#Walnut Stash Box
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Trading Spaces (1,880 words)
Muriel didn’t check the driveway for cars, because there were always cars. The lights went on at dusk and were off by the time she walked past on her way to school. It was mechanical, structured, as perfectly timed and automated as the daisy-head sprinklers that popped up every morning, watering the vast expanse of the front lawn.
There was probably an alarm system, too, but it wasn’t set. Or, if it was, no one showed up the first time she opened the front door and left it ajar.
Or the time after.
Or when she raced into the foyer and did a wild, flailing little dance, just to be sure.
Then she knew she could explore.
She usually came in by the side entrance, into some kind of mud room or scullery, tennis shoes squeaking softly on linoleum. It led out into a little hall alongside the main staircase, past the door to the coat room that never had any coats in it. The foyer stretched two stories, crowned with a coffered dome and illuminated by an elaborate iron chandelier big enough to be seen from the street. She never came at night, but even in the filtered afternoon light it was sepulchral and sterile.
Muriel went up the curving stairs, trailing her fingertips down the polished bannister, bumbling them over wainscotting and past door after door, to the far wing of the house. The room that overlooked the pool, the guest house, the canopied cabana. There was a green Amazon parrot in a massive black cage, entertained only by the view from the window and an old tube TV left playing on a rolling cart. It screeched when it saw her, climbing the bars with clicks of claws and beak, and she offered it whole walnuts from her pockets as a bribe.
There were never any footsteps on the stairs. No one ever came to investigate the bird’s screaming. It was forgotten, too.
Muriel knelt down to sort through the box of VHS tapes stashed on the TV cart’s bottom shelf, slipping them in and out of their cardboard sleeves. Music videos recorded off MTV, baseball games, a recital. She was only interested in the cartoons. The parrot cracked and worried the walnuts in one foot, watching her and occasionally mimicking the sounds the VCR made as she put in a tape.
Each cartoon was roughy seven minutes long, and there were seven or eight per tape. She lost her nerve the first time she played one, startled when the parrot took up screaming, and she only made it halfway through a single short where Bugs Bunny was some kind of braided Valkyrie. The second time she brought walnuts, and a giant white dog with a mop top of red hair had it out for Foghorn Leghorn. Then Muriel had the rhythm down perfectly, from a second round of walnuts to the hasty reset of the room’s tableau before she left: adjusting the cart’s wheels back into their divots on the carpet, pushing the cardboard box of tapes back into place.
When the lamp on the writing desk clicked on after the third cartoon, it was time to go. She was so slick.
Until she wasn’t.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Muriel’s head whipped around just as Daffy Duck jammed his finger into a light socket, and they both bristled with sizzling shock. She imagined her bones projecting through her skin like an X-ray.
She scrambled to her feet, kicking the box out of the way, and the parrot screeched and flared its pinioned wings. The man in the doorway flailed backwards as she snatched her bookbag and barreled past him. Her Chucks pounding carpet as she pelted past door after door, back down the stairs.
“Wait! …Wait!”
He couldn’t keep up with her, but he tried. Stopped at the top of the stairs, huffing, and jogged down double-time in the hopes of catching her at the bottom.
“Look—will you wait!”
He didn’t need to hurry. He’d locked the front door before he ever went upstairs, and Muriel rattled and pulled and fought breathlessly with knob and deadbolt as he closed the distance behind her. She finally got it open, blinding herself with a blaze of daylight just as he reached the bottom of the steps.
“Bloody hell, just wait a moment, would you!? You’re not in any trouble!”
Muriel froze in the door gap, one hand on the knob and the other on the jamb. The fevered whites of her eyes reeled at him as she looked back, ready to bolt.
But he didn’t chase her, either to arrest her or drive her out the door. At the bottom step he leaned hard on the curling volute, a fist at his hip, and tried to catch his breath.
“I’m too old for this nonsense, just…” he wagged a hand at her tiredly, a bid for mercy. “Just give me a moment, would you? I’m not going to do anything to you. I just want to talk.”
She believed him. Not only for the breathless earnestness of the appeal, but for his slight, almost fragile build. His full-front apron. His accent. He wasn’t a man built for cardiovascular extremes.
As if to drive this home, he lowered to the bottom step, knees cocked outward so he could lean his elbows onto them. Sprinting was the last thing he felt like doing today, and he resented her more for that than for simply being in the house at all.
“I locked the door,” he said.
She checked the door, sunlight and freedom still tantalizingly close. Looked back at him as her breathing slowly eased.
“I noticed.”
He circled a hand at the air—yeah yeah yeah. “What I mean to say is, if I had any intention of capturing you, I would have simply called the constabulatory while you were preoccupied watching cartoons.”
Muriel squinted.
“The what now?”
“The…” Damn it. The word escaped him. He pinched his apron front where a badge should have been, pinching it outward. “The…”
“Police,” she said, just as he remembered it and chimed it at the same time. He circled his hand again, laboriously getting to his feet. He had forty-odd years on Muriel, but only five or inches and sixty pounds, soaking wet. She actually felt a little bad for making him run.
She checked the door one last time, hand falling away from the knob.
“You know about the cartoons?”
“Well, I didn’t think the bird learned to say ‘Sufferin’ Succotash’ on his own.” Revulsion passed briefly across his face as he tightened his apron strings. “...and I have a brother who stuttered terribly as a boy, I don’t find that nonsense pig funny at all.”
He cast her a more chastising eye as he straightened, arms folding.
“Also, you left walnut shells all over the floor.”
“I didn’t.”
“No, but your feathered accomplice did, and I’m the one who had to clean them up. He tries to bite me through the bars, and I don’t like it.”
Muriel looked cautiously chagrinned. “Sorry.”
“It isn’t important,” he dismissed. “Listen, if you want the cartoons so badly, why don’t you just take them. No one here watches them, they’re just going to end up donated to Goodwill. You might as well take them home.”
Her posture shifted again, stiffened in defense. He thought she might bolt again, but something held her rooted to the spot.
“Can’t. Don’t have a VCR.”
A sigh, a gesture upstairs.
“You can have that too, if it means you stop breaking in.”
“There’s no TV,” Muriel explained, frustrated. “I mean… there is, but…”
But they tended not to work without electricity. She didn’t say it outright, and the intimation felt vague enough that he wouldn’t put two and two together, but of course he did. His lips parted in that silent, inspired ah of sympathy and understanding, chased quickly by a look of pained dismay. Such things didn’t occur in a vacuum. A person didn’t lack for one thing without lacking for others.
Muriel readied to bolt again.
“Don’t call the cops,” she said. “Or the… the const…tipation—”
“I won’t,” he said, but hesitantly. Muriel doubled down.
“Or social services. CPS, or DFS, or… whatever they call it here, no loopholes. No cops means no anybody.”
Not that he couldn’t appreciate her need for discretion, but he was hardly in a position to negotiate. He patted the air as if to cool the rising mercury of her fear.
“Look, I’m a housekeeper, not a genie. I’m not going to look for a roundabout way to rat you out to the authorities. I promise.”
It took her the space of several pounding heartbeats, but slowly she relaxed. Her thin shoulders eased, her fingers twitched at her sides as feeling came back into them. He tilted his chin down and looked up at hear, questioning.
“Alright?”
“Alright.” Cautiously.
Relieved at last, he swept both hands down his apron front.
“Right. Now that that’s sorted, I trust you could use something to eat.” He thumbed down the hall, through the dim formal dining room, a direction she’d never dared to explore. “I can fix you something, if you’d like?”
Muriel’s whole body rose and fell delicately as she breathed. She checked the dining room as she’d previously checked the promise of daylight and freedom, then quietly closed the front door.
“Okay. But. I don’t think I like British food.”
“Well, we have that in common, at least.” He gestured her to follow. “Come along. You can clean up the walnut shells when you’re done.”
*******
His name was Malcolm, and he was delighted to hear that her name was Muriel.
“It’s a terrible name,” she argued, watching from a little bistro table as he navigated the kitchen with practiced ease. He mixed a burger patty by hand, slicing fries into a steak cut while a small pot of oil heated on the stove. The thoughtless efficiency of it all held her captivated.
“It’s a lovely name,” he shot back. “You don’t like it because it’s a bit old fashioned.”
“Yeah, it was my grandmother’s.”
“Hm.”
“Hey, don’t you guys call french fries chips?”
“You guys,” he echoed quietly, shaking his head. “Yes, we do.”
“Then what do you call potato chips?”
He looked at her coolly from the chopping board.
“Colonial Potato Slivers.”
Muriel dissolved into ugly, snorting, laughter that bent her head to her arms. Malcolm smiled faintly, scraping the potato wedges into the oil with the side of his knife.s
The burger patty browned and the potatoes crackled in the oil. He minded them with a few careful touches from a spatula, a wire strainer, pairing one with a slice of cheese and the other with a toss of coarse salt. When all was plated he carried them to the table, setting it down as he took his seat.
Muriel reached for it, hesitating, but he nodded her on. She dove into it with a voraciousness she knew was unbecoming, but couldn’t quite help. She expected to find him disgusted, when she finally picked up her head, but instead he just looked sad.
“Th’orry,” she mumbled around a mouthful. He blinked tiredly.
“Eat.”
The burger was more than halfway gone before he spoke again.
Continued here.
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🌞 Grills, Greens & Good Vibes: How Summer in the U.S. Is Getting a Healthy Makeover
From fireworks to fresh bowls, this summer’s all about eating clean and living green—with compostable packaging in tow.
There’s something magical about American summers. The smoky scent of BBQs in the air, iced tea on the porch, kids chasing fireflies, and the unmistakable pop of fireworks lighting up the July sky.
But this year, something’s different.
This summer, it’s not just about good times—it’s about good choices. From food to packaging, more people are choosing fresh, healthy meals and ditching plastic for compostable paper food containers and stylish Kraft paper boxes. Yep, sustainability just crashed the party—and we’re here for it.
🥗 Summer Feels, But Make It Fresh
Let’s talk food first. American summer classics like cheeseburgers and coleslaw still have a place at the table—but they’ve made room for some trendy newcomers.
Our current summer crushes:
Kale, strawberry & walnut salad in a minimalist paper food box
Plant-based sliders with spicy aioli
Cold soba noodle bowls with sesame seeds
Grilled peaches with almond ricotta
Infused cucumber water in reusable tumblers
And if you’re headed to the beach, hiking trail, or local park? Pack it all up in a takeaway food box that won’t wreck the planet. Bye-bye, soggy foam containers.
🎆 Red, White, Blue... and Green?
Fourth of July used to mean glittery flags and red solo cups. Now? It’s reusable decor, plant-based BBQs, and compost bins under the picnic table.
What’s changing?
Hosts are setting up zero-waste party zones
Food is pre-packed in eco-friendly paper food containers
Guests go home with leftovers in a sleek Kraft paper box
Teens are sharing their green setups on TikTok (yep, sustainability is trending)
Sustainability isn’t a buzzword anymore—it’s the new default. If your burger’s not served in a biodegradable paper food box, did it even happen?
