#I’ve got a small selection washed off and tucked into locked box but it’s not ideal

[thatonceandfutureprat]

Still trying to trap the last mouse.

I’ve got three traps (live catching) in strategic places, clearly the mouse is getting exhausted bc today I actually s a w it (you generally don’t) AND it keeps trying to get out by returning to the gap in the closet through which it came in.

Buddy. There’s a trap in the kitchen cabinet with seeds, a French fry AND now also a cookie in it.

All you need to do is chew the wire to get to it. There’s a nice home elsewhere for you, I promise.

Please get in. Please?

[hidden-otaku-stuff]

Lockscreens (ch. 2)

tw: Drinking

Word count: 2.9k

Genre: Angst, fluff

All trigger warnings will be tagged and posted at the beginning of each chapter! This will have *manga spoilers*

Pairings: Bokuto x fem!reader, Kuroo x fem!reader

Summary: Nearly four years ago, Bokuto left the love of his life for volleyball. Despite all the time, he’s still very much in love with her. He comes home to a major surprise leaving him wondering…What happened while he was gone?

Masterlist | prev | next

ch 2: Broken and New Promises (Month 1)

Nearly four years ago...

“Babe, guess what?” She looked up from the tea-cup that sat in front of her, over the pastries as (e/c) eyes made contact with gold. Her eyebrows quirked up as she took a sip, swallowing it and her apprehension. She had invited her boyfriend to their favorite cafe to tell him some life-changing news. “I just got scouted!” Her eyes widened, choking slightly on the hot beverage. 

“Really? That’s great!” 

“Yeah, it’s a two-year contract for now. They want to send me to their training camp starting next week and I’ll be gone for the next six months. After that, I’m going to officially join the team and everything!” A soft pout made its way to his face as he played with his fingers. “That means I have to leave this weekend.” 

Delicately placing the tea-cup down, a soft hand reached out for his. “Kou, it’s okay. This is the opportunity you’ve been looking for all of your life.” With a thick swallow, she steeled her nerves. “I’m not going to keep you here. Please, go live your life and you better be the best ace out there, okay?” 

“We can make this work! I’ll come home to visit, and we’ll call every day, I promise.” 

A sad smile; a clenched fist under the table. “I’m sure we can.” 

“I love you.” A kiss to her hand.

A squeeze from hers. “I love you too.” 

****

It wasn’t long before those promises were being broken. It started with skipping the ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ texts. Then it became unresponded texts spanning over multiple days. Phone calls were missed. Video-calls were forgotten and ignored. Visits planned and cancelled. The phone rang. (Name) glanced down at her purse at the sound, pulling the phone out. “Hello?” 

“Hey, (Name)! Was wondering, have you heard from Bokuto recently?” 

“No, I haven’t.” She couldn’t bring herself to smile. “He’s been busy with his new team.” A veiled sigh. The phone was squeezed between her shoulder and ear as she readjusted her basket.

“I’m not even surprised, it’s only been a month since he’s left after all. He was supposed to come back for the Gym 3 reunion dinner this weekend but nobody’s really heard from him in the group-chat.”

She let out a soft laugh. “I’m surprised you and the others still have time to meet up.” (Name) bent down, comparing two different packs of vitamins. 

“Yeah well, I like to remember my roots unlike some people.” His laughter warmed her heart. “Say, even though Bokuto isn’t coming, we still want you there! I’m sure the others prefer you over him anyways. Besides, I miss my best friend!” 

A gentle hum in response as she reviewed her calendar. “This weekend right? I should be free, just send me the details.” 

“Great! See you soon.” She ended the call, staring at her phone screen for a moment longer. It was a picture of (Name) and Bokuto underneath the sakura trees, petals falling onto their heads as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Another drawn out sigh before she locked the phone, tucking it away to finish running errands as she placed a bottle of vitamins into her basket.

****

“Hey, you made it!” (Name) stepped into the restaurant, glancing around only to find a tall, dark-haired idiot waving his arms aggressively. 

“I said I was coming, didn’t I?” Her good-natured laugh made the others around the table break out into chuckles. Kuroo patted the empty seat beside him, gesturing for her to take it. “Where’s Akaashi?” (E/c) eyes scanned the table. Across from her, Tsukishima was sitting beside Lev, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else but there. An empty seat was left on Kuroo’s other side.

“He couldn’t make it. Something about deadlines.”

“Guess the Fukurodani boys aren’t loyal to their roots,” she teased, elbowing Kuroo. His loud laugh caught the eyes of the rest of the patrons as she rolled hers. Kuroo always had an obnoxious laugh, one that fit his messy hair.

“At least you came.” He pulled her into a side-hug. “Missed you, Manager-chan.” Soon enough, they had all placed their orders. Smiling behind her glass of water, she observed as Lev and Kuroo finished their beers, bellies shaking with the roar of their laughter. Tsukishima wasn’t quite as vocal, but his cheeks had also become tinged pink from the beer.  Kuroo wiped a tear away from his eye, trying to speak before Lev made another comment that sent the older male into another fit of laughter. 

“So, how have you been, Tsukishima?” She sent the boy a sympathetic smile, coaxing him to join in the conversation. 

“You know you can just call me Kei,” the boy rolled his eyes, cheeks becoming slightly more bright. “I’ve been good, just focusing on school work. How are you (L.Name)-san?”

“And I told you years ago, Kei, call me (Name),” she giggled, taking another sip of water. “I’ve been okay, just about finished with my degree.” 

“Right, what are you studying again?”

She cleared her throat, ignoring the other boys who began another round of beers. “I went to school for sports medicine.” 

“And it’s all because of me!” Kuroo proclaimed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. Warm breath tainted with beer blew on her face. 

She rolled her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.” She looked back to her audience jabbing a thumb at her former captain, “Kuroo ended up throwing his back out like the old man he is, so I ended up helping him with his rehabilitation.” The smile froze for a second, contemplating the secondary reason why she had chosen this route. All along she had known that Bokuto had plans to become a professional athlete. Going pro had always been his sense of normal. Her chosen path had made sense at the time if she had wanted to follow besides him on his climb to success. Them against the world. Another broken promise.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Kuroo’s loud whine. “I’m not an old man!”

Immediately, she and Lev replied, “yes you are.” 

