#shootimpro rp

Mmm…. Maureen….?

*they look around, scared*

- @twig-the-little-fella

Maureen thought it was over. Pete had taken the tea. Everyone was going. She got her ending. But as she flew through the void, she heard a loud crash and felt pain. If she was dead, she wouldn't have felt... pain... would she? It takes a moment, but she pries open her tired eyes blinking as she looks around the room she finds herself lying in. The first thing she notices is the crumpled and mostly destroyed mass of Pete only a few feet in front of her.

"Pete...?"

It was obvious he wouldn't be in functioning order, but she still desperately wished her friend was with her. That's when she noticed how... odd, everything else looked around her. The counters looked sleek, well, especially compared to counters in Donlon. Tools and other baking supplies were neatly organized in the room, and she felt exceptionally out of place.

"I... I don' think we're in Donlon anymore Pete..."

@roll-from-the-roleplay

Cindy is in the middle of working on a batch of danishes, her counter lightly dusted with flour and a few test pastries laid out in front of her. She's comparing notes from the last batch when something strange catches her attention.

It feels, for just a second, like something has hooked itself somewhere beneath her ribs and given a sharp tug. The sensation's gone almost as quickly as it comes, leaving her frowning down at the page.

Then something crashes hard onto the kitchen floor.

Cindy jumps back so quickly her hip hits the counter behind her, her hands gripping the edge before she can think to do anything else. There's a woman on her floor, and beside her is something crumpled and broken that Cindy can't make sense of at all. Neither of them look like they belong there.

Neither of them look quite human.

Then the woman speaks, and Cindy's attention snaps back to her.

Hi! It's me again, hi. We really loved your food from last week! Could I get a BLT sandwich to go? Yeah, just one normal sized sandwich, thanks!

-@gemma-of-shropshire

Maureen hangs up the phone after taking down all the details of Gemma's orders. She then turns to Babette putting on the sweetest smile as she can. "Hello." Babette smiles, looking up from what she was doing. "So..we've got another order from Ms. Gemma." Maureen keeps her tone light. "She wanted to try our BLT sandwich." "Oh that's nice. Should I get on making it then?" The smile on Maureen's face falters for a fraction of a second. "Yes. But um--well.." "What." Babette turns to her, skepticism edging in her expression. "What is it."

"Don't be upset." Maureen puts her hands up, like she's trying to calm down a scared animal. "But she only wants one."

"Okay" Babette shrugs. "That's not so bad." "One normal sized sandwich " Maureen clarifies. "̴O̸h̶ ̸f̶o̷r̸ ̶f̷u̶c̷k̶'̸s̵ ̸s̴a̷k̵e̷s̸!̵"̸ ̴ ("Oh for fuck's sakes!") Babette cusses, slamming a dish towel on the table.

Maureen is quick to comfort her, placing gentle hands on Babette's shoulders. "Darling, darling, you know we've talked about this." the hands start moving and she goes on to give the demon a sort of massage. "Humans can't eat too much, they physical can't without getting sick. And we want to have our customers coming back so we can't overwhelm them." "I know." Babette sighs. "I know. I know." she leans in Maureen's touch for a moment before she starts moving. "I'm gonna go make a regular human sandwich for regular human consumption." the words are said with a pout. "People are really loving your food." Maureen points out, a softer smile on her face. The manages to make Babette smile but there's still some hesitation in it. "But not in the way I want them to." she let's Maureen squeeze her hand, before she gets to work.

closed rp thread with @dont-call-me-cadet

By the time Cindy gets home, the evening has already settled over the city.

Her bag feels heavier than it had when she left that morning, but there is a quiet relief beneath the tiredness that keeps her moving. She has been at the shop for a little over a week now, and today she received her first pay. It is in her bag with her phone and her notebook, and she keeps thinking about it on the way home because she earned it.

The thought stays with her as she climbs the stairs to her studio, one hand sliding along the railing while she reaches for her keys with the other. Then she reaches her door and stops.