🚗 Road Trips & Reusables
Let’s be honest: American summers = road trips. But that doesn’t mean gas station junk food has to be your only option. Pack your snacks like a pro:
Road trip must-haves:
Hummus and veggie sticks in a sealed paper food container
Berries and granola in a Kraft-look lunch box
DIY trail mix (almonds, cranberries, dark chocolate)
Sandwiches wrapped in compostable wraps, stashed in a takeaway food box
Bonus: Your car smells like real food, not plastic wrappers.
👨👩👧👦 Family Vibes with a Green Twist
Summer is family season—reunions, pool parties, and lazy Sunday cookouts. It’s also a great time to teach kids how fun sustainability can be.
Try this:
Give every kid their own Kraft paper box to decorate as their “party plate”
Set up a “trash or compost?” challenge after dinner
Let them pack their own meals in paper food containers for the park
Trust us—they’ll be into it. (Especially if stickers are involved.)

🌱 Small Swaps, Big Vibes
It’s not about being perfect. It’s about making small swaps that add up—especially during moments that matter most, like summer memories with the people you love.
Instead of:
Plastic plates → compostable paper food boxes
Foil trays → chic Kraft paper containers
Plastic forks → biodegradable cutlery
Eco can be easy. And actually kind of aesthetic.
✨ Tumblr Aesthetic Bonus
Eco-friendly table spreads are basically made for Tumblr:
Sunlight peeking through reusable fabric bunting
Mason jars filled with lemon-mint water
Grain bowls in kraft packaging arranged on a floral blanket
A handwritten chalkboard menu next to a compost bin
Tag it: #greenpicnic #plantbasedsummer #kraftcore
☀️ Final Thought
You don’t need to overhaul your whole life. Start with one meal, one picnic, one takeaway food box. Start where it feels good. Celebrate summer—but make it mindful, make it fresh, and make it kind to the planet.
Because burgers taste better when they’re served with a side of conscience.
#summer aesthetic USA#healthy picnic ideas#takeaway food box#paper food box#paper food containers#Kraft paper box#green BBQ vibes#zero waste July 4th#compostable lunch boxes#eco road trip snacks#Tumblr picnic inspiration#sustainable food style#plant based summer recipes#biodegradable packaging#Bioleader eco products
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The Timeless Appeal: Wooden Stash Boxespen_spark
Wooden stash boxes offer a classic and functional way to store your valuables. These handcrafted containers come in a variety of types, each with its own unique benefits.
One popular option is the traditional wooden box. Often made from durable hardwoods like oak, walnut, or mahogany, these boxes provide excellent protection and a touch of rustic charm. For a touch of disguise, book-shaped stash boxes blend seamlessly with your bookshelf, offering ultimate discretion.
Wooden stash boxes boast several advantages. Firstly, wood is a natural and eco-friendly material, making it a sustainable choice. Secondly, the inherent durability of wood ensures your belongings are safeguarded for years to come. The natural properties of wood can also help regulate humidity, which is ideal for storing certain items.
Perhaps the most appealing aspect of wooden stash boxes is their timeless aesthetic. The rich wood grain and classic designs add a touch of sophistication to any room.
For those seeking a high-quality wooden stash box, TheBzzBox is a reputable online seller offering a variety of handcrafted options. Explore their collection to find the perfect box that blends functionality with timeless style.For more info please visit: - https://www.thebzzbox.com/collections/bzz-box-collection
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Fluffvember Prompt #12 Sweet
Characters: Silva Cataracta, Ricmorn Cataracta, and Hien Rijin
Rating: Mature
Notes: It was only a matter of time before smut found its way to me during this challenge. Sorry, not sorry! Words contained in [brackets] are in another language, in this case, it's Doman.
Content Warnings/Additional Tags: Polyamory Relationship (V Relationship), M/F/M Relationship, Mentions of Alcohol/Drinking, Food, Suggestive Themes, Mild Sexual Tension, Food Play (not too sure about this one, but better to be safe than sorry!), Groping, Biting/Marking/Hickies, Heavily Implied Threesome.
Silva quietly hummed to herself as she went over her ledgers for the selling stalls in Kugane and Ul’duh she owned with Ricmorn, her eyes drinking in numbers and lists of goods currently in and out of stock. She’s been staring at them for well over a bell now. Her mind performing mental leaps as she tried to figure out what both stores needed over the coming weeks and write the ideas down in a different tome. The sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace and the murmuring and chuckles from Ricmorn and Hien nearby drowned out the scratching of her quill pen scribbling across the thick parchment. Almost beckoning her to join them at last.
She could envision herself settling between them. A glass of chilled, bubbly wine or Hingan whiskey in her hand, falling into conversation with them as if she’d been listening the entire time.
Though she longed to join him and Hien on the other side of the room, this task needed her full attention. But gods, she wanted nothing more than to ignore these ledgers. Maybe she should have taken up Ricmorn’s offer to do them in her place…
She fought back a sigh, annoyed by the fact she was only halfway through her bookings and by the amount of crafting she would have to do over the coming days. This restocking would eat through most of the extra items she had off to the side. A supply she thought would last for at least another month — or two, if she were lucky. Luck, on the other hand, was laughing right in her face.
Fuck. Great. This was exactly what she needed right now.
Quickly losing motivation to continue looking at the numbers and lists, Silva reached for her bag resting on the floor. She dug through one of the many pockets, searching for something she had stashed away for later. A quiet, happy trill rumbled in her throat when her fingers found the box, pulling it out of her bag before resting it on the floor again.
“Aha!” she grinned to herself.
She set the small box of assorted chocolates on the desk, opening it with nimble fingers. It took her a moment to decide on which piece to eat — there were just too many choices! Perhaps the chocolate filled with rolanberry creme? Or the one with thick, sticky caramel? And there was the one with the salted walnuts in the center… All were excellent choices.
No. None of those would do.
Silva picked up the milk chocolate truffle — one of her favorites in this box. She quietly undid the colorful crimson foil wrapper protecting the shell of the delicate treat before taking the truffle between her fingers.
And tossed it into her mouth.
A pleased hum escaped her when it hit her tongue, instantly melting in her mouth. Her long tail swished against the wooden floor as she savored the sweetness, her mood boosting with each passing second. Gods— this was exactly what she needed. It was almost a pity that the treat was gone so soon.
She dragged her tongue across her lips, licking any remnants that might have lingered before turning her attention to the smears of chocolate on her fingers. Thinking nothing of it, she brought them to her mouth, licking the first one clean — completely unaware of the hungry eyes watching her. Silva did the same with the second one, leaving it free of melted chocolate.
It was only when she went to clean her third finger that she paused. The loud growls from the other side of the room drew her attention.
“Silva,” Ricmorn warned, his voice sounding strained in her ivory horns. “What are you doing?”
The thrill of delight shooting up her spine made heat pool in her lower belly. “What do you think?” she replied, shrugging. “There’s chocolate all over my fingers.”
“And you didn’t think of any other way you would clean them?”
How dare his playful teasing sound like temptation. And while she was trying to do her bookkeeping?
“I’m not wasting perfectly good chocolate like that!” she laughed, ignoring how the heat in his gaze made her heart flutter. She knew by the smirk on his face he had an idea of how he was affecting her. “Not to mention these were expensive.”
“We all know that’s not an issue for us, [wildflower,]” Hien quipped, setting his empty glass down and rising to his feet. “Between Ricmorn and I, you could have all the sweet treats you want.”
She hummed. “I could, couldn’t I?” The Au Ra flashed them a bright smile full of fangs and teeth, batting her eyes. “Or you two could make a sweet treat out of me instead?” she suggested.
And then she locked eyes with them as she put the last finger in her mouth, making a lewd show of sucking and licking the digit clean. When she pulled it out with a wet pop, her lovers descended on her like hungry predators.
Bubbly giggles shook her as their eager hands roamed wherever they pleased, palming at her breasts, coaxing her thighs to part for them — not caring if she still had on clothes. It wouldn’t be long before they tore them from her, anyway.
“I think that sounds like a perfect plan, darling,” Hien rasped beside her horn. She didn’t get a chance to respond as his lips found her neck, sucking a dark mark into her skin.
“How about you say fuck to peering over these ledgers so we can fuck you instead, my dear?” Ricmorn questioned. He grinned wickedly when she mewled as his fingers made their way up her skirt, brushing his fingers over her clothed sex. “I can promise you that our cocks are better than numbers.”
Silva couldn’t help but agree with the idea of ignoring the ledgers in favor of being spoiled by her two lovers instead.
#ffxiv writing#ffxiv fanfiction#ffxiv#silva writes#hien x wol#hienwol#wol x wol#hien x wol x wol#ffxiv writers#poly ship#fluffvember ffxiv things#Fluffvember FFXIV Edition
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watching horror movies together

feat; hu tao, scaramouche, xiao x gn!reader
warnings; modern au, mentions of jumpscares (not described in detail), not proofread
a/n; my contribution for @favoniuscodex's fall festivities writing collab! ty axia for hosting this, and it was rlly fun to write for :D !! also this is kinda a new style of post formatting ?? idk either way i hope u all like this hehe, and happy early halloween ! <3
please reblog ! it helps a lot :)

snacks ;
— HU TAO eagerly brings all sorts of sugary foods out, from biscuits dusted in swirled icing to cupcakes with hidden jelly centers, to chocolate from your favourite store, to candies tucked into vibrant wrappers - the list goes on and on. when you tease her for having such a sweet tooth, she grins playfully and replies that she's only trying to replicate the sense of how sweet you are, and if her flirtatious answer prompts heat to rush to your cheeks, her grin only widens more. if you bring walnuts to snack on, HU TAO will drape herself dramatically into your lap and whine about how she's being replaced by a nut, and complain loudly, asking if she's supposed to organise her own funeral now.
— SCARAMOUCHE claims that he doesn't need to eat saccharine foods, as all they cause are cavities, but you'll catch him sneaking candy from your stash far more frequently than his earlier dismissal of sweets suggests he should. he'll bring his own box of popcorn and hoard the entire thing, though if you ask nicely and look at him with in his words, 'those damn puppy eyes', SCARAMOUCHE will groan and grumble about it but still share the food with you. he secretly blushes when your hands touch while reaching for it at the same time, and he thanks the archons that all the lights are off so you can't make fun of him.
— XIAO does not eat these type of junk foods at all, as he's only partial to the dreamlike taste of almond tofu. therefore, if you're planning to have a cute moment where the two of you share food, you're going to have to prepare beforehand. when he shows up with the movie and sees that you've cooked for him, a red flush begins to creep up his cheeks, and he'll mumble out a thanks with his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck. he's more than willing to share it with you, XIAO is already so grateful that you actually made his favourite food for him, he'll be like putty in your hands for the rest of the time the two of you are watching the movie together.
how they sit with you ;
— HU TAO always has to be in contact with you somehow, so she's either sprawled across the entire length of the sofa, taking up all the space, or she's lying with her head in your lap as if your thighs are a pillow for her. if you lean down and play with her hair, HU TAO swears her eyes will turn into heart emojis right there and then. the chance of you being able to continue the movie after that is extremely low, because she'll lean up to pepper kisses across your face and distract you the rest of the time.