Kuroo clicked his tongue in dismissal, finishing his beer. He placed it down, smacking his lips. “This has been fun. Why don’t we head back to my place and watch a movie or something?” 

“Can’t, got an exam coming up,” Tsukishima replied immediately, as they all stood up to make their way out.

“I promised my sister I would help her move tomorrow. She just got a job offer so she’s moving to be closer to it.” Lev whined. All three boys turned to look at her. A moment of hesitation.

“Sure, I don’t have anything to do tomorrow.” With that, she hugged the other boys good-bye as they walked off together in the opposite direction. “I’m guessing you didn’t drive?” She glanced at the tall former captain beside her. At the shake of his head, she escorted him to her car, unlocking it for him to get in. 

“Wow this is small.” He groaned, his head accidentally hitting the roof as he clambered in.

“You’re just freakishly big, Kuroo.” She teased, starting it as she reversed. Soft music played as they let the silence wash over them. The only interruptions came from Kuroo as he navigated her to his complex. Soon enough, they were standing in his living room. She stepped in, not having been there since Kuroo had first moved in. “It looks much homier now,” she commented, slipping her coat off as she hung it up on the hook.

“Kuroo, where do you want this box?” (Name) called, stepping in through the doorway only to be greeted with a loud crashing noise followed by a loud curse.

“Bokuto! I said over there, not here!” Kuroo jabbed his hand in the direction of the kitchen, scolding her boyfriend. Kuroo rubbed his foot, having kicked the box on accident. The box laid on its side, photo frames spilling out. 

“I’m sorry, I thought you meant here!” Bokuto argued, crossing his arms and pouting. “I don’t wanna help anymore.” 

“I was gone for five minutes.” She sighed, lips slightly pursed as she placed the box of kitchen supplies down on the counter before bending down to collect the frames. “Babe, can you just go get another box from the truck?” Bokuto bent down, hugging her around the shoulders. He peppered kisses along the side of her face. Bokuto huffed, his warm breath bathing her neck and causing goosebumps to prickle through her skin.

“Do I have to?”

“Please babe? The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can head home and cuddle.” He sprang up, giving her one last peck on the cheek before disappearing down the stairs. (Name) picked up a sleek black frame, turning it over to reveal chubby smiling faces. “I didn’t know you still had this.” 

Kuroo crouched down besides her, looking at the photo. It was a photo of them on their first day of middle-school. She was in a yellow frilly sundress, her hair in pig-tails. Kuroo was beside her, boyish cheeks puffed in a wide smile. He wore a blue t-shirt with a photo of a dog on it and yellow shorts. He snorted. “Of course I do, you looked absolutely ridiculous in that.” 

“Those yellow shorts didn’t do you any favors either,” she rolled her eyes, fixing the box so it sat up properly as she tucked the frame back into it. They looked around the apartment. Brown boxes were stacked everywhere, and the only furniture available was a wooden table in the living room. “Where’s the rest of the furniture?”

“Ah right, I should help Bokuto bring that in.” 

“Well, that happens when you live somewhere for awhile,” he chuckled, hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. The other hand gently guided her to the living room by the small of her back. “Pick something, I’m gonna change and get you something more comfortable to wear.” She hummed in response, tapping the buttons on the remote to select some random wildlife documentary before a sound interrupted her. Turning her head, she looked at Kuroo as he slipped back into the room, wearing an old volleyball tshirt and shorts. “Here you are,” he tossed her a shirt and shorts. 

“Thank you,” she replied, heading to the restroom. As she undressed, she couldn’t help but look at her stomach in the light, examining it at all angles. She had worn a loose sweater earlier. She let out a soft sigh. She’d have to start investing in more loose-fitting clothes. A sudden wave of nausea hit her as she flung herself onto the toilet, dry-heaving.

“Hey, (Name)—” The door creaked open as Kuroo knocked on it, she hadn’t closed it all the way. He stopped, eyes widening at her as fear-stricken eyes met his face. “Are you…”  

“Yes.” 

Kuroo shook his head, gently closing the door as he stepped back out to give her some privacy. She scolded herself as she cleaned up after herself. She had been hiding the secret for a while now, she hadn’t planned on letting her friends know quite yet. (Name) didn’t even know what her relationship status was anymore ever since Bokuto had left to pursue his professional career. Stepping out, she tugged the red t-shirt down more. Kuroo was seated on the couch, fingers interlocked as he stared passively at the frozen TV screen. She slipped behind the couch, coming around to the other end as she took a seat at the very end. “How long?” 

A deep gulp. “Two months.”

“His?” Kuroo’s eyes left the screen, hazel eyes piercing hers. Biting her bottom lip, she could only nod. “Are you keeping it?” A moment of hesitation before she nodded. “Does he know?” She tore her face away, swallowing thickly as shame surged through her. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I didn’t want him to give up his career for me.” Her soft words broke the silence. Kuroo sighed, moving to sit closer to her. A warm hand pulled hers away from her lap. 

“You didn’t have to be alone through this.” Fingers tilted her chin back to his face. “You know I would’ve been there in a heartbeat.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden.” 

At this, he snorted. “(Name), you’re one of my closest and oldest friends. When have you ever been a burden?” A small smile made its way to her face. Gentle hands pulled her head into his chest, a hand lightly stroking her hair. “Even if you don’t want Bokuto involved here, I want to be. You can’t get rid of me that easily, especially now that I know.” He pressed his lips against her forehead, his warm breath fanning across her face. “Now, let’s watch this documentary!” He pulled back, a wide grin appearing on his face.

****

The next morning, she woke up in an unfamiliar place. In the corner of her eye sitting on Kuroo’s desk, she caught a glimpse of two familiar kids beaming back. Her nose violently twitched as the smell of oil invaded her senses. Launching herself onto her feet, she disappeared into the restroom heaving over the porcelain throne. Behind her, she heard curses and loud foot-steps. “(Name)?” Kuroo made his way behind her, pulling her hair back as she retched. ‘Just like old times,’ she thought, remembering all the times she, Bokuto, and Kuroo had gone to town in the clubs and bars during the earlier years of college. “Shh, it’s okay,” Kuroo whispered, rubbing her back as she groaned. Panting, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, grimacing. “Are you okay?” 

She waved him off. “Just morning sickness.” 

