCC-Pre Raphaelite Paintings.

Harrie-Coastal Kitchen: Cereal Boxes, Cabinet Stack, Accent Counter 1 Marble Type, Coastal: Farmhouse Kitchen Sink with Tea Towel, Tins, Sofa, Tv Unit, Display Cupboard, Small Plates, Bowl, Bowl Stack, Cans, , Large Plates. Heritage: Traditional Towel Ring, Bowl Traditional Toilet, Traditional Runner, Landscape Artwork, Traditional Console Table, Floor Lamp, Traditional Round End Table, Traditional Elegant Mirror Small, Traditional Desk, Traditional Bust. Country: CoffeeTable.

Haruinosato-2x1 Curtain 01 Short.

Javabeandreams-Whimsical Animal Portraits.

Kardofe-Vienna Dining Room Curtains, Bella Babies Bedroom Small Pics.

Kliekie-Yove Plants 06, Awipow Plants 11, DecorationsPlants 10 Dragon's Herb. Whisper Laurel Plants 05

Kriss-Scania Build Set:Windows Classic Colonial 2 Tile, Classic Estate 2 Tile,Jugend Cottage 2 Tile.

Leafmotif-Botanical Bathtub, Twee Tableware: 6 Egg bowl, 9 Pot with Lid, Twin Mug Stacks, Whimsy Cake Plate, Short Pitcher. Basil's Favourite Chair 3 Maud Lewis Paintings

Linacherie-Ts2 Olde Tyme Skillets, Billyjean Curio Kitchen: Trays, Clip, Jar. Simlish Art 11, RPC Prints, Sizzling Cuisine Mitts, Delicious Bakery: Cookbooks, Flour Bag.

Madame Ria-Back To Basics: Spice Bottle,Dish Rack, Cereal Box, Pot Holder Wall, Modular Shelves, Coffee Tin, Pot Holder, Stock Pot, Dressing Container, Spice Rack, Counter Grey Scale, Open Book.

Marefc-Half Tiled Walls 2.

MC- Modern Crafter The Short Contemporary Radishly Plant

Menaceman 44-Granny's Brolly Vase.

Midsummersim-Simterest Poster.

Moonlightsim-Photo Frame Memories.

Nocturne-Rustic Cottage: Pokers, Master Curtain, Pedestal Old Miller Tea Set, Deco Retro Vacuum, Not So Shabby Rug, End Table. Grandma Cupboard.

Nynaeve Design-Lyne Half Curtains Blinds V1. Lyne Three Quarters Blinds V2, 1069, 1069 Lyne Radiator 1 Tile.

Okruee- ACNH Bathroom Towel Rack. (Animal Crossing)-

Omorfi Mera- Glass Jars.

PlasticBox- Modular Plant Hanging Pot.

Peacemaker-Hinterlands:Living Throw Pillow, Farmhouse Dining Table, Single Bedframe, Cottage Dining Chair, Bedside Table, Luxurious Single Bedding V1, Arched Mirror, Wardrobe, Bedframe with Footend, Nightstand. Hinterlands Living: Stately Fireplace, Coffee Tray Table, Mantle Mirror, Fringed Pouffe. Hinterlands Dining: Framed Dining Chair, Hanging Clock, Short Petal Pendant Porcelain Lamp.

Piersim- The Office Mini Pack: Higher Plant, Landline, Stackable Book, Printer.

Pocci-S Cargeaux Cabinet RecoloursCyclamen Outdoor, Iris Outdoor, Lilac In A Glass Bottle, Woodcabinet Open (Book cabinet Mini Set), Vintage Tea Set: Teacup With Tea, Milk Pitcher, Cupcake Plate. Magnolia Ceramic Vase, Basket Decor With Slots, Anthropologie Ottoman, Laundry Day Basket on Stool, Steaming Coffee Cup, Marguerite Teacup Empty, Iris In Glass Jar. Single Rose Glass Bottle. Potted Lily Of The Valley.