— SCARAMOUCHE will purposely sit at the other end of the couch at first just to be annoying, which he obviously succeeds at, but throughout the movie, he'll slowly inch towards you until he's so close that his shoulder presses against yours. it's just to pretend you didn't notice, though, because if you bring it up, SCARAMOUCHE will launch into a whole tirade about how he, the sixth of the fatui harbingers, would never do something which insinuated that him, of all people, is madly in love to the point where he desperately wants to feel your warmth beside him. spoiler alert: he does.
— XIAO will lie down on the sofa, stretching like a cat first. his head reclines on one of the pillows, his arms open for you to snuggle into his torso so he can rest his chin on the top of your head. his fingers will intertwine with yours comfortably on your stomach, arms wrapping around you tightly as if to protect you from the monsters of the film. XIAO only hopes you don't notice how much his heartbeat speeds up from your proximity, and during the scary parts, because otherwise that would totally ruin all the respect you had for the adeptus.
their reaction to jumpscares ;
— HU TAO bursts into laughter, clutching her sides and giggling so much she nearly falls off the sofa. tears of mirth even begin to form in her scarlet eyes, and when you confusedly ask what's wrong, she'll say, "woah, that was a good one! they almost got me there! although i have to wonder if their special effects team is even trying... maybe i should pay them a visit! i'm sure i can show them what ghosts are really meant to look like." HU TAO will also then start discussing how to make film directors purchase her special offers from the funeral parlour.
— SCARAMOUCHE screams, and it's surprisingly high-pitched compared to his usual speaking voice. if you tease him about it, he'll claim, "you're hearing things, idiot. why would i, the balladeer, be afraid of a mere prop? see, look, i can prove it- AAA! no. that wasn't me. i think the neighbour's cat is in a fight or something." SCARAMOUCHE will deny it until the day he dies, and if his arm slides around your figure to reassure himself that you're alright, that's fine with you, isn't it?
— XIAO tenses up, but only for a split second, as his muscles relax the next second once his brain processes that it isn't a real threat. his grip around you will tighten slightly, and you'll hear him breathe a little quicker, but once you turn to him with a worried expression, he smiles at you softly, amber eyes gleaming, "i'm alright. it's just a movie, after all. i've seen much worse too, so this doesn't phase me." XIAO spends the next few minutes trying to calm you down after you freak out over him saying he's experienced worse, but he'd be lying if he said he doesn't appreciate you worrying for him.
when you get scared ;
— HU TAO pulls into her lap, arms snaking around you and tugging you into a super warm and comfy hug. she rubs her cheek against yours, and pokes the other side of your face in an effort to get you to smile. "y/n, you've explored wuwang hill with me, and that makes you braver than 99% of liyue's population! to me, you're already fearless, so don't worry about being scared of just a silly movie, alright?"
— SCARAMOUCHE gives you a sort of weird side-eye when he notices you're getting nervous, but he doesn't actually say anything until you finally ask him what's up. when he realises he's been caught, his face turns tomato red and he hurriedly says, "i was just checking on you, dumbass! isn't that what boyfriends are supposed to do?! i just don't want you to be scared! hmph, fine! you can come over here and cuddle if that'll make you feel better."
— XIAO pulls you impossibly closer to his chest, his silent presence and warmth comforting you and chasing away your fears. he kisses the top of your head lovingly, and whispers, "it's okay to be scared, y/n. i'm a yaksha, i can protect you. just remember it's only a movie, okay? then maybe you'll feel less afraid."
after the movie ;

— the pair of you end up falling asleep together on the plush sofa, limbs tangled up in one another's reassuring embrace. even if there were any nightmares which dared disturb your slumber, the presence of your partner beside you easily warded them away, instead allowing mr sandman to fill your dreams with happiness instead. one thing's for certain, though; watching horror movies together definitely needs to become an annual halloween tradition.
quill speaks !
i actually don't have much to say im so tired KKAKFKSKDN i just hope u all enjoyed this hehe :> it was actually very funny to write 😭 except my xiao characterisation died bc i projected onto him sm /hj anyways i love the three of them sm they r my beloveds <333 OKOK gn now & wish me luck for my chem test tmrw !!
taglist (open) ; @kazuwhore / @ayra2452008 / @mooscutely / @simplyxsinned / @chichikoi / @keokomi / @genshiningg / @hqrbinger / @lilikags / @hushyouu / @the-gayest-sky-kid / @thalia-prior-of-ravenclaw / @almondoufu / @xiaoxiaoo / @cruxdou / @mayple / @test-tube / @yeetmeoffjueyunkarst / @keiq0 / @solar-shatter
© starglitterz 2021. do not repost or modify in any way.
#✏️ — quill writes !#xiao x reader#xiao fluff#xiao scenarios#xiao genshin impact#genshin impact xiao#genshin xiao#genshin impact fluff#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#genshin imagines#genshin impact writing#genshin impact scenarios#genshin impact drabbles#genshin impact#xiao#genshin fluff#q.xiao#q.hu tao#q.scaramouche#scaramouche x reader#hu tao x reader#scaramouche fluff#hu tao fluff#hu tao genshin impact#scaramouche genshin impact#hu tao#scaramouche
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Time for the second-to-last @whumptober2020 fic!
This one’s for theme 27 - OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD? for the prompt Power Outage. It’s also a present for a friend, who asked if I could write Leverage OT3 fic for her birthday-present - I’ve never written Leverage fic before, but I do love some good Eliot/Parker/Hardison, so I’ve tried!
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They’re in the middle of watching Ratatouille, because Parker’s never seen it and Hardison likes Pixar and Eliot can quietly critique animated knife skills in his head but say nothing, when the power goes out. There’s a crash and a boom of thunder and a whip of wind, rain hammering down, and just like that, snap, it’s all dark.
“Oh man,” Hardison says, “oh, come on, no,” and he’s sitting up and reading for a laptop or two as if that’ll do anything, dislodging their comfortable pile of lounging bodies and blankets and a popcorn bowl flawlessly balanced on Parker’s knee.
Or he would be disrupting it all, if Eliot hadn’t expected the motion, hadn’t moved in turn, catching the bowl, shifting to redistribute weight and free a blanket. He sets the bowl down as his eyes adjust to the dark; he’s always been good at seeing in it, though of course they’re all three not bad at that. Good at improvising, adapting, new environments.
Parker, distressed, is on her feet. Even in the dark she’s quick and feline, poised to move. “Who could—”
“—find us here?” Hardison checks the battery on a phone, sets it down, gets up as well: catching her hands as they move, offering reassurance and being reassured in turn. “Nobody. I swear. This’s our place. I’ve got that taken care of.”
Their place. Their home: the three of them, when they’d become a them at last. Eliot can shut his eyes and recall with perfect clarity the way Parker and Hardison had shown him around, so excited; the way he’d smiled and tried so hard to be excited for them, for their life together, the happiness they deserved, while he’d known he’d be the one leaving and walking away into the cold, leaving his heart with both of them, knowing they’d never know, and that’d be fine, he could live with that as long as they were happy, he could take anything if—
He can recall the way they’d each taken one of his hands, and the way they’d leaned in to kiss him, easy as breathing, easy as if it could all be simple, easy if he could believe they had room to spare for him.
This is your home too, Parker had said, eyes wide, surprised that Eliot hadn’t understood this: we found it for us. And Hardison had reached out and drawn him close, and Eliot had gone willingly, because they wanted him, because he didn’t believe it, because they wanted this here and now and he’ll always say yes even if they’ll look at him in the morning and say that was enough, curiosity satisfied, time to go. He’ll say yes to them even if it kills him.
He’s somehow still here, three months after that.
He gets up as well, now, in the dark. Parker’s pacing and irritated; none of her best acrobatic skills are of use here, nothing to steal or dare or leap from. Hardison’s annoyed at the power outage but coping by talking to her and checking all his backups and complaining about the timing and the lack of ability to see.
That, at least, Eliot can do something about.
He leaves them to find balance in each other; he has a number of various types of emergency stashes hidden in multiple places around the house, most of which Parker and Hardison know about, some they don’t. He never wants to be unprepared; he never wants to be unable to defend them. He finds candles, real and LED; he finds flashlights, and battery packs, and, after a moment’s thought, some chocolate.
He catches them both looking at him, and then at each other, when he comes back into the living room; he says nothing—no need; he doesn’t need comfort, he’s just fine if they’re also fine—and only starts setting out candles, lighting them, turning them on if they’re artificial.
Light blooms through the darkness. From tabletops, shelves, the fireplace, kitchen counters. In white and gold, honey and amber, warm and soft and clear and bright: shades of illumination sweep out and curve into quiet safe globes and spheres. They push back the dark, befriend it, share the night: layers of luminosity, brighter and dimmer, overlapping.
He sets out a few battery packs in case Hardison needs them. He crosses over to them, or a few steps away, and offers the box. “Here.”
Parker takes it. Opens it. ��Magic chocolate! You found it in the dark!” The small shiny truffles beam up, bathed in candlelight.
“When’d you buy chocolate?” Hardison takes one. His eyebrows go up. “You got the good kind, too.”
“Made,” Eliot says, not offended but with an odd little feeling in his chest, a pang that’s not really hurt. “A while ago. Just practicing. There’s some with orange zest, some with pink pepper, some with walnut cream.”
Hardison looks at him for a minute. Light caresses his cheekbone, the side of his face, the tilt of his head; Eliot wants to touch him. That’s just a want, though, no practical reason; no invitation, anyway.
In defiance of the want, he says, “I can make a fire, too. If it’s gonna get cold. No telling how long it’ll be out.”
Parker licks chocolate from a fingertip and looks up. “He didn’t mean he thought you didn’t know how to make chocolate. He meant these are really good.”
“I know,” Eliot says.
“Eliot,” Hardison says.
“I can get more blankets,” Eliot says, “too.”
“Come here,” Hardison says, and that’s somewhere between an order and a joke, the kind of flippant banter they toss back and forth without thinking; but it’s also the tone that means this is important, you need to listen, something might blow up if you don’t, so Eliot finds himself taking a step that way without thinking, because he trusts Hardison and Parker without hesitation, no matter what might explode.
Rain drums across the world, over rooftops and streets and balconies. Eliot’s never liked fighting in rain. Too slippery. Unpredictable.
It’s not bad, sometimes, for concealment. The noisy sheets of water can hide sound and motion, and that can be an advantage. Of course, it’s an advantage for the other side, too.
Hardison puts an arm around him, folds him in close. The gesture’s fluid, natural, no hesitation about affection. Eliot leans into it because he can’t not, just for a second.
He’s allowed that much. They’re all comfortable with each other; they have to be, in the field, and they relax that way as well.
On the couch. In the bed. Because he’s somehow been invited in, touched and kissed and made to feel pleasure, because they asked.
Someday they’ll stop asking, stop wanting. He gets that. He understands. He won’t ask for anything more than they give.