“Have you been to the doctor’s yet?” She shook her head. “Don’t be stupid, you’re already eight weeks in.” She flushed the toilet, feeling her nausea subside. Standing up, she washed her hands. Kuroo left as she examined her reflection. Her skin was pale, beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She smacked her lips, face twisting at the taste. Kuroo reappeared, handing her an unopened toothbrush. “Toothpaste is in the cupboard,” he said, leaving her to her own devices. 

Quickly freshening up, she was greeted with the sight of two plates of grilled fishes and rice as she stepped back out to the living room. Another wave of nausea crashed over her, but she swallowed back the acrid taste. “Kuroo,” she sent him a glum expression. “That looks delicious, but I’m afraid I don’t think I can eat it.”

He frowned, “It’s never too early to give your baby docosahexaenoic acid, (Name)!” 

She rolled her eyes, laughing as she made her way into his kitchen to make herself some natto and miso soup. “Of course you’d say that, Kuroo.” Turning back to the stove, she gestured for him to eat.  “But unfortunately the oily nature is making me a tad nauseous.” She tapped her nose.

“Ahh, that’s fair. I’m sorry, I’ll keep that in mind.” At this, she stopped slicing the tofu to give him an incredulous look.

“And why’s that?”

He smirked at her. “Well I did promise to help you, didn’t I?” 

She turned back to her cooking, cheeks flushing. “You don’t actually have to follow through with that,” she mumbled. “You were tipsy when you said it anyways.” 

“Oh hush,” he waved her off as he took another bite of the fish. “You took care of us all those years in high-school. You’ve taken care of me for most of our lives. This is the least I can do for you.” 

“Well aren’t you chivalrous,” she teased, fiddling with a knob on the stove. 

He swallowed his mouthful of rice, “now, do you have a doctor in mind already or do I need to go search for one?” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make an appointment after this is finished,” she promised, shooting him a look. He stood up, collecting his empty dishes and placed them in the sink. 

Looking at her ingredients, he sent her a cheeky smile. “Mind making me some too?” He picked up the second meal, neatly arranging it into a bento before he placed those dishes into the sink as well.

“Only because you took the couch and made me breakfast,” she replied, bumping his hip with hers. Kuroo sent her a sly grin, before heading back to the table to pull out his laptop. As she finished up her meal, she and Kuroo caught up on life. Prior to this, they hadn’t seen each other in over a month. Her phone was filled with unopened messages and missed calls from everyone but the person she wanted the most. She placed the bowl of miso soup beside him, glancing at his laptop. “What are you up to?” 

He tilted the screen back in response, revealing the web-page. “Just doing some pregnancy research, my dear (Name).” 

She thumped him on the forehead before she took a seat across from him. “You really don’t have to do that,” she reminded him. “I was already fully prepared for raising this child alone if it came down to it.” 

He glanced up from the screen, raising his eyebrow at her. Kuroo cleared his throat. “That may be the case, but you don’t have to go through the pregnancy alone.” Leaning forward, he ruffled her hair causing her to scowl at him. “I’m your best friend, (Name). Just let me help!” 

“Sure, sure, whatever you say Kuroo.” They sat in silence. Kuroo continued doing his research while she contemplated the implications of Kuroo’s promise.

Taglist: @toaster-stick @thatartsybitch @brazil-hinata @sawamooora @lastminaddition @anejuuuuoy @abby-rutledge20 @babybluebisexual @badboysdoitbetter2 @liathachcapricious @cosmiclunas @wishingforanother (If your name is bolded, I had trouble tagging you!) 

Please message me or send me an ask if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💞

[thesecrookedbones-blog]

the collection.