PTS-Cottage Garden Tea Tin Herbs, Granny's Basket Deco, Deco Mason Jar Short.

Quaylinsims- Paintings Zodiac.

Rhiannon AR-Medium Rug Floral Modern, Long Rug WithModern Floral Patterns

Ricca Bee-Mom's Lamp.

RSVN-Clothes Minded: Fedora, Floppy Hat, Baseball Hat, Sweater. Peg To Differ: Dish Towel, Knife Set, Mug, Utensils. Simmerdown: Cookie Jar, Mason Jar, Mug, Hanging Pots And Pans, Paper Towel, Ceramic Jar, Macaroon Jar. Smeglish Kettle Large.Procraftination:Hoop Large,

RoyIMVU-Seagrass Baskets.

Silverhammer-Executron Executive Desk Throne.

SimMan123-Sheer Right Curtain Short.

Sixam-Spring Six Kitchen: Buttery Toast, T Meg Mid Century Toaster With Toast, TMeg The Terrance, Deco Stove Hood, Olly's Oil Bottles, Kitchen Appliances Stove, Don't Be A Square Plate.

SJB (Yika)-Charlie Set Two CurtainsV1.

Soloriya-Zoe Blinds Part 2.

SYB-Colette: Towel, Toilet Paper Rolls, Soap Dispenser,Wallshelf, Bath, Blanket, Sink, Floor Vertical Mirror, Book, Cupboard, Rug, Bath Tray, Toilet.Millenial: Fridge, Fruit Basket,Utensils Rack, Utensils Pot, Totebag, Spices, Dish Soap. Microwave, Olive Oil, Breadbox, Island, Trashbin, Shower Curtains Short. Highschool Corridor: Hanged Backpack, Sandrine Slippers.

Tianella SE- Honey Herbs Paintings.

Veranka-Yesteryear Loveseat.

Wistful Castle-Wistful Room Pictures, Wistful Lamp #1.

Wondymoon-Cycnus Curtains.

Zeenasims- English Cottage: Paintings, Wainscotting Wallpaper.

ZX-Tagada-Lighting Table Candlestick.

[whumpupthejam]

Running For It - pt. 1

// A/N: If you saw this fic the first time I posted it, no you didn’t lol. It needed... fixing. It...wasn’t right. Lol. Anyway, yada-yada, here’s the Marcus boy, back again as I promised! I’m planning three parts to this currently, and parts 2 & 3 are already underway. I also have a few Other Things up my sleeve when it comes to this lil story-verse. I just really want to write for all these guys again, and I had a surprise burst of inspiration, so we’re running with it, bc that’s what you do, right? Thanks for reading, you don’t know what it means to me. :) //

//

Marcus’s stomach churns with dread. Half his instincts tell him to just go back downstairs--not to try anything stupid. If the Man catches him, he knows he’ll be better off dead than facing whatever he’ll put him through. But the other half of him whirs with hope and excitement. If he stays where he is--just to, what, play safe?--he might never get another chance like this.

If he stays, he’d rather be dead anyway.

He steps carefully. There are a few chairs and a coffee table he has to maneuver around as he makes his way through the living room, silent as a mouse. 

He struggles to even out his breaths, but it’s difficult when he’s still in so much pain. Every breath in and out aggravates the wounds he acquired in this afternoon’s session. It’s a miracle he’s even upright.

Evidently, the Man assumed he’d be too broken down to even move for the rest of the night. Either that, or he simply forgot to lock the door behind him, in some bizarre lapse of character. And yet, he had left it unlocked. Marcus had listened for the clank of the bolt, straining his ears as he always did--hoping against hope. But it had never come. And when he’d forced himself to crawl over to the door, using the handle to drag himself up, it had opened for him.

After that, it was only a game of waiting. Of staying quiet and sitting tight until enough time had passed that Marcus was willing to take the plunge in hopes that it was nighttime and the Man had fallen asleep. And when he’d reached the end of the bleak hallway and climbed the stairs, pushing the door open silently at the top, he’d seen he was right. 