But here and now the world’s full of mingled light and dark, and Hardison’s body’s solid and strong and firm, and so Eliot does let himself lean in, a moment like the balance of candlegleam and shadow, suspended between realities. He’s cared for them, the people he loves. He’s found them light and warmth and sugar. That’s all he needs, really. He’s good, knowing that.
“Eliot,” Hardison says again, and sighs. He’s tipped his head to rest against Eliot’s; his breath brushes Eliot’s hair. “I can hear you thinking about what else you can do.”
“Someone’s gotta be the competent one,” Eliot mutters. The joke’s half-hearted, and they all let it go.
Parker slips up on his other side and puts an arm around his waist and one around Hardison’s, which means they’re all now randomly standing in the living room holding each other. Eliot should move, should go check a circuit breaker or make that fire or keep a guard on a window in case this wasn’t a random outage. He doesn’t need comforting.
He doesn’t move.
The rain pounds harder over glass windowpanes and roof-tiles and the wood of the balcony railing.
“We know you love us,” Parker says, eyes all earnest, face all honest. She doesn’t hide from saying it, blunt as ever. “Why don’t you know it? About us?”
“Because it’s tough.” It’s Hardison who answers, hand touching Eliot’s face, cupping Eliot’s cheek; and Eliot should run, should back away, should take himself out of this circle of affection before he breaks it with clumsy strength and fists and brute force…
He still doesn’t move.
“We love you.” Hardison uses the hand to tip Eliot’s face up, and kisses him: a kiss like security, like certainty, like commitment to a plan. The kiss tastes like chocolate and oranges, and Hardison’s mouth’s warm and commanding, not aggressive but confident in the claiming. Eliot does not tremble, because he doesn’t, but it’s so close to everything he wants, too close to fracture-points and breaking joints—
Hardison draws back. Searches his face. “Eliot, we love you because you’re you. Because you’re the one who always has our backs—”
“Or our fronts!” Parker adds brightly. “Or our sides, or—”
“—and you jump in and fight for us, you take hits for us, over and over. And then you come home when we ask, and you find candles when we’re both busy complaining.” Hardison touches Eliot’s mouth, this time. “You know you don’t have to earn it, right?”
“I’m just here,” Eliot says. “I’m just trying to make everything, y’know, good. What I do. Hit things, fix things, cook things.” Hardison’s fingertip’s distracting. It taps him on the nose, almost a scolding, then brushes his cheekbone, the spot where his eyelashes land when he blinks, the corner of his eye. He absolutely does not want to cry, to beg for more touches, to ask for more words that hold promises.
“Sometimes, yeah. You do all those things. You do them all for us.” Hardison glances over. “Parker, help me out here.”
She bounces up to kiss him, swift as a sparrow. Then says, “Tripods are more stable.”
Eliot blinks. Considers this.
“Wouldn’t work as well without you,” Hardison contributes. “All three legs. Holding us up. It’s not the two of us plus you, it’s all three of us. Otherwise we’d tip over.”
Parker makes a gesture that Eliot guesses is meant to illustrate a loss of balance, and agrees, “Boom.”
“So you get it,” Hardison finishes. “We love you. And you love us. Here, have one of your awesome chocolate things.”
Eliot starts to protest. Finds himself being hand-fed a truffle, because Hardison’s still holding the box.
It’s pretty good, he has to admit.
“Okay,” Hardison says, “come on,” and walks them all back to the couch, and gets them arranged: Eliot squarely in the middle, lying down, being cuddled by them both. He could fight, could resist, could use physical hard-won training to remove himself from the spot.
They drape arms and legs and body weight over and around him. It’s nice. Grounding. Tangible. His heartbeat steadies. His toes feel warm.
He dares to wrap an arm around Parker, to hold Hardison a little closer, in turn.
“Yeah.” Hardison sounds pleased. “Like that. We got you, okay? You don’t have to do anything. You let us do this, right now.”
“You’re our Eliot,” Parker says, and feeds him another chocolate. This one’s got a hint of pepper, smoky and sweet, and it leaves heat and sugar in his mouth. In his gut. In his chest. A pooling glow.
The couch is large and sturdy and doesn’t mind holding all three of them as they tangle themselves together. The rain purrs and leaps, cleansing the night. The power might be out for a while, but they’ve got candles, and back-up generators, and batteries, and blankets, and each other.
They do have each other. Eliot has them, and Parker and Hardison have him too, and so maybe, maybe—
This can work.
Tripods are stable, after all.
He has to clear his throat. “Wouldn’t, um. Wouldn’t want you to tip over. Without me.”
Parker’s hand strokes his hair. “You won’t let us.”
“I won’t,” Eliot tells her, tells them. “Never. I’d catch you.”
“Yep.” Hardison slides a hand under Eliot’s shirt, resting over his stomach, skin to skin. It’s not sexual, not now, at least. Only intimate. Purely present. Feels good there. “We know you would. So let us catch you, too, all right?”
It’s hard but it’s also simple, effortless, a choice that’s not one. This is right; this feels right. Eliot knows about instincts. And he believes—beyond any doubt—that these two, his partners, will catch him.
So that’s the answer. It’s the only possible answer. It’s a loosening, an acceptance, sweet as adrenaline and relief. He starts to say, “Yeah,” and barely gets the first sound out before Parker kisses him, and then Hardison kisses him, and together they taste like chocolate and warmth and balance, held secure between the couch and their bodies and golden light and falling rain.
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i am yours, so hold me tight
i am off hiatus? who the fuck knows. anyway you can also find this on AO3 and FF.net!
words: 1409 pairing: canalu summary: "i saw you sniffing that hoodie," lucy says without preamble. "please tell me you're not giving me stinky clothes."
the first time cana is introduced to lucy, she's sporting a raging hangover and drinking far too many espresso shots to cure it. mira – what a dear – props up cana's sunglasses and shields her eyes with her hand. "this," she announced proudly, "is my best friend cana."
cana weakly waves, eyes still scrunched up. "hello." she can vaguely make out blonde hair and ribbons, and an air of nervousness. cana always been good at noticing that sort of stuff.
"cana alberona," she introduces herself once more, pushing away mira's hand. "i'm in economics, and i like drinking. you?"
mira sits lucy down and titters from beside her. "cana can drink anyone under the table. and i mean that. i think the only one she can't beat is her dad."
cana rounds on her. "hey! no mention of him. it's only because of him that i'll die early of a damaged liver."
and that's when lucy laughs. it's also when cana remembers that she falls for cute girls too easily. really. the bar is very low.
lucy digs around in her backpack and brings out a little juice box. "it's nothing alcoholic, but i figure you should hydrate yourself, what with that hangover you have," she says.
oh, the bar is so, so low.
"i told you not to over do it and then what do u do! over do it!" cana isn't furious, she's just playing the part, but lucy's sad eyes and pout makes her want to baby her, and cana just doesn't think she has it in her to get out of it feelings unscathed if she tried to baby lucy. "okay you dumbass, what's your room number?"
lucy mumbles something too quiet to hear, and cana gently jostles her. "you're so mean!" lucy wails. "i said i don't remember. i'm too drunk to remember."
cana looks heavenward. curse her heart for being weak to pretty girls.
"okay. okay." she breathes deeply. "mira is with her girlfriend, so i'm not calling her, natsu is still at the party so he's pretty much wasted." cana looks at lucy. "hey, would you be comfortable sleeping over at mine?"
and maybe it's a trick of the light, but cana swears she sees a little smile playing on lucy's lips. it's gone as quick as a flash however, and cana's left questioning herself.
lucy seems to lose any sort of inebriation however, when she looks into cana's eyes and firmly nods. cana makes a face, and tells her, "alright then. sleepover time!"
later, when lucy is in a spare change of clothes and curled up peacefully in cana's bed, cana will wonder why she didn't try calling lucy's roommate juvia instead of giving up her own bed.
the rain is so cold. cana hates the rain. it's also why she always has an umbrella and a spare shirt in her trunk. she got caught in the rain once on a day where she had a presentation in class, and she'd never been more mortified than that day, presenting in a class full of twenty something's with wet hair and a half dry t-shirt.
she shakes out her umbrella and steps out of her car only to see a blond whirlwind nearly crash into her. i'm sorry!" the little ball of hair says, and cana takes a second to figure out who it is.
"lucy? is that you?" cana ventures.
lucy looks up, and that's when cana realises that lucy's wearing white. actual white clothes on a rainy day.
"oh my god, you're drenched!" cana exclaims. "get inside the car, i'll give you some clothes to wear!" she unlocks the car and all but shoves lucy into it. "lucy bangs on the window. "this is kidnapping!" she yells goodnaturedly.
cana grins, and rounds to the back of the car. she pops the trunk open, and fishes out the pale blue hoodie she has stashed for emergencies. she closes the trunk while she discreetly sniffs the hoodie. it doesn't smell bad but it's the only change of clothes she has so it'll have to do for now.
"i saw you sniffing that hoodie," lucy says without preamble. "please tell me you're not giving me stinky clothes."
"you brat, be glad with what you get!" cana throws the hoodie at lucy in the backseat. her face softens. "if it does smell i have some deodorant in the glove box."
"oh thank goodness, i was wondering how to turn this magnificent but stinky hoodie down," lucy jokes, and cana blindly swats at her from the driver's seat. cana hands the deodorant over anyway.
"hurry up," she says instead. "i think we're both kinda late to class."
cana walks lucy upto her building even though it's a bit out of her way, because of course the little goblin doesn't have an umbrella. cana assures lucy that it's no big deal, but lucy doesn't relent and steals cana"s phone to type in her phone number. "text me, she says, " i'll treat you to dinner as thanks."
she doesn't give time for cana to reply as she quickly skips away.
"cana, stop laughing this is awful!" lucy's tinny voice comes through cana phone placed on the table. cana is mid laughter, and trying her best not to mistype her assignment due that night.
"you have to admit," cana begins. "it's kinda funny."
"no it is not! lucy says shrilly, and cana dissolves into giggles again.
the scene is this: lucy is locked out of her apartment ("that i pay half the rent for!" she tells cana) because her roommate has a "friend" over ("she had the nerve to use quotations,cana!). cana calls to ask for lucy's notes from a shared lecture, and she's now subjected to a ten minute whining of how lucy has nowhere to stay.
which is a lie of course, lucy is always welcome at cana's. lucy knows this, and cana knows lucy knows this, so this is basically lucy trying to wheedle an invitation out of cana just for the sake of it.
well tough luck if cana is going to give it to her that quick.
"aw poor baby," cana croons instead. "do you want a bandaid and a kiss to make you feel better?"
lucy sputters on the other end and lets out an indignant squawk. "no! what i want is revenge because juvia knows that i have a lab exam tomorrow and i need to get enough sleep for it!"
"wait," cana pauses typing. "your lab final is tomorrow?"
"uh huh." lucy says. cana can almost hear the pout in her voice.
cana sighs. "alright, you've cracked me open like a walnut. would you like to stay over?"