“I think yer book’s makin’ it worse out there, y’know? Girls’re disappearin’ faster than ever. What’re ya even doin’ about it? You think ya can come here with yer fancy education and yer fictional little books. This’s real life, slim. Emily’s a good girl. Comes in all the time gettin’ supplies to keep the neighborhood strays well fed. What’re you gonna do when her body shows up like the rest of ‘em?” Buck’s tenure in Chilling is measured by the way his teeth sit ground deep toward his gum line. His brows sit low against his eyes, like anchors dragging along rebellious eyes that no longer wish to see the pain around him. I know from what city hall records I could find, that Buck has owned this general store since 1983, inheriting it from his father before him. Southern hospitality is only known to the locals, like some kind of localized slang. There was never any welcome wagon for Nora and I. Any words of encouragement actually sound like a shotgun shell being loaded into a sawed off chamber. Or the coarse friction of a knotted noose. “Just the lightbulbs today, Buck. It’ll probably cost me extra for the lecture and I’m short today.” “You think yer so funny, Mr. Typewriter? You come into town an’ just look what you’ve done.” His words hiss past stained yellow teeth, syllables clicking like a slow trotting horse. The teeth were appropriately reminiscent of a horse too - in their prime. Back before the Copenhagen dips and malt liquor sips before sunrise. Behind the halitosis breath is a venom Buck has never spoke to me; something I have been too afraid to mention. His daughter was one of the names on a growing list of the missing, and later deceased. The Collector had left her in a deer carcass bag after collecting his trophy. It was her tattoo from her right shoulder blade, memorializing her mother with bumblebees and sunflowers. Two of her most favorite things. Layla Carpenter. She got inked underage at 17 after her mother lost her battle with breast cancer. It’d been a badge of honor. I could tell it from the way she showed it off in off-shoulder dresses and floppy tank tops. She smiled wider for Polaroids when the tattoo was in the photo with her, like she’d mastered the ‘glance over the shoulder and smile’ pose just to honor her late mom. She’d been missing since 2000. She was The Collector’s first. He kept her the longest. Her body was discovered exactly one week after Nora and I moved in; lakeside nearest our property. Her body melded with the burlap carcass bag, decomposing so harshly that the medical examiner couldn’t tell flesh from bag. Often even after severe decomposition, special wavelengths of light and photographs can enhance ink in any remaining tissue. There was nothing to enhance - but everyone knew The Collector’s calling card. Her tattoo was in his possession. A token of his kill. “Just ring him up, Buck. Fer Pete’s fuckin’ sake.” I nod my appreciation to Todd. He’s one of the few neutrals I have in this town. His eyes betray him in hiding the spark of curiosity I know he feels. He has no pawns; no one on the growing list. Hell, Todd lives alone in the home his parents expired in. He has no one to look after him as he expires and no one to lace his grave with flowers once he’s gone. He has nothing to lose. “Thanks,” I say, tucking the paper bag against my shoulder, though my eyes lock with Todd - the only person who deserves my gratitude. Back at the house, I leave the bag beneath the flood light fixtures that seem to have shoddy wiring. The fixture eats through bulbs at least once a week, somehow feeding too much power while still causing the ominous orb to flicker in and out. I check my watch. School will let out soon and Nora will be home. She’s been bugging me about this light. Any kind of darkness makes her feel uneasy. I can see it in the way every layer of her spine pricks as she rounds a dark corner, helplessly reaching for a lightswitch. Plugging the six-foot wood-runged ladder down beneath the flood light fixture, my shoe centers the rung and haphazardly trusts my weight to it. It flexes but the screws snar and it holds. Gravel sounds behind my back as I twist a fresh bulb in. I’m in a pissing contest with the rest of this town, careful not to show fear or cowardice, so I don’t turn my head. Fingers yo-yo the lightbulb to a tightened position and the footsteps behind me still. I finally sneak a glance.“Yer so fucked.” I don't know him by name, but he's recognizable as one of the local meth addicts. What about him? I try to paint a mental picture of his face and I’m lost in non-distinctive identifiers. Bugged eyes, a toothless grin, sunken cheeks, and clothes that loosely swing off of his bony structure. Is he a suspect? He laughs at me, his hollow soul echoing behind him as he continued on. He's probably hallucinating, I tell myself and finish with the second bulb. The ladder gets returned to the corner filled with dust bunnies in the garage and I discard yet another bulb box. The basement of the home is bunkered beneath ground; a safe haven from tornadoes. It is the only place I trusted my work, given the lack of any natural daylight. It’s the space I get lost in, drawn in like a moth to lamplight. As I descend on creaky, wooden steps, I decide - it’s time to start Emily Marx’s chapter. The latest missing girl. Keys gallop against paper freely, a brainwave on a stroke of genius. The latest victim is fresh in my mind. Bright eyed with a bright future, given the academic records her parents’ failed to share with me. They slammed the door in my face, blaming me for opening this can of demons again. They thought my soul needed saving. They hoped to see me in church on Sunday morning. Her body hasn’t been recovered, but it’s nearing two weeks. I expected her to be the next ink to his collection after 48 hours. Death is the sole consumer in this barren land, its hunger accelerated by demons sworn off by bible verses Sunday morning and ill-will cast against family and friends after a few swigs of whiskey post-service. Blasphemy pulled straight from the bottle. Hours wash away outside without notice. The south has a way of filling your pores with heavy heat and slugging you down, zapping Father Time until seconds rock by slower or the mind’s ability to be conscious of it slips away. Each chapter takes its toll. Another life vanished into the thick air, often in stark daylight. The moment they encounter The Collector, they become another ghost; a wisp of heavy wind to remind us all that Chilling is haunted by a living being. I find myself in the position I often end up in with this book, face curtained with my hands as I count the breaths it takes to make me feel better about it all. I still haven’t found the number. Then it dawns on me. The silence overhead. Usually the kitchen floorboards would creak as Nora dances around the kitchen, preparing another meal without company while I try to figure out the great mystery of Chilling, Missouri. No creaks have sounded above to distract me from proper sentence structure or finding the perfect word that’s just hibernating at my fingertips. No, it’s been oddly silent. I feel uneasy all at once, but disallow panic as I jog up the straining basement stairs. The kitchen is dark, as is the living room, and entryway hall. Upstairs sounds just as quiet, but I run up nonetheless. Nora perfects stability in my schedule, trying to make my life look somewhat normal. She never falters - but I’m the inconsistent one. Maybe I didn’t listen or didn’t remember. She could have parent-teacher conferences. Maybe some kind of after-school tutoring session. Maybe some other after-school activity. I pretend I don’t hear the stress battering through ragged breaths. Where would she be, where could she be? Tires squeal into the school parking lot. It’s empty. Her car is nowhere to be seen, but I still run toward the front doors, truck barely stuck in park. It’s dark inside. Not a soul to be seen. There I stand, in a pained shred of reality. I didn’t even notice she didn’t come home. I check all of the possible spots, and Chilling has a limited selection. The diner, the gas station, the library, the post office, the general store. No sign of her car. I stop outside of the old run-down drive-in that has only been used as vandal grounds for the last decade and find my hands shaky as I dial the sheriff’s department. “My wife - fiancee - is missing.” It’s better not to go to the office in person, I decide. They’ll waste precious minutes vetting me, seeing only an unfriendly face they already suspect to be all kinds of evil. “She - school gets out at 2:30 and she’s usually home by 4 at the latest, depending on what kind of students need help after-school. ...Eleanor Coulson. Yeah. Middle is Winona. She’s - her birthday is June 29, 1986. Look, can you just - I am being calm.” My lip quivers and heat streaks down my cheeks. The speedometer ticks to 65, the big truck’s steering wheel quaking within my palms. "She’s like...5’6” or 5’7” and can’t weigh much more than 100 pounds. She’s small, but she’s mighty.” The sorrow touches the back of my throat and I cough to cover the emotional choke. “No, no scars or tattoos.” It's an identification question, but it feels pointed and my answer washes gooseflesh down my neck. The female voice on the other end of my call drifts into a cavernous hole as my right foot shifts from gas pedal to brake, tires crying against warm pavement. I can hear my heart rattle my skull, vision blurred with thoughts lashing against positivity. The previous girls with their mangled bodies, tattoos sliced from their skin, torture evident in their demise - it all bleeds forward until the female’s voice rises, “hello?” “I - her, her car. I just found it on Highway 26 near milepost 17.” A long pause. “He’s got her.” 6 hours later, I return home after police interrogation. I’m the prime suspect in the tragic story I’ve supposedly created. I sit there in the driver’s seat, hands folded beneath my nose and listen to the waves of fear wash over my knuckles. Within eye line, the flood light surges and flickers, faltering between a vivacious glow and the absorption of death. I watch intently, hoping the light will stay lit. Lightness in the dark - a symbol of hope. But the light hisses and with a dull gurgle, it flickers to black. A tear rims my lower lid. He’s got her. Her life will burn out just like that bulb. Hot air fills the truck, my throat rattling with rage as a low growl precedes the words I will die by if I must: “The collection ends now, you motherfucker.”