The house is dark, the only sounds are those of a softly ticking clock, and the structure itself moaning and whining as the wind pushes it about.

When he reaches the entryway of the house, he stands for a couple moments, staring at the door, drawing shuddering breaths and thinking. He’ll have to get this exactly right the first time. He needs to be smart. He draws the curtain aside from the big front window and peers out. The moonlight is gentle on his eyes and on his skin as it washes him. Everything outside is outlined sharply in shadow, and the pane of the window is cold, a halo of fog forming around his fingertip as he touches it. Across the street, there are some thick woods. He can see only one house nearby, but in the distance, he sees that the little road the two houses are on connects to a bigger road. Where that leads, how far it is to the nearest town, he’s not sure.

His eyes narrow on the car parked in the driveway.

Silently, he creeps back into the rest of the house, to the kitchen this time.

He glances around, not wanting to move too much. The floor is made up of wide slats of wood, and he doesn’t trust it not to creak at the worst possible moment. In the kitchen, there are only normal things. A kettle on the stovetop, a tea canister not far away. Nestled into the corner are a few cookbooks, with many tattered sticky notes pressed between the pages. There’s a butcher’s block with a full set of knives. Pans hanging on the wall. Orange oven mitts on the counter. A slowly dripping faucet. Potted plants in the window. There’s even a small circle display case with what look like brownies inside. It even looks like some have been eaten. On the fridge, hanging by a magnet, there’s the beginnings of a grocery list: milk, and fabric softener.

He lets out a low breath. This could be anyone’s home. Any normal person might have collected these things and arranged them in a way that made them happy.

His eye snags at last on a bit of metal glinting in the pale light from the kitchen window. A keyring hangs by the back door. Bingo.

Just to the left of the door is a set of stairs, and Marcus somehow knows they lead up to his bedroom. He imagines he can hear soft snores coming from up there and it briefly reminds him of his father. He hisses through his teeth and shakes that thought loose before it can linger.

The injuries on his front and back pulse with heat as he takes a slow step into the kitchen. Nothing. Silence. He takes another, and it’s the same. He eyes the keyring across the room. He just needs to reach those keys.

His weight shifts and the floorboard suddenly pops loudly beneath his foot, freezing him on the spot. Any heat disappears from his body, his senses flipping into overdrive as he listens carefully.

The clock tick-tick-ticks from the living room. The wind moans against the windows of the house. The only other sound he can hear is a fly buzzing against the kitchen window, desperate to get through the glass. Stupid thing. He has an idiotic feeling of sympathy for it.

Marcus lets his shoulders relax and is preparing to take another step toward the keys when he hears a creak from upstairs. 

A single thought is not spared as he spins on his heel, tearing back toward the front door. He would’ve gone for the back door since it was closer, but he doesn’t know what’s out there. At least he’s seen what’s in the front.

“Fuck!” He swears as his thigh slams hard into a chair on his mad scramble through the living room. He doesn’t let it slow him.

He hits the front door hard, fumbling to unlock it. Suddenly, his memory is jogged and he’s thrown back to that night that seems so long ago now, when the Man first took him. He’d been shaking, terrified as he grappled with his keys and groceries. That night definitely did not end in his favor.

The deadbolt unlatches as heavy footsteps now fly down the stairs--Marcus makes a small panicked noise as he hears them reach the kitchen.

Please, please, oh god, let me get out. I have to get out!

“Shit, shit,” he groans, his fingers moving to the lock of the handle and twisting.

The door swings inward and then he throws open the screen door, letting it smack into the side of the house.

And he’s running.

He can’t remember ever running this hard, pumping his legs to the absolute limit. Everything burns. His feet slam into the asphalt, hurtling him toward the tree-line.

Faster. Faster. Faster! Oh, god, oh jesus fuck, is he behind me? Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!

Marcus hears the screen door rattle against the side of the house again as he passes through the line of trees. He makes a split second decision, switching course and running as far as possible to the right, diving into the first ditch he comes to.