"yes of course, you're the best, thank you so much!" lucy says in a rush, and cana snickers at the change in tone.
"okay then, make your way over," cana says, trying her best to keep her smile out of her words.
lucy does treat her to dinner soon, and cana acts like a lovestruck teenager trying to decide what to wear. she throws out her whole wardrobe looking for her lucky jeans ("yes but lucky for what?," mira asks. "what exactly are you hoping for here," she adds wiggling her eyebrows for good measure until cana pushes her off the bed.)
it's a smooth affair, and while there are awkward pauses in conversation, cana thinks it's nice. lucy is an avid talker, and there isn't a thing under the sun she doesn't know a little about, and when cana tells her about the brewery back home that her dad runs, her eyes are as big as dinner plates as she says "that's so cool!"
lucy doesn't divulge much about herself, merely mentioning that her family is estranged and not on good terms with her. cana leaves it at that, and instead brings up her classes as a distraction. lucy brightens up at that, and describes all her worst teachers in the funniest way possible that cana snorts sparkling water through her nose.
and when the bill is paid and they walk back to their apartments, cana hesitates but does it anyway. she sneaks a hand through lucy's and interlaces their fingers together. lucy to her credit doesn't break stride. instead she comments, "i was wondering how long it would take for you to do that." she looks up at cana and grins widely.
and cana grins back at her too.
#canalu#cana alberona#lucy heartfilia#tttf writes#fairy tail#fanfiction#wlw#wlw fanfiction#i am yours so hold me tight [canalu]#ftlgbtales
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The Hockey Fan--February 12, 2021
The bar was low. Dark, smoky, smudged, on the border of the North End. Thacher Street. I discovered it, via a Connecticut guy who had moved nawth. I avoided the fern-laden, brassy, high-end watering holes filled with people who spoke in chilled whispers, getting louder only to feign laughter.
That's how I found this place. It was faintly Irish—this was Boston, after all—but no shamrocks or leprechauns danced on its walls. A sooty Guinness sign blinked forlornly through the smoke. When I first saw her, she sat, or perched, on a bar stool. She was slight, almost petite, and, except for her porcelain skin, very black. Clothes, stockings, shoes, hair, purse.
The hair, I noticed first. Done up in a longish page boy. Luxuriantly raven, falling in even cascades, framing the bone face, landing perfectly. When she swung her head, I saw harpstrings moving in great sheets, in planned arpeggios. The luster was palpable; it mesmerized me. I wanted to smell her.
The second time I saw her, she approached me. It was a Thursday, I was off the road. The Bruins were on TV, with no sound, as always. There was no juke box. Clinkety glass, jangling silverware and strums of conversation were the backdrop.
“Do you like the hockey?” she said.
Her fragrance washed: icy and clean. Not like an applied scent, it was something she carried. She took the seat next to me and sat on its edge. Her hands fluttered.
“I do,” I said. Hawkey. The accent, richly Bawstin, the ah's, the aw's for short o's.
“I've never been,” she said. “I should like to go sometime.”
I mulled her way of speaking. It was halting, as if tethered, yet old-timey sounding, like that of a fussy maiden aunt. I wondered if she wore powder or had a hanky in her sleeve.
Her black boots gleamed as I stooped to pick up a fallen napkin. I fought speaking further; she was staring at the TV.
“May I buy you a drink?” I said.
“No,” she said. “Certainly not. But that doesn't mean we can't speak. Mercy me. You seem nice.”
“I like the Black Bush, rocks,” she said, naming the upscale brand of Bushmills Irish whiskey.
I grinned and opened my mouth.
“No,” she said. “Don't make light. Yes, I see the double meaning. But I don't think you are a man who'd make such a joke. Would you?”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t going there. But it is good whiskey. It's aged in Spanish Oloroso sherry casks and bourbon barrels. Seven years old.” She said, “So, you are knowledgeable.” After coaxing one out of a black leather case, she lit a Virginia Slim.
I grinned. “Not really. You see, I have a buddy who works for the importer. I can even get you some product or glasses.”
She finally allowed me her first soft smile. Her mouse-mouth moved slightly. A hint of small, even, white teeth. The parentheses at the corners sidled slightly.
“And you are honest,” she said. “But I drink it only here. Never elsewhere. Allow me to buy you one, however.”
And she did. Should I tell her I was a drummer, having moved here for a gig that might take me elsewhere? I avoided this path.
We sipped quietly. Her eyebrows, perfect arcs, hunched over her glass. Dark eyes; perhaps the smallest of wrinkles dancing around them. She may have been older than I, early thirties. She wore many black layers. When she shifted, ever so slightly, hints of black, not-sheer-not-opaque stockings peeked between boots and skirt. I tried to imagine her legs.
I drank with her. Without touching me, she pulled me in, her gravity extending toward me, grasping, holding on. I think our stools moved closer.
A new period commenced; the screen snapped her head back. “Oh,” she would say every once in a while. An almost-goal. A breakaway. A skirmish.
“Oh,” she said, again. A quiet, mouse-oh, barely escaping her thin, reddened lips.
I turned at an oblique angle, seeing her in a little compartment from my eye-corner, pretending to watch the game mere blocks away, played by ant-men on ivory ice.
“The Bruins are going to lose,” she said during the third period. “Yes,” I said. “They are. Would you like to go to a game?”
“Very much. With you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Even better,” she said. “I come here on Thursdays.”
Her departure was also small and tidy. She shrugged on her coat (black leather) and said a hint of good-bye.
And was out the door.
Iggy, my friend the barkeep, rolled his eyes at me. “Not for you, boyo,” he said.
“Why?”
“Not for you.”
<><><>
I went on the road for a while. In New York, I leaned on a record-company guy I knew. He was crazily connected, especially for sports seats. I traded him a ringside table at Max’s KC for a pair of Bruins ducats, which he mailed me.
When that Thursday came, I had been away for a few weeks and knew I was taking a crazy chance. I made sure to stop in Rozzie Square for a few nips of Black Bush, which I stashed into the pocket of my pea coat.
I waited at the bar, hoping, nursing a Rolling Rock.
She came in, a wave of black. I smelled her first. A dress this time, suitably short, with black pumps. Leather gloves. Her legs were sturdier than her remainder, gleaming through the hose. I liked them. It was a different leather coat, a larger bag.
Her Black Bush was ready before she sat down next to me. That small smile, perhaps a hair wider, again. She carried the cold in with her; it added to her scent.
“We have time for just one,” I said.
“Before what?” said the eyebrows.
I slid the tickets onto the scarred walnut next to her coaster.
“Is it the hockey? Tonight?” she said. The hawkey. I loved it.
“It is.”
“And you would like me to accompany you?”
“I certainly would.” Now I was mimicking her without thinking. She didn't seem to notice.
She looked at me, almost schoolgirl-shy. “Then we shall go. I’ll leave my bag with Iggy. I was hoping to see you.” A bigger smile; the only part of her face that moved was her pinched mouth.
We walked the few blocks up North Washington Street to the Garden. The NY-connected seats were quite good. Near one corner, only a few rows back from the glass.
“We just made face-off,” I said.
“What's that?”
“That's how they start the game.” I tried not to sound expert or exasperated.
She looked at me, icy and stern. “I don't claim to know about the hockey. I just like it.” From thereon in, I explained only when she asked a question.
“Oh,” she would say from time to time, lightly tapping my wrist. She did this as she spoke--digital punctuation. “They move so quickly.”
“They hit the white barriers hard. Do they mean to hurt each other?”
“It's faster, louder and better,” she proclaimed.
During the first break, I asked her if she wanted Bushmills.
“You surprise me,” she said.
I showed her the airplane nips. “I can get some cups and ice,” I said.
“No matter. This way is fine.”
She took bird sips, her pinksilver tongue darting to lick her lips after each sampling. I found this alluring, sensual.
When the Bruins scored, she stood regally and emitted a small, “Yay.”
What affected her most was a fight. In the third period, Terry O'Reilly squared off against the oddly named Larry Playfair of the Sabres. Very close to our seats.
She stood with the rest of us and jerked left and right, as if a player had jumped into the stands and was pummeling her. I heard her grunt, just a bit. When the referees finally separated the combatants, she sat back down, seemingly exhausted, wrapped into herself.
“Have you ever seen such a thing?” she said. “Heavens. They were really fighting.”
“In a hockey way,” I said.
She said, “I abhor violence, but nonetheless, that excited me.”
She took my right hand and placed it between her breasts. “See?”
See? I think my pulse was outracing her gallop.
She then daintily situated my hand in her lap, where she held me gently. Her fingers were long and cool, her manicure seamless and perfect. We sat that way for a while.
“Have you any more Bushmills?” she asked, returning my hand.
She caught me staring at her once. A full profile. A puckish nose, the proper chin that extended just short of proud. Limned by the confetti, raucous crowd, she glimmered softly—with seemingly no edges. I felt succor. I lost track of the game.
We finished drinking just as the game did. Without discussing it, we walked back to the bar. She removed her right glove and took my left hand.
As I was about to walk into the bar, my hand on her upper arm, she delicately twirled away. She said, “I truly like you.” She gave me the smallest possible kiss on the cheek. Almost a child's kiss, innocent and wan.
Indoors, she said, “Come back by the coatroom with me. I need to fetch my bag.”
I followed blindly.
“I want to kiss you,” she said. And did so. Quickly. On the lips.
Outside, she flagged down a cab. And dragged me into it.
She told the driver, “19 Cornwall St., Jamaica Plain.”
Then she looked at me, “I can come over. If you want.”
I squinted. How did she know where I lived? This was not a time for rumination.
“Yes,” I said. “That would be nice.”
As I dug in my pockets, she paid for the cab.
I was thankful that my second-floor flat was somewhat presentable. I asked her if she would like a drink as I threw mail from the sofa and socks from the coffee table.
Then I turned to look for her.
“In here,” she said.
My bedroom.
“Join me,” she said. “Love me, please.”
It was angular and concise. It was fencing, thrusting, parrying, folding. It was quick motion, dekes and backpedals. It was gently primal. It was violent, then prim, wordless, tender, gruff, almost emotionless, yet simmering. It was engulfing, releasing, joining, separating. It was familiar, yet foreign. We moved in concert, then wildly out-of-tune. Finally a daub of a sigh floated from her. In the end, the music subsided, with no coda.
We drowsed. She broached the soft stillness. “I must go,” she said.
As I rose to protest, she was already wearing a black silk something.
She said, “I used your phone.”
I said, “Please. Stay the night. It's almost three. How will I get you home?”
“That has been arranged.”
She moved toward a window, parting the curtains, looking out over Flaherty Park.
She said, “Please kiss me good-bye.”
Then she gathered me in and kissed me for real. For the first time, it seemed. A whole, coiling, languorous, steamingly wonderful kiss. It lasted a minute or an hour.
Dressed, she moved toward the door. Half-turning, she said, “Janet.”
“What?”
She said, “My name is Janet.”
And was gone.
After throwing on my robe, I went to the window. I could see a large Lincoln Continental heading away. It was black.