The lock is scratched around the metal. The marks are fresh, ugly in a way she knows would have caught her attention that morning, and the door isn’t fully closed. It sits open by the smallest amount, just enough for the hallway light to show through the gap. Cindy tells herself she might have left in a hurry. She tells herself the door in this building has always been stubborn and maybe it didn’t catch properly when she shut it. Even as she thinks it, her hand tightens around her keys.

She thinks about calling out, but nothing comes out. Instead, she stands there and listens.

Nothing moves inside.

Then Cindy opens the door and walks inside.

Her studio is small enough that she sees too much at once. The bedding on the futon has been pulled loose, her boxes has been emptied onto the floor, and the few drawers she owns have been left open. Some of her books are scattered near the wall where she usually keeps them stacked. The place where her laptop should be is empty. So is the spot on the counter where the crockpot had been.

She doesn’t understand it properly until she moves toward the jewelry box. By then her hands are shaking. She pulls it out from where she keeps it hidden and opens it too quickly, still hoping that whoever came in only took the obvious things.

But the money inside is gone.

For a few seconds, Cindy can only stare at the empty space. Then everything comes back too quickly. The last of what her mother had left for her future, taken.

Then she suddenly remembers something that gets her moving. Cindy turns from the jewelry box and searches through the mess on the floor, pushing aside notebooks and paperbacks until she finds what she's looking for, a black book beneath two notebooks near the futon. She pulls it to her chest with both hands, and the relief comes fast, but it doesn’t make anything better.

Cindy takes the black book and leaves the studio without looking back. 

She makes it down the stairs and out of the building before her body seems to decide it has gone far enough. Then she sits on the front steps with her bag over her shoulder, the book pressed against her chest, and tries to breathe.

Don’t cry. Cindy. Don’t cry.

She wipes at her face before the tears can fall properly, but that only makes her more aware of them.

Don’t blood cry! You weren’t even hurt! Stop being so dramatic!

Her breath catches and she presses the heel of her hand against her mouth as if she can force it back down.

 It doesn’t work. 

The harder she tries to make herself stop, the worse it gets, until her face crumples and the first sob slips out before she can swallow it.

“Fuck!”

Because it’s cool! And the two ladies working here are cool! And because of food.

Right… uh. Hello, do you have a table available for- HELLO AGAIN!

Jesus Christ Twig

- @twig-the-little-fella

And observant person with the ability to see the supernatural would be able to recognize the fact her feet don't touch the ground, nor does her cane for that matter.

- @back-demon-from-whence-u-came

Maureen glances up as the figure phases through the door and doesn't flinch.

It isn't a surprise to see things like these now. Since her soul bond with Babette, Maureen has gained the ability to see things ordinary humans don't, past the disguises of demons, the skin suits of monsters, and spirits wandering around.

"Hello. How can we help you---"

Maureen stops herself almost immediately, wondering if she'd spoken too soon, not everyone who wandered in meant to be seen.

She turns to Babette, who is watching the old woman with a curious expression sitting quietly on her face.

closed rp thread with @a--wilting--rose

It has been a week since Maureen and Pete appeared in her apartment, and a week since she used the book for the second time.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she wont hesitate to use it again if she really needs to, if someone really needs her help.

And that thought terrifies her the most.

So she distracts herself with baking.

It's been a while since she last made cinnamon rolls, so she decides to make those.

Cindy decides to make cinnamon rolls because she hasn't made them in a while She baked, using the new technique she had been developing, and when the first batch were done they turned out better than she expected. When Cindy broke one open, the spiral was still clear from the centre to the edge, each layer of dough and cinnamon separate instead of sinking into one heavy middle.

Cindy looks at it for a moment, then smiles before she can stop herself.

She was so happy with the results that she decided to make more, and by the time the sun is too high in the sky, she has made too much.

Cindy moves to pack the desserts, planning to give them away or maybe sell them. She reaches for the drawer to get her boxes when something in the her bulletin board catches her eye.

The bulletin board above the cabinet is covered in papers. Recipe notes, ingredient lists, half-finished calculations, and scraps she keeps meaning to organize properly.

Rose's number is pinned among them.

Cindy looks at it for a moment before glancing back at cinnamon rolls on the table. A box of them is probably not what most people mean by a proper thank you, but it was the kind of thank you Cindy can offer.