He lies down as far as he can, praying he won’t be visible unless the Man is right on top of him, and further praying that the man will assume he ran forward into the woods, not sharply to the right as he had.

Marcus ignores the way his skin feels like it’s being peeled off all over--ignores the aching chill that has steadily grown in his bones, and the cold sweat that covers him. There’s something wet tickling its way down his body, and he can’t determine whether it’s sweat or blood.

Oh fuck, oh Christ.

Oh please, please, please. Don’t let him find me. I can’t go back--

Not again, not again, not again!

He clasps his hands over the agonized noise that almost leaves his mouth when he hears the Man crash through the trees. He stops breathing and his lungs scream at him. He ignores that, too.

There’s a horrible, sickening moment when Marcus realizes the wind has stilled. The night’s silence stretches maliciously as the Man pauses to listen for him--not even offering the sounds of insects to cover Marcus’s breathing. Marcus bites his lips hard, squeezing himself to stop the shivers that quake through him. Any tiny movement, he fears, will alert the Man to his presence.

“Marcus?”

Marcus’s throat is tight. He can’t breathe, Jesus Christ!

“Well, well. Look at you. You’re not being a very good boy, now are you?” The Man takes a step.

He screams silently, biting down on his own flesh again. The Man’s heavy footsteps through the underbrush send hot skewers through Marcus’s chest.

“I’ll find you. You understand that, don’t you? There isn’t anywhere you can hide from me.”

Is-- is his voice closer now? Is he coming this way?

“Maaarcus,” he taunts. Sticks crack, leaves rustle. “Come out, come out, Little Cricket. You know you’ve been bad, but if you come out now, I might not crush you completely.” He pauses again. “I know you’re not feeling well,” he says sweetly, “So I’ll forgive you. I’ll even do all I can to make you feel better before I have to punish you--and I will have to punish you, you know. Come on,” he says, on the move again. Too close. “Make the right choice, Precious.”

Marcus shakes uncontrollably, doing everything in his power to silence the panicked breaths escaping around his palm. He presses his hand tight on his mouth, tasting dirt and sweat. Silent whimpers fill his throat and he almost chokes trying to swallow them down again.

The Man has to be almost on top of him now. This is it.

There’s a sudden noise further out in the woods. Marcus’s eyes widen. What the hell? It has to be some kind of animal, but it sounds just enough like a person making a run for it, that the Man takes off immediately in the direction of the noise without a word.

Those heavy footsteps fade into the distance. Marcus peeks over the top of the ditch, scouring the darkness for any sign of the Man’s return. He sees nothing.

He wastes no time. The Man has to realize soon that whatever he’s chasing isn’t Marcus and he’ll turn back. Marcus shoves down the pain once again. He can think about it later, he decides, as he pulls himself out of the ditch, forcing himself not to scream as the wounds are aggravated on his stomach. He stands slowly, requiring the help of a nearby branch. He only takes one second to breathe the pain back down before he forces himself to run again.

He doesn’t bother being quiet this time, rushing into the kitchen and snatching the keys from their hook. They’re cold in his fingers, and he’s practically buzzing as he runs back outside and hauls himself into the driver’s seat of the small car.

“Yeah!” He shouts, slamming his hands against the steering wheel as the car roars to life. He bursts into almost maniacal laughter as he backs recklessly down the driveway. Freedom is so close, Marcus can taste it--he can smell it.

There’s a flicker of movement in the rearview and Marcus twists around to see the Man hurtling toward him from the tree-line like a train. “Oh shit!” He spins the car in the right direction and slams the pedal down, tires screeching. The Man's hand makes brief contact with the trunk before the car peels away, leaving him in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

Marcus’s eyes are wide, and he feels his heartbeat in his mouth as he watches his captor grow smaller in the mirrors before disappearing completely. He’s not sure if the Man has another vehicle or not, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care.

He. . . he got away. Can it be true? Can this moment be real?

A new wave of mad laughter bubbles in his throat. He does his best trying to stay on the road as his body is racked with it. In the end, it all went as perfectly as he could’ve hoped. He flicks his gaze up to the stars, tears forming as he thanks whoever’s up there for his escape.