<><><>
On April 1st, I called all over town, trying to score for the game that night. Just before lunch, my phone ...
“It's Janet,” said the voice.
“Janet,” I said. How did she get my number? “I've been trying to get tickets for tonight. It's the last home game and the playoffs will be impossible for me to handle.”
She said, “This doesn't matter. I cannot go, anyway.”
I said, “Then could we meet another Thursday?”
“Season's over,” she said. I heard a voice in the background.
“Thank you for loving me,” she said, and she hung up abruptly. I felt a chill.
<><><>
Like a religious zealot, I made the pilgrimage back to Iggy's place for a few Thursdays. There was no sign of Janet. I kept at it, wanting to worship at the altar again, wanting to celebrate the rite. Wanting to smell her, hear the tinkling voice, see the miniscule smile. The parentheses. Everything.
<><><>
That summer, another phone call changed my life. It was from Sammy McGuane, an old bandmate. He had managed a record deal and wanted me to bang some tubs. Along with some other projects.
In LA. The timing beckoned.
Before I left Boston, I went back to Iggy's and left him a forwarding address.
I said, “If she ever-”
Iggy cut me off. “Awright, awright. But I doubt it.”
<><><>
The letter didn't come until over a year later, in August. Iggy's name and the bar's address were scrawled, almost indecipherably, on the crinkled envelope.
It wasn't actually a letter, but a newspaper clipping. It was from the Globe, dated about three weeks prior. A brief story followed the photo. I read first.
REPUTED MOBSTER SENTENCED TO 15 YEARS
Johnny “Gigs” Giambalvo, seen leaving the Suffolk County courthouse, has been found guilty of seven counts of racketeering, and money laundering after a short trial. He was given a fifteen-year sentence by Judge Felix Herrera. Giambalvo, who will be serving his time in Walpole Penitentiary, is also due to be tried on two counts of aggravated assault, which could lengthen his sentence. He is alleged to have assaulted members of the Boston Bruins hockey club after he found his wife in attendance at a team party.
His wife of seven years, Janet Cutrone Giambalvo [pictured on left], had no comment. Despite rumors of the couple's estrangement, she sat with her husband every day in court.
It would be none other than The Hockey Fan in the photo, trailing a stout, grim, dark man out of the courthouse.
She wore black.
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The Boys As Dragons
Elias:
Out of his two older brothers he has the smallest pair of horns
Kind of timid dragon boi
But is protective of loved ones and friends
His treasure stash consist of: chocolates, old books, and magical tools
His scales would be a bronze/brown color with faint tints of gold that’s more noticeable in the sunlight
Would honestly make a library his “castle”
Yukiya:
Same horns from his cannon wolf horns
Loner dragon
Lives in the depths of a forest
Protector of the winged rabbits
Treasure stash includes: fruits and flowers the winged rabbits have gave him as gifts, he has a collection of furs that belong to animals that tried to fight him or hurt the winged rabbits
Scales are a blueish/purple as he blends almost perfectly in with the night sky
Luca:
Two sets of horns from the sides of his head that are medium sized with jewels hanging off them
Pretty dragon boi
Once was a trapped dragon but since free he’s always traveling around usually will sleep in a flower field/forest or in an old building
Treasure stash of mostly jewels as he’ll steal pretty girls’ accessories (he would hide his belongings in an abandoned building)
Will play tricks to scare humans (harmless ones of course)
Emerald green scales with a lighter green underside
Klaus:
Has the biggest set of horns amongst his brothers
Noble dragon who doesn’t interact much with humans unless in his human form
Has an impressive collection of tea sets, some gold/jewels, and a secret stash of sweets
Can be easily irritated as he will attac if necessary, but usually always calm
Overall classy dragon
Dense charcoal black scales with tints of violet
Randy:
Horns aren’t too small as they have a small curve to them
Curious dragon boi that loves playing around
Taffy being a small bear cub that travels with him
Has the biggest stash of inventions, tools, sweets, and cute things
Loves interacting with humans as he tends to show off his inventions more while in his human form
Pastel pink scales with cream colored underside
Azusa:
Small horns that aren’t always noticeable in human form
Another loner who doesn’t interact with many
Lives in a cave in a mountain area
Lots of dead birds, things that remind him of his brother, has a good collection of jewels
Asian dragon (kinda think of the same appearance of Haku from spirited away)
Brown fur, cool gray scales with a teal iridescent shimmer
Joel:
Medium sized horns that grow to the back of his head
Sings a lot
Colony of animals that follow him (if snow white was a dragon)
Only really has a slowly growing stash of music boxes
Docil dragon boi, but easily annoyed
Raven black scales that are quite light in density
Vincent:
Big horns that are tall (not too tall tho)
Your most standard fire dragon
Dragon knight
Actually has a big stash of gold and other treasures he’s found while on his travels for work
Ladies man
Dark crimson scales with a sunset orangish red underside
Leon:
One horn
Lives by a lake/pound areas
Doesn’t really have a stash but really likes having lots of flowers
Generally stays away from humans
White scales with lilac iridescent shimmer
Cerim:
Medium horns made of crystal
Another dragon knight
Lives inside a cave with crystals
Protects a sleeping princess
Ronny is his little companion who stays with him
Baby blue scales with cool gray underside
Guy:
Medium horns that slick back
Loves interacting with humans, especially kids in either form
Has a lot of sporty things in his piles of treasures along with a bunch of shiny things
Would live in a field
Docil boi but will become protective over those he cares about
Orange scales with hint of yellow and a cream underside
Glenn:
Biggish horns
Silent/loner dragon boi
Guardian dragon
Would live in either an abandoned building or a cave
Looks like a grumpy dragon who doesn’t like humans, but actually very gentle with them
Fossil gray scales with hints of purple and light lilac underside
Leslie:
Horns that curl like a ram’s slightly
Guardian of the forests (dragon lorax)
Lives by the magical tree in order to protect it
Chica (who’s the size of a giant golden-crowned flying fox) travels with him
Has some gold and jewels however most of the jewels Chica has claimed for herself
Walnut brown scales and honey colored underside
Sigurd:
Very curvy horns
Sneaky dragon boi
Has a collection of gold, treasure, exotic coffee beans, & glasses
Always the one to annoy Klaus
If visiting Klaus he would attempt to take one of his tea sets in order to make coffee
Shiny eggplant purple scales with a cream colored underside
Mel:
Branch like horns
Another dragon that lives in the forests or gardens
Doesn’t collect much but has a huge stash of snow apples
Would prefer sleeping in the trees
Kind of anti-social w/ both dragons and humans
A mix of beige, cream, and tan colored scales
Zeus:
Multiple horns
Probably one of the more aggressive dragons but also super hyper/active ones
Prideful boi who lives in a lavish castle
Protects smaller dragons
What isn’t in his stash
Dark blue and royal blue scales with hints of cerulean
Hiro:
Straight horns
Lazy dragon boi
Lives with Zeus and watches over him
Collection of treasures, gold, and lots of muffins
Helps look after the smaller dragons
Ebony black scales that shimmer navy blue in the light with a charcoal underside
Alfonse:
Stubby horns that seemed to be cut down/filed down but normally they’re eland like horns
Doctor dragon is in
Lives in his clinic
Stash of all things medical, and some treasure
Lives on hot dogs
Golden scales with a pale yellow underside
Caesar:
Twisty horns (like pig’s tails kinda)
(sorry not sorry) Dragon piggy
Looks nothing like a pig but his snoot is pig likeish
Another dragon that travels all over
His stash consist of treasures he’s found, the sapphire star, some stuff from when he lived at the circus
Mix of warm ivory, peach, and honey colored scales
Lucious:
Curved horns that come out from his forehead
Dragon prince
Lives in a castle or labyrinth/maze like place or with Zeus and Hiro
Gold, jewels and the portrait of Claudia he has stashed away
Smaller than the other dragons
Purple and amethyst scales with a beige underside
Hugo:
Multiple horns but only on one side of his head
Seems like a cold/mean dragon, really a sweetheart
Doesn’t have a collection of anything
Follows his princess wherever she goes
Still has that scar on the left side of his face from a fight
Silver blueish scales with a gradient of blue and mint underside
#wizardess heart#wizardess scenarios#the wh boys as dragons#dragons#dragon bois#elias goldstein#Luca Orlem#Yukiya Reizen#klaus goldstein#randy march#Azusa Kuze#joel crawford#vincent knight#leon#cerim leiado#guy brighton#glenn qing#leslie roseblade#sigurd curtis#Mel Glover#zeus brundle#hiro tachibana#alfonse goldstein#caesar raphael#lucious duller#hugo peers
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Ghost in You ch2 preview
Ok, unless work blows up on me, I’m hoping to have a new chapter of The Ghost in You up... eee, soonish? I’m out of town next weekend (NYC! Hanging w/ my bestie!) so we’ll see how much time I have for writing and posting. Until then, here’s two scenes - I may post more during the week.
Uhm... think the only triggers are for Mary and vague references to Neil and Andrew’s pasts, past reference to drug use and tending to mild injuries.
*******
“It wasn’t like that,” Neil argued with his mother as he held gauze against the cut on his forehead to staunch the blood. “He was just grateful, it didn’t mean anything more than that.”
The blinds on the small window in the bathroom rattled against the glass as Mary whirled about, her mostly transparent body partially fractured into pieces due to her agitation until she resembled a figure in a badly-jointed, washed-out stained glass window. /That’s not any better, Abram. Gratitude can lead to affection and more./ For a moment her body splintered into thousands of tiny pieces before she reassembled next to him; he fought not to shiver from her nearness, to not flinch when he felt her fingers card through his tangled hair. /Don’t repeat my mistakes, don’t ever repeat my mistakes./ There was a slight tug on the strands for a moment, then she resumed combing through them again.
“I know, Mum, and I won’t,” he promised her with a sad smile. “You’ll never let me.”
/No, I won’t,/ she swore in return before something icy pressed against his forehead, near the gauze, and a mix of love/worry/determination/fear/possessiveness poured into him for a moment. /Tend to that so you can start packing, we need to leave./
He sighed and removed the gauze so he could clean the wound, and focused on tending to it (not bad enough to require stitches, thankfully) and the other scratches, to clean and bandage them so they didn’t get infected. It was something he was used to doing by then, the small injuries inflicted upon him by his mother nothing like the cuts and bullet wounds and fractures he’d suffered from his father or the man’s people before he’d gone to live with Uncle Stuart, and it gave him time to gather his thoughts and come up with an argument against his mother’s latest demand to leave Columbia.
The worst of the scratches tended to, he was debating on if the ones along his left ribs needed band-aids or not when someone rang the doorbell. Mindful of gun in the bedroom, Neil grabbed the sheathed knife he kept stashed on the shelf near the shower holding towels and went to investigate who was at the door – he wasn’t expecting a visitor.
He had to stand on his toes to look out the peephole, and shoved the knife down the back waistband of his pants upon seeing that it was a FedEx deliveryman wearing what appeared to be an authentic uniform. Mary hovered near the side of the door, ready to intervene if needed, as he opened it.