[twentyonesoons]

two sides

Drug Dealer/Flower shop!Chan x Reader

Genre- Free style, drabble Word Count- 1400+ Warnings- Swearing, mentions of drugs and cheating Notes- I don't know where I was going with this

Chan seemed to have two sides to everything in life; his job, his personality, even you.

- - -

You were all too familiar to Chan, stopping by everyday to get a small arrangement of flowers, your blouse and skirt perfectly ironed, hair neatly tucked beneath pins, a light layer of makeup that was barely noticeable and heels so shiny, that his reflection could be seen in them. You always greeted him with a smile, requested for a small bouquet, paid and went on your way. You were too predictable, and Chan couldn’t help but fall, always wanting to talk to you for more than a few minutes each day, but he never did. Well, at least not until you showed up at the flower shop for the second time that day, your regular neat appearance, dishevelled almost beyond recognition.

- - -

You barged into the flower shop, pleased at the absence of customers. Chan turned towards the entrance as he heard the door chime, his eyes widening as he spots your figure. He opens our mouth to speak but you cut him off. “Chan, give me something to make me forget, any drug, I’ll take it.” Your voice cracked as tears began to flow down your face. “Come out the back.”

You followed Chan into the back room, squeezing through an assortment of boxes. He sat down on a crate and motioned you to sit on the other beside him. “Look Y/N, I’ve seen these drugs absolutely destroy people, and knowing you, you don’t really want to do them, so something must have happened.” As his words sank in, you couldn’t help but bawl, shocking the boy you shared the space with. You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “You’re right, i-it’s just, I went home, and my boyfriend was in m-my room with another girl and now I refuse to go anywhere near there.”

Chans jaw dropped as you recalled your story, and he could feel his blood beginning to boil. “You don’t have anything with you, do you?” He asked, and you shook your head. Chan smirked and holds out his hand, “Let me drop you off at my apartment, and then I’ll go get your stuff for you.”

- - -

Chan checked the address again and hopped into the elevator, stopping at your floor and slotting the key into the lock. He remembered your description of the apartment and opened the first door in the hallway, packing a bag of toiletries. He then opened the next door, startling the couple cuddling in the bed. He grabbed a bag and opened your closet, filling it with as many clothes as he could. “What are you doing? Get out! Those are Y/N’s clothes! You can’t touch her stuff! How’d you even get in here?” Chan sighed at the annoying voice that was nagging from behind him. He finished packing and zipped the bag, turning towards the couple in the bed. “Yeah, this is Y/N’s stuff, and that’s her bed you just fucked someone else in. So, don’t even think about talking to her ever again.”

Chan smiles as he leaves and while driving back to his own apartment. He opens the door to find you curled up on the couch, enveloped by sleep with remnants of tears on your cheeks. He placed the bag down before slipping an arm under your neck and legs, cautiously lifting you from the couch. He steadily walks down the hallway into his room and tucks you into his bed. Chan happily settled himself on the couch, slowly drifting asleep.

- - -

Confusion washes over you when you awake in an unfamiliar bed, until the vision of yesterdays clothes causes the afternoons events to come rushing back. Your head pounded as you stood, slowly shuffling down the hallway into the kitchen. Chan stood by the counter with messy hair and a black hoodie. “I uh called your landlord for you, and I blocked that assholes number because he won’t stop fucking calling.” Chan chuckled lightly, and you shyly smiled. “You can hang out in my shop for the day, and afterwards we can confront your ex, you know make things official about shit being over.” You began to nod but stopped, “Wait why did you call my landlord? I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

Chan paused, and a blush spread across his cheeks, “Uh well you’re welcome to live here if you like, I have a spare bedroom. It’s completely up to you though uh no pressure or anything, nothing is finalised yet...” You laughed at the boys’ constant stammering and he trailed off, looking at you bashfully. “I think I’ll take up your offer, your apartment is a lot nicer than mine.” He smiled and tapped his fingers against the cupboard before turning to pull ingredients out of the fridge. “You go get ready, I’ll make us some breakfast.”

- - -

You never knew just how busy Chan’s flower shop got, and well his side business too. Many were shocked to see a new face at the front counter, and you were shocked at the visual difference between regular and particular customers. However, every customer that requested to see Chan out back also bought flowers, making you smile at the thought of supporting their drug dealer’s other passion. When the boy appeared from out back, you looked at him adoringly as he pieced together arrangements and carefully thought out his selection. “Hey Chan, you’ve never told me why you sell these.” You say, hand tracing the petals of a sunflower. “Uh well, I wanted to look innocent you know? Wanted to hide all the backroom dealings of this place. Besides, I’ve found I’ve got a bit of a talent for it. The other stuff well, flower shops don’t make that much money.” A bright smile spread across his face and you couldn’t help but to smile as well. “Do you reckon I could work here on weekends?”

- - -

“Are you sure you’re ready to do this? We can wait if you want.” Chan reasoned as you buckled yourself into his car. “Chan, if I don’t face him today, I’ll never be able to. Besides, you’ll be right by my side.’ Chan turned forwards with a blush across his face and pulled the car away from the curb. The car was filled with a comfortable silence as you pulled up to your apartment, your landlord waiting outside with an assortment of boxes. He greeted you both with a smile and you all returned to your apartment.

You stood to the side as your landlord, ex-boyfriend and Chan discussed the plans. “Y/N, you can go and start packing.” Your landlord says, handing you a few boxes and motioning down the hallway. “Y/N is moving out, she has finalised her decision and I have approved. She already has a new place to stay and everything has been sorted. All that was left was to tell you that this apartment is now all yours.” The landlord says, your ex-boyfriend almost unable to process the reality of you permanently leaving. “But she still owes the rent from this month, right? The $200?”

Without a word, Chan pulls out the money and hands it to him with a smile before walking down the hallway. You turned around as Chan opened the door behind you. Smiles were exchanged as you placed your last sweater into the box in front of you. “Is that all?” Chan asks, motioning towards the piles of boxes in the corner. You nod, “That’s all my stuff so yeah I’m all done.”

Chan picks up a few boxes and you follow, taking them downstairs quickly. Your ex stood on the sidewalk, jaw dropping as Chan loaded the final box and opened your door for you. You sat down with a small smile as he shut the door and approached his side of the car. His hand reached for the handle as he turned towards your ex. “Well I guess this is goodbye. You’re a dumbass for letting go of the best thing that will ever happen to you.”