The stars. When did he last see them? It almost hurts his eyes, how lovely they are. He’ll never take them for granted again. Not for as long as he lives.

He shakes himself, his groan long and low as the pain in his body reintroduces itself with a vengeance. But he can’t slow down yet. There’s too much to do.

He has to get to town, go to the police, report this son of a bitch, find a phone, call his friends. That thought alone almost does him in. The thought of hearing Caleb’s voice, or Jake’s. Or Elena’s. God, how he’s missed them all. They’re all that kept him sane these past weeks amidst the torture, humiliation, and misery.

Marcus turns onto a country road that he’s shocked to realize is familiar to him. He thinks this road is one he remembers leading to a small town he’s visited before but can’t recall the name of.

Holy shit. He laughs again, his head light. He knows where he is--sort of. Strangely enough, now that he’s out on the road, he can see that the Man didn’t take him far away at all--maybe only an hour or so away from home! Marcus has driven these roads before, on trips in and out of town.

He pushes the pedal down a bit further, his heart leaping with the anticipation of going home. Home! He almost doesn’t believe it.

Suddenly he’s startled by a high pitched chirp from behind him, and the interior of the car floods with red and blue light. The lights hurt his head, and he squints, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he slows to a stop on the side of the road. He watches a stocky man climb out of the police cruiser and approach. His stomach is uneasy again.

What now?

//

Taglist (I know it’s been actual eons, lol so if anyone wants to be added/removed, just let me know!): @whatwasmyprevioususername @whumphours 

[billielolly]

Sims 3 Build - Sage Studio Townhouses

A set of brownstone-inspired townhouses containing a studio apartment perfect for a creative and craft-loving sim looking to start their new life.

A studio apartment with 1 bathroom on a 30x20 lot.

Watch the speed build: https://youtu.be/1gr_oRdaGZQ

Download here:

Patreon (free): https://www.patreon.com/posts/108162675/

Exchange: https://www.thesims3.com/assetDetail.html?assetId=9598470

Expansion packs:

World Adventures

Ambitions

Generations

Late Night

University Life

Stuff packs:

None

Store content:

Bohemian Garden Set - Happily Hippy Patchwork Pouf

Custom content:

missyzim - Neoclassic Build Set (Window Arched Short, Arched Door, Pediment Door 1x1)

ArtVitalex - Noresund Bed

ArtVitalex - Gunnern End Table

Martassimsbook - cmdesigns Anemone Bathroom Set Candle

deeiutza - Teen Bedroom Plant

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild Follower Gift Set 1 Chicken Aloe Vera Pot

Pralinesims - Contemporary Carpet 78

basimcly - Counter Height Eyelet Curtains (1 + 2 Tile)

ATS3 - Crafting Room Sewing (Dressform & Blouse, Sewing Machine)

ATS3 - Fashion Designer's Workshop (Cissors, Tapeline & Needles, Reels, Cloth Roll, Patterns, Hanging Clothes)

Martassimsbook - Ravasheen Hang Around Closet Set P1 Wooden Rack

Martassimsbook - Ravasheen Hang Around Closet Set P2 (Dress Belt, Summer Dress, Tunic, Long Sleeve Dress, Shorts, Graphic Tee)

Martassimsbook - Ravasheen Hang Around Closet Set P3 Belt

ArtVitalex - Ritchie Mirror

ArtVitalex - Glen Mirror

Martassimsbook - Sims 4 Parenthood Xtreme Shower Tub

ArtVitalex - Upland Toothbrush and Paste

ArtVitalex - Upland Toilet Brush

ATS3 - Canister

Martassimsbook - Pinkboxdesign Kitchen Clutter Set Utensils

Martassimsbook - Syboulette Millennial Kitchen Dish Soap

pyszny16 - Donavan Kitchen Counter

Cakenoodles - 13pumpkin Rustic Wood Floor

Julietsimscc - Giveaway Gift Paintings (Without Borders)

ArtVitalex - Mayorka Ceiling Spot Lamp

Twinsimming - Fashion Forward Collection Trending Style Board

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Word Prompt

Word: Bottle WIP: Darkspace Portent Timeline: M33 Arc CW: the mood of this fluctuates, and there’s mild lovey shit at the end Word Count: 1,502 Additional Notes: largely inspired by how my husband(1) would sometimes hold our baby(2) when the baby(3) was a baby(4)

***

"…Should I ask?"