“Neil Josten?” the middle-aged man asked with a friendly smile once he opened the door a slight bit. “I’ve a package for you.” It was on the large size but didn’t look too heavy. “Please sign for it.”
Mary watched as Neil accepted the box, which made the man shiver and complain about the cold, but Neil was reassured when he noticed that the package was from the UK; as soon as he touched it, he could filter through the various layers of people who’d handled it to ‘feel’ Aunt Miriam’s affection and concern. Once it was set inside of the apartment, he entered his name on the electronic device (the sleeves of his sweater extended over his fingers so he didn’t have to endure anymore strange emotions), and nodded as the delivery man wished him a good night before walking away.
/Abram? What is it? Why did you accept it?/
“It’s from Aunt Miriam,” he explained as he picked up the package, wincing a little from the various emotions tied to the box (the people unhappy with their jobs) as well as the tug on various scratches and his sore knees. “Let’s see what she sent, all right?”
/You should be packing,/ Mary reminded him, but without as much force as before, a clear sign that she was curious as well about the box’s contents.
He used the knife to cut the tape on the box, mindful of its contents, and drew in a slow breath when he unfolded the lids and packing paper to reveal a beautiful, pale blue and cream blanket knitted from soft wool in a thick cable stitch pattern bearing the scent of lavender.
/That’s one of your gram’s,/ Mary told him, her face soft with reminiscing. /She made dozens of them, they were all over the house in East London./
“It’s beautiful,” Neil said as he carefully set it on the nearby chair, and revealed carefully wrapped items which turned out to be various knickknacks such as an intricately carved walnut box perfect for holding small items and candlestick holders, a couple of tins of tea, and another blanket of his grandmother’s, that time a grey one with a basket-weave pattern. There was also a note from Aunt Miriam about her wanting to send him a few items to help make his apartment ‘more of a home’.
It would be late in London, so he sent her a text to let her know that everything had arrived safely and to say ‘thank you’, and was surprised when she called back a couple of minutes later as he was carrying the grey blanket to his bed. “You’re still up?”
“We just returned home. How are you doing, Abram?” Miriam sounded a little tired but the affection was clear in her voice; Neil remembered his aunt’s warm hands and bright amber eyes, the way she made him feel comfortable from the start with her gentle smiles and the way she showed concern without being overbearing.
“I’m well, thank you. The new job is challenging but I enjoy helping out the children.”
“I thought that would be a good fit for you.”
“Thank you for the blankets and everything. It’s not quite as cold here in Columbia as London,” at least, not outside, “but they’ll definitely help to brighten up the place and make it more comfortable.”
“That’s good, I was hoping to help you become more settled,” Miriam told him. “You deserve a home at last, there’s no reason to keep running. It’s not right for a young man like you to be so restless, it’s time for you to set down some roots. We’re worried about you and want you to be happy.”
Neil noticed how Mary had gone ‘still’ during the conversation, how she hung in the air like a projection of some kind, so close to him to raise goosebumps on his skin and his breath to condense when he breathed out. “Again, thank you. I don’t want to keep you up so maybe we can talk more tomorrow?”
“You’re always such a thoughtful child, I wish Ally took after you a bit more,” Miriam said with obvious affection and a bit of chagrin. “Do you need a roommate, perchance?”
“Hmm, perhaps I should be moving on….”
His aunt laughed and insisted that she was just teasing, and wished him a good night after promising to call in a day or two. As soon as she hung up, he held the phone against his chest and gazed at his mother. “They’ll wonder if I move on so soon,” he warned; he wasn’t 100% certain that Mary’s brothers could sense ghosts, too, that it was indeed a Hatford trait… but he felt his suspicions firm up when she slowly drifted away instead of insist that he pack the duffel bag so they could leave.
/Brew us some tea, Abram,/ she said instead, /and I’ll tell you a story about your gram./
He smiled as he hurried to obey, content that he’d won a reprieve for the time being.
*******
Abby confirmed what Andrew had suspected, that he had a couple of bruised ribs, which was such a banner way to end the work week, wasn’t it? Then she wrote him a script for some lovely pain pills and muscle relaxers, which made him hate the puzzle that was Neil Josten a little less (a little), cleaned up his scraped palms (he shouldn’t be bothered with such trivial things after everything he’d endured in the past, which meant he was growing soft and so was unacceptable), and walked him to his car. “I don’t see any rough spots where you tripped,” she said as she searched the parking lot. “You must be working too hard, I’m going to tell David to give you the day off on Monday.”
Part of Andrew rebelled at the idea, of him not being there for the kids, but each time he drew in a breath there was a stab of pain along the left side of his chest, which he knew would be there for at least a couple of weeks at best. As much as he hated the feeling of letting the kids down, it made sense to rest up over the weekend and Monday rather than having things drag things out too long. “Those meds better be good,” he gritted out past the pain.
There was a flash of offense in Abby’s brown eyes before she shook her head. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, do I?” She helped him to the GS and even into the driver’s seat before she spoke again. “You need to heal before you can work again, all right? I know you worry about the kids, but listen to me and take it easy for a few days. David will make sure that everything is covered here.” She looked as if she wanted to lean in and give him a kiss on the forehead or a hug before she reconsidered. “Call me if you need anything. Anything.”
He managed a curt salute, and only because he knew she was sincere about that ‘anything’ before he closed the door and started the car; he wanted to go to the nearest pharmacy, get the prescriptions filled, then go home and collapse into his bed for the entire weekend as soon as possible.
Well, he did need to fire off an email to Renee at some point, but first, pain meds.
At least it didn’t take long to get the damn prescriptions filled, during which he hobbled around the store and grabbed a few things to tide him over for the weekend (heating pad, lots of ice cream and chocolate, hot patches for his ribs, so on and so forth) while the pharmacy worked its magic. He had Uber Eats prepare an order for him on the way home, so a few minutes after he reached his apartment, the food was delivered (enough take-out to last him the next three days), and after eating some cheese and jalapeño pizza, he grabbed a pint of ice cream while he typed out an email to Renee asking her what the fuck was going on at work – with the new guy, especially.
Then he took some meds and went to bed.
For once Abby had done some good, because despite the pain and discomfort, he slept through the night and into the morning, spared any disquieting dreams for once, and got up to relieve his bladder then stand beneath the hot water long enough for some of the stiffness to fade away before he had enough coffee, muscle relaxers and breakfast burritos that he felt semi-human to look at his phone to see what he’d missed during the last ten hours or so spent unconscious.
Nicky had called him, which wasn’t much of a surprise, as had Kevin and Roland… and Renee. Only the last caused a flicker of annoyance, since he’d hoped to talk to her about what the hell her cryptic emails meant and if she had any idea what was going on with a certain Neil Josten, how he could have made Andrew’s ribs become bruised without even touching him.
Even worse? She merely left a voicemail about how she was sorry to miss him and would arrange something for him until she could speak to him again, and hoped that he was well. He had a few dark thoughts about her untimely sabbatical as he deleted the message while he slurped his sugary caffeine concoction while he debated on if he wanted to stretch out on his bed or the couch.
The couch won out (closer to the coffee maker and one bathroom), where he spent several hours drifting in and out of a comfortable haze from the pain pills and muscle relaxers while the television played on in the background until a loud knocking noise interrupted his semi-doze.
He pulled the microfleece blanket which Nicky had given him for Christmas last year up to his nose and was determined to ignore the knocking at first, lulled into a comfortable drug haze and unwilling to move… except the sound kept going on and on and on. His annoyance growing as the pounding continued, he wondered if he could explain him repeatedly stabbing whoever was on the other side of the door as an effect of the drugs while he forced himself onto his feet and stumbled forward to stop the awful noise.
It turned out to be Allison Reynolds banging on his door. Oh, wonderful, the justifiable homicide case just became that much stronger.
As if reading his thoughts, Allison held up her hands in a defensive position while giving him a sour look. “Put away the knives and let me in, Renee sent me here,” she declared. “She’s the only reason I’m dealing with your homicidal ass on a weekend.”
His right hand hovering over his left armband while he wavered on his feet, Andrew considered those words for a couple of seconds before he clicked his tongue. “She better have a good reason for this or else I’ll slit your throat after all.”
“Such a fucking asshole,” Allison muttered as she entered the apartment, dressed as if she expected there to be cameras for some type of photo shoot inside; she wore six inch high heels with red linings on the soles, a black suede mini skirt and an ivory silk blouse with a oxblood suede cropped jacket over it with her blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, her makeup ‘subtle’ enough to mean it probably had taken half an hour to perfect.
Andrew went into the kitchen and made himself another mug of coffee, which he didn’t offer to his ‘guest’; she narrowed her blue eyes and pressed her glossed lips into a thin line but sat down at the table with her small purse set in front of her. “Again, Renee sent me here or else I’d be having a nice champagne brunch with Matt and Dan, which is preferable than dealing with you.”
“I can always end your suffering,” Andrew offered as he slumped over his coffee mug after he sat down, the ache in his ribs a dull throb.
“So generous,” Allison sneered as she fished through her purse for something. “Anyway, this is what Renee wanted you to have,” she said as she set a cloth-wrapped item down on the table. “And no, all I know is that she called me last night and told me to give it to you, that you had to have it. She was rather insistent about that and that you accept it, and was upset that she couldn’t talk to you. So you take it, you monster, just so I can tell her that you did and it’s one less thing for her to worry about, and answer your damn phone next time.”
She didn’t wait for any explanation from Andrew (not that he’d give her one), or questions from him, either (he didn’t have any, not when it was clear that she had no clue what the hell was going on, not when Renee was being just as cryptic with her girlfriend as she was with him). Andrew sat there and sipped his coffee while Allison left with her signature flounce, and didn’t even flinch when the door slammed shut a few seconds later (except to remind himself to go lock it in a minute or two).
He had about half of his drink before he pulled the wrapped bundle to him to examine its contents (to see what Renee had sent him), undoing the red string around it and flipping open the unbleached linen to expose what turned out to be an ornately carved cross (no figure on it at least) of some unknown wood with a note wrapped around it.
How disappointing.
Renee’s writing was as neat and tiny as always: Andrew, if you’ve received this, it means that something has happened which requires you to wear it. I know that you don’t possess proper faith, but sometimes a leap is required, or at least belief in the person asking you to trust them. That is the time now, and I am asking – put on the cross and trust me, will you? I believe that you will be safer for it, and I want you to be safe. There are things in the world which can’t be easily seen and defended against with simple steel, and I wish we’d had enough time to talk about what lies in the shadows and beyond before I left. Until we can, all I can ask is that you have faith in me, at least, and what I ask of you. I promise, I will explain when I return – Renee.
He stared at the words for several minutes, until the remaining coffee went cold and the letters wavered before his eyes, until he clicked his tongue and decided to put the awful thing around his neck after all. He swore that it felt warm as it settled against his breastbone, which he put down to his imagination and the meds, before he forced himself to stand up (moving was going to be unpleasant for the next few weeks) so he could lock the front door then resettle on the couch.