Chan slammed the door behind himself and pulled into the street. You both let out a breathy chuckle before you turned to Chan. Leaning over the console, you lightly connected your lips to his cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

Chan smirked and relaxed into his seat, “I could get used to this.”

[spookyjuicefiction]

Serendipitous - Chapter 11

MASTER LIST

Things had shifted between Bucky and me after that first night in Bucharest. Gone were the uncomfortable silences, the awkward side stepping, the stiffness in the way we interacted with each other. Now we talked the way friends would, teasing one another and speaking without the self-consciousness I had become accustomed to when we would have our after-dinner chats on the boat. Now when he talked about his past, I could hear his feelings in his words, his sadness and pain with each memory he divulged to me. I could see how hard it was for him to speak the words out loud, but with every new horror story that he let past the gates of his lips, I saw him become softer, more relaxed.

He was casually affectionate with me, too, often pressing a hand to my back to peer over my shoulder at what was cooking on the stove, or giving my knee a quick squeeze before getting up off the couch. And, of course, there were the nights.

Every night I would crawl into the bed while Bucky lay on the couch, and I would reach over and shut off the light. We would lay silently in the dark for a few minutes, and then I would hear the couch creak as he got to his feet and padded over to the side of the bed. I pulled down the covers for him and scooted to the far wall like I had that first night, and he would climb in beside me.

“I’m sorry,” he would whisper, “the darkness, it’s playing tricks on my eyes--”

“Don’t you apologize to me,” I whispered back, and stroked his hair until I fell asleep.

He was always gone when I woke in the morning, off to meet the cargo ships arriving at dawn, and I would wonder if he had slept at all. When he came home, I started noticing the bags under his eyes were a little less pronounced, his skin a little more saturated, his posture a little stronger. I tried not to wonder too much if he was sleeping because he was talking through his trauma with me, or because he was spending the nights wrapped in my arms.

On Friday evening he brought home an envelope full of cash, his first paycheck, which he handed straight to me to deal with. I wondered to myself how he would use it if I was not here, if he would bother to purchase things like extra furniture or decorations to hang on the walls. This is precisely what I did the next day while he put in overtime at work: I ventured to the secondhand store and spent hours perusing the surprisingly large selection. I had to hire a taxi to cart all of my purchases back to the apartment and pay the driver to help me carry it all up to number 13. After that, I paid a visit to Maria at the library, and so I was in high spirits by the time Bucky came through the door that evening.

Looking around with eyebrows raised, he took in my haul: two vintage diner stools tucked under the linoleum countertop, a hideously upholstered chair squeezed in next to the sofa around the coffee table, a few odd framed paintings tacked up on the walls, a tulip shaped floor lamp near the living area. His eyes landed on me, loading mismatched china plates and glasses into the cupboard, singing along to the music crackling through the air. I looked up at him and he was smiling warmly at me.

“What,” he said, raising his hand to point past me, “is that?”

I grinned. “It’s a boombox! I about screamed when I saw it at the thrift store. Looks just like the one I had when I was in middle school!”

“‘Boombox?’” Bucky looked at the squat speaker apprehensively.

“It’s a radio,” I said, pointing to the station numbers currently lit up on the display, “but it also plays CDs and cassette tapes. Which means I can borrow them from the library to listen to! That reminds me, I was thinking, if you want, I could give you, like, a music education. Since you’ve been out of the loop for half a century.” I winked at him, beaming. He smiled back and hooked his flesh arm around my neck, pulling me in close and pecking my cheek.

“That would be great, doll.”

My face was scorching as I asked him, “Hey, can you read Romanian, or just speak it?”

“I can read it. Why?”

I turned to my bag on the counter and withdrew a paperback book: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in Romanian. I presented it to him with only slightly exaggerated reverence.

“Here you go, you’ve been blessed by Miss Rowling,” I told him solemnly. Bucky took the book but caught my hand before I could turn back to the cabinet.

“I think it’s you I’ve been blessed by,” he said, his voice warm and a little husky as he locked his eyes on mine, “Thank you. For… all of this.” I swallowed, hard, and giggled nervously.

“Don’t mention it. Are… are you working tomorrow? If not, I could use your muscle.”

He smiled again. “Nope. My muscle is all yours.” He wiggled his eyebrows and I smacked him.

“Good. It’s laundry day.”

_______________________

“But how do the owls know where to go with the mail?”

We were walking down the street to the laundromat, me carrying a bottle of detergent and box of dryer sheets, Bucky with all of our clothes, towels, and sheets slung in a sack over his shoulder. He had been up reading Harry Potter half the night before he had finally crawled into bed next to me and snaked his arms around my waist.

“Of all of the crazy things in the book, I cannot believe that this is what you’re stuck on,” I laughed at him, bumping his hip with mine as we walked. When we arrived, we filled three washers and I taught Bucky how to start them. We squeezed together thigh to thigh on a small bench, his arm draped across the back behind me, watching our clothes spinning round and round as we talked about the Wizarding World.

I studied his profile as he talked. Sun was shining in through the shop’s windows, catching a few strands of reddish hair among his stubble and around his temples in it’s light. A few tiny freckles dotted his cheek, I noticed, and his eyes were the brightest and clearest of blues. He looked relaxed, healthy, completely different from the way he had looked when I first sat across from him in that pub booth. My eyes snagged on his lips as they moved, and my stomach did a somersault as I wondered what it might feel like to kiss them. At that moment the washing machines beeped their doneness in succession, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Bucky looked at me curiously, but I ignored him and scurried over to get the first load.

The alluring image of his lips and his bright blue eyes were still haunting me that night when he pulled the clean sheets around us in the squeaky bed. I tensed a little when he ran a hand through my hair and he paused, noticing.

“What is it, doll?” his voice was sleepy.

“Nothing, Buck,” I said, nuzzling into his chest so that he couldn’t see my face. “Get some sleep.” In a matter of minutes he was breathing deeply and I sighed, confused as hell. What does this all mean? What the fuck are we doing?

[aphreal42]

Knight Shop: Apples (redux)

Picking up about two months after the first part, found here. 

“I think that should be it.” Alexia set down the wooden slats, leaning them against the wall behind where the baskets sat, then stepped aside so Alistair could place the ones he carried next to them.