Warren's head lolled against the back of the reclined seat, into an angle where he could see Thrive standing in shadow in the hallway in front of the nursery. He smiled, gently swaying the baby he'd sat on his chest facing him, holding him upright and earning a hysterical belly laugh for his efforts. "We're having a party, man!"

"You're exhausted."

Warren brought the baby's face closer to his own and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't listen to him, Sweet Boy. He's just jealous that he wasn't invited to our sick party."

"…You're delusional."

"We'll let you join us on one condition!" Warren turned Ataneq to Thrive, draped him over his belly, and hooked an arm under his legs so he could gesticulate with his other hand. "You have to sing the little baby man a lullaby."

For several seconds, Thrive stared at Ataneq as if he was the one who made the request with his own toothless, drooling mouth. The intensity of his anger-devoid frown made Warren wonder briefly if he had actually begun to consider the terms.

"I don't know how to sing, Warren." The corner of Thrive's mouth popped upward at Ataneq's enthusiastic gurgling. "Nor would I imagine a party of your standards worth vying for an invitation."

"Thrive, he's two months old. He's hardly gonna have a cybergoth rave."

"Would you?"

Warren held Ataneq more securely, pushing himself off of the rocking chair. "You wanna join us for bottle service, at least?"

Thrive's smile widened as Warren moved to exit. Ataneq had begun to look around the room with adorable abruptness, large blue eyes taking in every piece of décor Warren had painstakingly placed himself. "For him, or for you?"

Narrowing his eyes on the way past Thrive, Warren cleared his throat of his exhaustion. "You ask a lot of questions. Mind your business."

Thrive did follow them to the kitchen, then, carefully taking Ataneq while Warren grabbed a bottle and a canister of formula from one of the counters. He gripped Ataneq under the arms, making sure to keep his head supported and peering long into his face within the comfortable silence surrounding bottle preparation.

Warren glanced at them after setting the water heater to the right temperature. "…Want one, too?"

"You may be surprised to hear that I'm not exactly the demographic for infant formula," Thrive muttered. Ataneq cooed at him, kicking his legs under himself. "I still think it's incredible how much he looks like you."

Warren watched him settle into a two-legged chair, laying Ataneq in his elbow and gazing deeply into his eyes. Though he was on track as far as his growth went, Ataneq managed to look engulfed by Thrive, so tiny on his arm. Something caught in Warren's throat as he looked on, and he turned back to the water heater. "Yeah. Kinda weird, right? I'm still not used to it. I mean…the genes were strong on both sides of my family, but I don't think I expected him to be like the little clone of me that he is. I wish I still had my baby pictures so I could compare."

"He's smiling."

A second before the heater beeped, Warren whipped around, catching Ataneq giving Thrive his very first genuine smile outside of his infectious giggling. It was slow, almost unsure, but his little face eventually broke into a wide grin that fed into the curious amusement on Thrive's.

It almost felt like a crime to look away once again, but Warren had to put the water into the bottle before dumping a few scoops of formula in. He used their tiny hand mixer and turned his attention back to the scene, which continued into Thrive speaking soft Solnai to Ataneq.

"It is safe to say," he whispered, "that you are as breathtaking as your father."

"Depends on which father," Warren murmured.

Thrive arched an eyebrow at him. "You're getting more proficient in Solnai, I see."

Warren secured the cap of the bottle and tipped it at Thrive in question.