He used his phone to send a new email to Renee, one where he asked her once again what the hell was going on and why she thought him wearing a bit of religious flash was a good idea. Also? He didn’t appreciate the cryptic comments and expected a straight answer very soon – there was voice mail for a reason, dammit.
Did she know about Neil Josten? She did hang out a lot with Moreau, so did Frenchie say something about the new guy to her?
Why did Andrew feel annoyed about the thought of Josten and Moreau being all buddy-buddy? About there perhaps being something more between the two young men?
He took more meds and curled up with the heating pad and slept as much as possible, the usual nightmares held at bay for once, and ignored his phone since Renee didn’t seem to be answering his questions.
On Tuesday, he slapped the medicated wraps around his bruised ribs and took some over the counter pain pills before he shuffled off to work, and dealt with a frantic Nicky as well as an assessing Aaron in the break room. “Bruised ribs, eh? It’s gonna suck to be you for a while,” his oh-so understanding brother said in-between sips of coffee.
“Oh my god, why didn’t you say something? I could have brought over food! Eric made this amazing stew on Saturday, we had plenty of leftovers!” Nicky exclaimed. “You could have told us!” Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re wearing a necklace? I thought you didn’t go for stuff like that.”
Andrew flipped him off before he accepted the cream-filled donut which Robin offered. “I have work to do, unlike some people. Leave me the hell alone.” He gave Nicky a warning stare before he turned around to head to his office, and ignored the shouted offers of help his cousin gave as he left.
Once settled at his desk (with his door locked), he made sure to better hide the metal chain of the cross necklace beneath his shirt before he went through the emails from Monday.
Bee and Dan had helped to cover for much of his cases while he’d been off, so he didn’t feel as if he’d lost a lot of ground, especially with Peter Minkin. Still, there was something he wanted to do, so he forced himself onto his feet (seriously, bruised ribs did suck) and went off to the one hallway leading to the south courtyard which was closed off that time of year because of the cooler weather. When he heard the sound of hushed voices in the usually deserted corridor, he slowed his steps and ducked into a doorway to wait until one of Nicky’s cases, Ariel Toya, walked past while shoving something down the front of her clingy, bright blue top, then stepped out when Seth Gordon came by a few seconds later.
“Fuck!” Seth took a hasty step back with his clenched hands raised as if to fend off Andrew, probably a hold-over from the days when he’d been a strung-out kid doing whatever it took to survive long enough for his next hit. “What the hell are you doing here, Minyard?”
“I thought that was my question.” Andrew leaned against the door frame, his arms folded lightly over his chest in a familiar gesture which normally put his hands near his knives – if Wymack allowed him to show up to work armed. “So what is it? Pot? It better not be anything stronger than that.” The man was on thin enough ice as it was, if he was selling dope to kids; Wymack might have helped Seth to get clean and to earn an IT degree, but he wouldn’t forgive him for selling drugs at the Foxhole.
As it was, the only thing keeping Andrew still, bruised ribs or not, lack of knives or not, was the fact that the old man had a good grasp of what went down in the Foxhole, and so probably had an idea of what Seth was doing.
“What? Hell no,” Seth snapped as he shook his head. “There’s no way I’d do that! Not to these kids.” When Andrew scoffed, Seth’s dark brown eyes blazed with an anger that appeared more righteous than guilty. “It’s just cigarettes, okay? I don’t even charge the kids anything, I just let them know that they can come to me and I’ll sneak ‘em a few, help ‘em out with their cravings and keep ‘em from doing something stupid like try to steal any or go after something worse.” His anger faded as he let out a steady breath and rubbed at his inner left forearm, which bore similar scars to Matt’s. “Turn me in to Wymack if you don’t believe me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Andrew drawled. “And why should any of us believe you?” So far the story and Seth’s reaction seemed believable, which was the only reason why Wymack wasn’t becoming involved.
“Because I’m not going to fuck this up, okay?” Seth took to glaring again as he jabbed a finger in Andrew’s direction, the flush back on his light brown cheeks yet he knew better than to touch him. “I know what you think about me, you and your family, but I do more than just play on a computer all day and I’m taking classes at night so I can help out these kids, too. Little more than a year and I can be an addiction counselor.”
How impressive. “That’s if you don’t get in trouble for handing out tobacco to minors,” Andrew reminded him.
“Fucking asshole,” Seth muttered as his hands clenched into fists once more. “What do you want? If you were going to get me in trouble, you’d be halfway to Wymack’s office already.”
Seth Gordon wasn’t a complete moron. “Neil Josten’s personnel files by the end of the day,” Andrew told him with a curt nod. “And if I find out you’re giving cigarettes to kids who aren’t already addicted or ‘charging’ them? It’s not Wymack you need to be worried about.” It was one thing to help wean the kids who already were addicted slowly off their habit, but another thing entirely to prey on any of them.
“I’m not going to harm these kids, you asshole,” Seth called out as Andrew walked away.
No, he wouldn’t, Andrew would make certain of it; he wouldn’t tell Wymack about what Seth was doing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pass it on to Renee in an upcoming email as ‘interesting’ work gossip. At the least, she’d let Allison know, who might want to give her ex-boyfriend an earful for his dubious life choices.
Andrew had time for another cup of coffee before his appointment with Peter and Josten; he told himself that he wasn’t eager to see the young man, to gage his reaction after what had happened in the parking lot on Friday.
To find out why Renee had insisted that Andrew wear some stupid cross when he didn’t believe in such things.
Despite leaving for the one play room a little early, Andrew wasn’t the first to arrive, what a surprise. No, Josten was already there, dressed in his usual wardrobe of worn jeans and overlarge sweater, with the thick strands of his dark brown hair mostly hiding the bandaged cut on his forehead.
The younger man gave him a cautious stare as he once more stood off to the side by one of the bookshelves, mindful to remain out of reach, and Andrew thought he caught a flash of guilt over the way that he moved slowly to his usual chair at the table in the middle of the room, a flash that was quickly smothered.
Now what did Josten have to be guilty about, hmm? Andrew gazed at his colleague while he tapped his fingers against the table, possessed by a sudden urge for a cigarette, and shivered as there was a blast of cold for a couple of seconds. He thought that Josten frowned a moment later for some reason, but was distracted by Abby arriving with Peter.
“Mr. Minyard!” Peter broke into a wide smile and waved to him while he greeted him in Russian, then followed it by managing a mostly understandable ‘I hope you’re all right,’ in English which made Abby beam and even drew a slight smile from Josten.
“He worked on that yesterday,” Josten murmured before he shifted forward a little so he could begin translating.
They spent a few minutes with Peter asking Andrew about his weekend and if he really was okay, which Andrew assured him that he was fine (oh, was there a slight twitch from Josten at that?); it was worth the deviation from Peter’s routine to build a better sense of trust with the boy, to allow him a sense of curiosity and put any fears he had to rest. Andrew wouldn’t be in the child’s life forever, not when the goal was to help him get better and find him a safe home with people who’d care for him… but Andrew never cut himself off from any of his ‘kids’ and checked up on them as much as he could.
Once Peter had settled down, Andrew asked him some more questions about his mother and father, about the fights they had and how the woman would do her best to protect Peter; he was slowly building the case against Peter’s abusive father, to show that the woman wouldn’t have abandoned her son, as the asshole claimed. Josten assisted in keeping Peter calm, and by the end of the hour there was a little more information to hand over to the police, a few more blocks added to the wall that would lock away Peter’s father a long, long time come.
Josten made to leave as soon as Abby took Peter away, but Andrew threw out his right arm to stop the man, the motion alone enough to divert his flight. “What about Peter’s English assessment?”
Andrew was given a sour look for the question. “I sent it to you via email last week, and as you can see, he’s started English classes this week,” Josten informed him as he settled back against the bookshelf, the sleeves of his dark grey sweater tugged over his hands and gaze wary beneath the strands of his bangs.
“With you? Are you handling his English lessons?”
“No, that’ll be someone who’s certified to teach, I only handle translations and can help him with phrases here and there.” Josten cast a longing glance to the door before he focused on Andrew once more. “So unless it’s about what happens in our sessions or an evaluation, we’ve nothing to talk about.”
Oh, someone was a hopeful fool, weren’t they? “There’s something off about you. You don’t add up,” Andrew informed the liar as he slowly, carefully, stood to his feet.
Josten was quiet for a couple of seconds while Andrew swore he felt a quick blast of chill again, off to the far left. “I’m not a math equation.”
“No, but I’m going to solve you none the less,” Andrew promised as he tapped his right fingers against the top of the table in quick succession. “I won’t allow anything to endanger these kids.”
“Neither will I.” Josten’s sharp jaw (so much of the man was sharp, was defined angles and slopes and jutting bones poking through thick layers of cloth, were invitations for hands to stroke along and cup and- and Andrew hated himself for that treasonous thought) clenched in obvious anger while his eyes flashed with the emotion before he managed to get a hold on himself. “I’d never bring harm down on a child.”
Hmm, he sounded so sincere… but how often had Andrew heard adults say that they had a child’s best interest at heart, had watch them smile and promise to look after him, only to turn around and lay hands on him (and worse) once they were alone?
“I’m watching you,” Andrew said as he rocked back on his heels. “And I’ll figure you out, too, whatever it is you’re hiding.”
“Fuck you.” Josten glared for a couple of seconds before he stalked out of the room. As he left, several items from the bookshelf tumbled to the floor, including a few heavy ones such as books and wooden toys that fell perilously close to Andrew.
He frowned as he went over to see if the shelf had fallen free from its fastenings somehow – and almost ended on his face as he tripped at a ripple in the carpet, saved only by catching on to the back of the chair. Muttered curses slipped past his clenched teeth for about half a minute as pain washed through him from his jostled ribs, and when he finally could stand upright again, he left the room (and the mess it contained) for the next occupants to deal with so he could have another cup of coffee and a pain pill.
Seth better come through with Josten’s files sooner rather than later, because Andrew was going to be in a full body cast if he had to deal with the enigma much longer.
Renee should have sent him a damn four-leaf clover.
*******
Obviously I don’t recommend what Seth’s doing here (giving teenagers cigarettes, even if with the best of intentions), but he means well.
#nekojitachanfics#ghost in you fic#neil josten#andrew minyard#mary hatford#the foxes#all for the game#aftg#ghosts
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Small walnut stash box has just been added to the shop! Happy Saturday! . . . . . . . #forageworkshop #stashbox #woodturned #woodisgood #woodenbox #walnutbox #ringbox #youcanputyourweedinthere #treasurebox #woodgrain #woodworking #etsyselleretsymaker #meetthemaker #foragedwood #planttrees #sustainabledesign #njmaker #happysaturday https://www.instagram.com/p/BvWz1H9nltJ/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=85n4xedg7nov
#forageworkshop#stashbox#woodturned#woodisgood#woodenbox#walnutbox#ringbox#youcanputyourweedinthere#treasurebox#woodgrain#woodworking#etsyselleretsymaker#meetthemaker#foragedwood#planttrees#sustainabledesign#njmaker#happysaturday
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