He set the boards down gently, trying to line them up properly, keeping things tidy. The garden shed at the Cousland estate looked better maintained than his flat. After enough months of visiting on a near-daily basis, he’d almost stopped feeling completely out of place around here. Especially when he was carrying heavy things; no one could object to him being here if he was making himself useful.

Like by helping Alexia pack away the booth after the last market of the season. “I thought I saw something else in the van. I’ll go check. You wouldn’t want the staff trying to set up a stall without a wall next year.”

Alexia swept her eyes over the collection of materials filling the corner of the shed, then shrugged. “It can’t hurt to check. Could you lock up the van while you’re at it?”

“Sure.” Taking her offered keys, he trekked across the grounds to the drive where the van was parked. The back drive, of course, not the long, formal front one. You wouldn’t pull a van full of lumber up to the front of a place like this. Or maybe the back drive was just handier for the shed.

The back of the van was empty, as Alexia had predicted, but Alistair had been right, too. There was something sitting on one of the back seats, a wooden-sided bushel basket of the sort Alistair thought only existed in stories. And it was brimming with apples. Plump, ridged yellow-green apples with a slight pink tint on one side. They didn’t look quite like any of the others she’d brought home, and he couldn’t wait to see what new flavor experiences this variety had in store for him.

Beaming happily, he scooped up the basket -- a whole basket of fresh apples! -- and carried it inside, hitting the button to lock the van as he went.

He found Alexia in the kitchen, washing up some of the plastic containers used to transport produce.

“All locked up.” Alistair placed the basket of apples on the counter, then tucked the van keys into the pocket of Alexia’s jacket where it sat neatly folded at a safe distance from the sink full of water. He eyed the dish towel, hanging on its peg by the rack where Alexia was building a small but precarious tower of dripping plastic boxes and lids. He ought to help her, drying dishes while she washed. It would be the chivalrous thing to do, the only appropriate action for a knight. Not to mention a boyfriend. He really should go over there to help her.

And he would. As soon as he tried one of these mysterious nearly star-shaped apples.

He selected one sitting on the top of the pile, with its reddish blushed side tilted up invitingly. The lobed shape felt interesting in his hand, and there was a pleasant density that promised a solid crunch. Admiring the shape and color, he raised it to his mouth to savor the first bite.

He nearly choked. Bitter, astringent liquid filled his mouth around a solid chunk of fruit he didn’t dare chew for fear of releasing more of that painfully tart juice. He stood frozen for a moment, trying not to swallow, feeling his tongue tighten and the roof of his mouth start to turn to leather, wondering how long before his eyes started watering. This was the worst apple he’d ever eaten. Why had Alexia bought an entire basket of these abominations?

Alexia turned just as he spat the unchewed piece of apple back into his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Maker, that was… that was horrible!” He shuddered, dragging his tongue against his teeth as if he could scrape away the tight, too-small feeling. “I couldn’t risk swallowing it. It might have been poisoned, and then I’d wind up asleep in a box in the woods waiting for a hero to come save me.”

Alexia’s concerned confusion shifted quickly into one of her amused-but-trying-not-to-be expressions he’d come to cherish over the past few months. Almost as much as the fond smiles she tried to conceal or the laughter of genuine delight that she didn’t.

Shaking her head, she turned back to the sink, retrieving the container she’d dropped into the sudsy water when he started making spluttering choking noises. “Do you really think I’d try to poison you?” The softness of a smile crept into her voice now that her back was turned. “I’m far too busy this week to go searching through a forest.”

A knight probably shouldn’t get all sentimental at the prospect of being helpless and needing to be rescued. But the thought that someone could care enough that she took it as a given that she would put the effort into it, that she would assume that of course he was worth saving... Well, knight or not, that was worth getting a little starry-eyed over.  

His sentimentality was abruptly crushed as a tiny fragment of acidic fruit seared into his gums, a cruel reminder of star-shaped fruit-borne treachery. “I’ve been betrayed by an apple. How can I trust anyone right now?”

Alexia set the rinsed container neatly on the stack with the others, wiped her hands on a towel, and turned to face him with folded arms and a sigh. “I promise I’m not trying to poison you. Those apples are for Kosh.”

“Why would you want to poison Kosh? He’s so nice!”

Laughing softly, she moved from the sink to the counter where he’d placed the basket, arms unfolding as her stern demeanor melted away. She picked up the apple he’d rejected, his single bite showing white against the greenish skin. “These are baking apples; they’re not meant to be eaten fresh.”

Alistair leaned back as she gestured, wary of getting too close to the acidic monstrosity masquerading as an apple. “Those things are horrible. They shouldn’t be eaten at all.”

Alexia feigned a casual shrug, setting the marred apple on the counter beside the still-full basket. “If that’s how you feel, I’m sure Kosh won’t force you to try the tarts he’s planning to make with them.”

Good, he would stay well away from anything related to the excessively acidic, tannic fruits that Kosh was mad enough to want for some inexplicable-- Oh, wait... “Tarts?”

“Kosh didn’t say for certain what he has in mind for them, but Calville Blancs are traditionally used in tarte aux pommes and most other classic Orlesian recipes that call for apples and pastry.” She flashed a quick, wry smile. “Or so I’ve been told.”

The apples might be terrible, but tarts were another story. Especially tarts made by Kosh. If anyone could bake these abominations into something worth eating, it would be Kosh. “I guess I could give them another try after they’ve been baked. We wouldn’t want to hurt Kosh’s feelings, when he’s gone to all the work of making inedible fruit into tarts.”

“That’s very generous of you. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you making that sacrifice.” Despite her sincere tone, Alexia’s grin was knowing, maybe even approaching the vicinity of smug.

“Generous, that’s me. That one isn’t in the Scout Law, but it should be. I’ll have to settle for helpful.” He retrieved the dish towel and gingerly pulled the top container off the precarious stack.

After a moment, Alexia returned to the sink next to him, washing the last few boxes and handing them off for him to dry. When she got to the end of the pile, she got a second towel and joined his efforts to reduce the stack of dripping containers.

They’d nearly finished when she remarked, far too casually, “Kosh may not get to his baking right away. I wasn’t sure that you’d want to wait that long to have apples.”

“You got some that aren’t poisoned?” Eagerly, he scanned the counters, looking for where the actual edible apples might be hiding.