Following a brief pause, Thrive summoned it into his open hand, and Ataneq took to it eagerly. Warren continued to watch them well into Ataneq shutting his eyes and Thrive following suit, resting his head against the back of the chair, and for several minutes the only sound between them was the formula being drained from the bottle in long, steady pulls.

Things had been so different with Thoeala. She was fed differently, she required different kinds of affection and attention as an infant, and the whole experience was simply…different. This was a side of Thrive that Warren had only seen once before, and not even to this degree of comfort and ease.

It was worth the turmoil surrounding Ataneq's conception and birth.

Warren realized with a start that his eyes were wet, and he quickly wiped them with his hand before Thrive could sense his roiling emotions.

Too late; Thrive's eyes opened and found him right then.

"Tired," Warren scrambled to assure him. "It's been a long week."

"Come here."

Letting out a heavy breath through rounded lips, Warren moved to stand next to Thrive, who situated Ataneq so he was partially supported by his thigh. Thrive reached out to Warren and wrapped his free arm around his waist, pressing the side of his face into the fabric of his shirt at his stomach. Warren threaded his fingers through Thrive's hair.

"It's all in the past," Thrive said quietly. "He's here now. You're doing a wonderful job."

"This is so much harder than it was with Thoeala. I don't even know if I expected it to be easier, though."

"I'll finish with him here and put him to bed for you so you can go to sleep, if you'd like."

Warren stopped himself before he refused the offer. "Actually, yeah, that would be great. Don't forget to burp him—he responds better if you perch him upright and pat him on the back."

Thrive took Warren's hand and brushed his lips over his knuckles. "I'll handle it. Don't worry. Get some sleep, th'saiya."

He couldn't sleep, however. He stayed awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, long into the three moons rising outside of his open window. He heard footsteps on the other side of his door and waited as they came to a stop.

Sure enough, the door opened and Thrive entered. "Are you alright?"

Warren propped himself up on his elbows and turned his bleary gaze onto him. "…What's wrong with me?"

Thrive closed the door behind him and took cautious steps to the bed. "I'm…assuming you've heard of paternal post-natal depression."

It hit Warren like a brick to the back of the head. "What? God, I didn't even…you really think that's what it is?"

"It's possible." Thrive sat on the edge of the bed. "I've noticed the difference between this and your usual struggles. It may be necessary to get you a proper diagnosis and some help, in any case."

"I don't have time for help for the regular depression, let alone this."

"Warren." Thrive leaned over, cupping Warren's face in a warm hand. Despite this, his voice hardened, and his tone became stern. "If we need to relocate to the Node long enough to get you some help, I'm not above doing so. It's been extremely difficult to watch you suffer beyond this, especially knowing I could easily alter your moods, and yet you won't permit me. If you're not going to do it for yourself, do it for me. Do it for Ataneq and Thoeala."

Warren nodded. "Yeah. Maybe you're right. It's just…I don't think I've ever gotten help before. I don't really know what to expect."

"I'll be there for you at every moment if you need me. I won't leave your side."

"I always need you." Warren curled a hand around the back of Thrive's neck. "…How'd the baby man go down?"

"He was asleep before we even left the kitchen."

"Hell yeah. Milk drunk coma."

"We'll look into resources for you."

"Yeah." Warren pulled Thrive into bed with him. "In the morning. For now, I could use those magic hands to get me to sleep."

Thrive hummed, shifting Warren onto his side so he could snake his arms around him. "In which capacity?"

"Gimme a minute." Warren pressed their lips together, melting into him, drawing safety and satisfaction from his heat. Even though they assisted one another in undressing, and Thrive started to initiate what could have been a deeply passionate night, Warren truthfully was too tired for anything further. "Damn it, I don't have the energy."

Thrive chuckled, holding him to his chest and smoothing his hair back on his head. "I will gladly usher you into sleep the other way, then."

Yawning, Warren tangled their legs together, letting Thrive's heartbeat, the lullaby coming from the wall panel monitoring Ataneq, and the sedation from Thrive's hand on his forehead drag him into an intense and dreamless sleep.

[expensiveemotions]

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