“Calvilles are not poison.” Alexia plucked the final container from his unmoving hands, removing the last of the clinging water drops from its plastic surface with a few swipes of her towel.

“You can’t prove that. You didn’t try eating one.”

“I didn’t. Because I was warned they’re only good for baking, and unlike some people, I listen to warnings.”

Alistair considered pointing out she hadn’t given him any warning until after he’d taken a bite of one, but that might not work in his defense since it would raise the related point of him having taken the apple from the basket -- not to mention the basket from the van -- without asking.

Setting the now-dry container with the others, Alexia hung up the dish towel. “Regardless, I can’t really imagine any self-respecting evil sorceress would disguise herself as a man who runs an orchard in order to sell poisoned apples to random customers. It seems inefficient.” She slipped past him to pick up a medium-sized brown paper bag tucked inconspicuously on one of the counters. “But if you don’t trust him, I could see if someone else wants the apples he set aside for me to bring you.”

Alistair stared, transfixed, at the simple bag with its tantalizing hidden contents, an untasted apple variety waiting to be discovered. She couldn’t possibly take that away and deprive him of finding out what that mundane brown paper concealed. She couldn’t be that cruel. Could she? He mustered his best begging-mabari expression, just in case. “You wouldn’t.”

The mabari bit must have worked. Eyes sparkling with amusement, Alexia kissed him on the cheek. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

She handed him the bag, and he gladly accepted. The weight of it promised solid, dense apples held within.

But for the moment, the apples took second place to the amazing woman at his side, her fingers brushing softly across the back of his hand. He still hadn’t gotten used to how easily she’d slipped across the line into open, casual affection once everything was out in the open. Maybe he never would stop being surprised by spontaneous kisses and sword-calloused fingers wrapping gently around his. He kind of hoped so; he couldn’t imagine becoming jaded enough to take this for granted.

They stayed that way for a moment, close together, barely touching, in a comfortable silence filled with a tenderness he had fleeting moments of almost thinking he might deserve.

Alexia’s lips curled into a playful smile, and she nudged at the bag of apples. “You can open it. I promise these are safe.”

With a grin, he turned his attention back to the parcel, the brown paper crinkling as he raised it up to read the words on its side: Claygate pearmain. For Alexia’s knight.

That... definitely wasn’t Alexia’s handwriting. “The orchard owner actually…”

“He set those aside for you, yes.” Alexia lifted one shoulder in a hint of a shrug. “He said he doesn’t have many Claygate trees, but he thought you’d like to try these, given the other varieties you’ve enjoyed. So he wanted to make sure you got some of them before they were all sold.”

He’d been planning to ask about a man he’d never met referring to him as “Alexia’s knight”, but the fact this stranger was saving apples for him was worth knowing, too. And it’s not like the description was particularly inaccurate, really. He could think of a pretty long list of worse things he’d been called. At least this was something to be proud of. And it came with apples.

Alistair pulled one of the Claygates out of the bag, confirming his initial impression of its weight and density. The heavy, solid apple was nicely round and a kind of dull golden color, with pale reddish streaks on one side. He bit into it, surprised by the combination of density and tenderness, and a spiced sweetness filled his mouth, juice released from the solid fruit as he chewed.

“Do you like it?” Alexia tilted her head, waiting for his thoughts.

She’d be waiting for a while to get anything specific, given how solid the Claygate was. He nodded while chewing, and she smiled, continuing to watch him for reactions. An almost nutty taste lingered after he swallowed. It was almost entirely unlike his first encounter with a Grav, except for the sense of wonder that an apple could taste so good while being so unlike anything he’d ever expected from an apple.

Grinning, he added words to his response now that his mouth was free. “Sorceress in disguise or not, your apple peddler knows his wares. This is really good. You want to try it?” He held the fruit towards her in offering.

Alexia gave a quick shake of her head, although she looked tempted. “I shouldn’t. Those are yours.”

“They are mine. Which means I can share them if I want to. You should try one.” He wiggled the apple temptingly. “It’s really good.”

“If you insist…” Laughing softly, she accepted the fruit, taking a small bite, and Alistair watched as startlement and delight spread across her face while she slowly chewed.

Had she really not been trying any of the apples she brought him? All these weeks, she’d been missing out on these amazing apple experiences because she was saving them all for him? That had to be corrected.

Hands clasped firmly behind his back, he refused the apple when she tried to return it. “Nope. You touched it; that one’s yours now.” He tilted his head towards the nearly-full bag on the counter to forestall further protest. “I have others.”

“Alistair, I’m not taking your apple. I brought them for you. This is yours.” Alexia glared at him, apple still held in one outstretched hand.

He probably shouldn’t find her quite so endearing at times like this, with her expression hovering somewhere between fond and annoyed. But he’d seen a lot of that almost-but-not-completely-suppressed smile in the months since she’d first come into the Shop. He’d gotten well acquainted with the quirk to her lips when she was trying to resist laughing, the softening in her eyes that took all the sting out of a glare that could match Gal’s when she truly meant it.

Alistair had spent a long time wondering if he was imagining things, once he realized she never seemed to look at anyone else that way, eyes sparkling with amusement she didn’t want to admit to. And maybe once or twice -- or a dozen times a week -- he’d gone out of his way to provoke that mock-annoyance, just to have her look at him with that almost-there smile that gave him a glimmer of hope his infatuation might not be as hopeless as it had every right to be.

And now -- now that she invited him to Cousland family dinners and curled up with her head on his shoulder when they watched old tourney matches and brought him apples from an orchard owner who knew him only as “Alexia’s knight” -- now that he didn’t have to guess about the warmth under that stern facade, he cherished these moments even more.

Alistair met her glare with a cheery smile that would have signaled a death wish if she were serious. “The answer’s still no. It’s your apple now.”

“You’ve been raving about apples all summer. You love these apples. I’m not stealing that from you.”

“You’re not stealing anything; I’m giving one to you. You liked it, too, right? So I want to share that with you.” He took hold of her outstretched hand that still held the apple, gently guiding it back towards her. “Because, hard as it may be to believe, it turns out I like you more than apples.”

Her irritation, real and feigned both, vanished, melting away into a soft unguarded smile that was worth a whole orchard full of apples. “I like you, too. Very much.”

She kissed him, her lips warm and holding traces of the sweet nuttiness of the Claygate, and Alistair couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.