#also finally went to the library and read a bit of a book on woodworking

[eluthanai]

Lack or Inability

The evening sun was warm for this late in the summer in Eluthane. They might even be spared the autumn freeze longer than usual, Hiereus thought as he walked with a basket of goods from the storerooms below the Temple.

Though the Eluthane counsel oversaw the work, the Temple priesthood was responsible for distributing goods to each family. Every week most of the city would come to the green outside the Temple to exchange empty baskets for one full of allotted provisions.    

Most got the same each week, though requested items would often be included. Books from the Temple library, toys for children, clothing, or materials for hobbies and work.  

While most came to the green themselves, some couldn’t each week, and for that the priesthood delivered items to homes. This brought Hiereus to the door of Patos, a man he had seldom met. No sound came from the home when he knocked. “Patos, are you home?” he called. “It’s Hiereus, you know Phose’s son. My sister and I were recently made priests.” His mother let him know this might happen, still he waited a bit.

“I have your food, and the book you requested.” still no answer. “I wanted to know if you needed anything I can bring you next time?” Something shifted inside and then silence; at least he knew Patos was home even if he didn’t respond.  “I can just leave this at your door for you. Send word to the Temple if you need anything else,” he said setting down the basket before leaving.

He had walked a few yards off when the door opened. “Wait,” the man’s voice called, “I need you to return my empty baskets.”

Hiereus smiled as he returned to the house.

“I… Um…” Patos started, “have two baskets to send back with you, and a pot that I finished the preserves from a month ago.” He retreated into his home to find the baskets.

With the door left open Hiereus could see inside. Wooden and ceramic figures of animals, people, trees, and so forth were displayed on shelves on the far side of the room. The detail and liveliness of the art was exceptional.

He had seen some of Patos’ work before. Occasionally his work came through the Temple to either be exported or given to members of the community. Hiereus’ friend Luso had grown up playing with a wooden fox that Patos made.

“Oh, thank you,” Hiereus said, accepting the stack of baskets and a carefully cleaned pot. “I have to say your sculptures are lovely.”

Patos smiled vaguely, “Thanks,” he said, “I haven’t made anything for a while.”

“Still, you’re very good at it.” Patos nodded and looked uncomfortable so Hiereus changed the subject, “Is there anything you need, or would like me to bring next week?”

“Hmm…” Patos made his expression blank and visibly shrank, “I think I’ll just read this book. I, um, haven’t felt like much recently, and with winter coming… I don’t know.” He looked down as he spoke and trailed off at the end of each sentence before starting the next.

“It’s fine if you don’t have anything to ask for. I’ll be back next week and you can let me know if you think of anything.” Hiereus offered him a friendly smile. “In the meantime, may the light of the Flame keep you and your home.” He waved as he offered the blessing.

“You as well,” Patos said, stepping back as if preparing to shut the door, and only stayed waiting for Hiereus to leave.

Hiereus smiled again and nodded before going, and he heard the door close behind him.

It was four weeks before Patos answered again.      

“I brought your week’s food,” Hiereus called. The door opened, and Patos appeared, his expression blank as if he were hiding under a mask.

“I got a sending from your mom. She said I had to answer for you today or she would come herself. I didn’t respond, but you can tell her that I answered?”

Hiereus frowned a little, he felt bad that his mom had threatened him. It wasn’t much of a threat, though for Patos it was enough.

“I felt bad I haven’t finished the book yet, but it’s past time I returned it.” Patos said, offering the book back.

“Did you enjoy reading it?”

“Oh, it’s interesting and well written,” he let slip a frown as he looked down at it. “I tried to finish it today before you arrived, I’m only about half way through it though.”

“You know, no one has requested it, if you like I can enter the log that you need more time with it.”  

“Oh don’t bother yourself,”

Hiereus offered a sympathetic frown, “Did you know it took me a long time to learn how to read?” he asked and Patos shook his head, “It was difficult for me, the letters seemed to jumble together, I still read slower than most people, so I get it if you need more time.”

“My problem’s not…” Patos started, but  Hiereus cut him off.

“You were enjoying it weren’t you?” and Patos nodded, “Then I’ll get you more time, it's not any bother for me.”

Patos pursed his lips into what could almost be called a smile. “Thanks,” he said.  “I suppose I ought to give you my empty baskets.” he went into his house to retrieve them.

He came back looking uncertain, “I,” he started, “I think I could try making something. Could you have some log sections sent up? I feel guilty not contributing when everyone else does so much.”

Hiereus nodded, and made a note of the request. His mother had explained Patos’ depression to him, and he wanted to express that it wasn’t necessary, reassure him he would be cared for even if he couldn’t work, such was the way of the Flame. Instead he said, “Your efforts are appreciated, I’ll have some wood sent over.”

“Thanks,” Patos said.

“May the light of the Flame bless you and your labors” Hiereus offered the blessing before leaving.  

In the coming weeks Patos answered more regularly for him, and seemed less guarded. One day after exchanging baskets, Patos stopped him. “Wait,” he said. “I have some things for you to take back to the Temple.”

Before long Patos returned with some wooden figures, “I’m sorry it took me so long to make them.”

Hiereus looked at each of them and placed them in the basket. A caribou, an owl, and a horse, each lifelike and highly detailed.

“These are really impressive!” Hiereus exclaimed. “To be honest, I don’t know anything about woodworking so I hadn’t expected them before now.” He also hadn’t assumed Patos simply didn’t want to make them for his own enjoyment, but he left that part unsaid. “I’m sure whomever these go to will love them.”

“Do you know if they will stay in Eluthane, or be sent out with the trade goods?” Patos asked. “I don’t know,” Hiereus confessed, “We always take into account the needs of the community first before sending items with our traders.”

“I always wonder how our work is regarded when it's sent out. I like to imagine my efforts bring joy to others. May the light of the Flame keep them strong wherever they go.”

“I’m sure they will,” Hiereus said, “I knew some of your work as a child, one of my friends had a fox you made. I’d keep something like this on display in my home, it's quite lovely.”

“I’m glad you like it. People seem to like my work,” he said. “Oh before I forget, these aren’t the only things I made for you to take back,” he added, retreating and coming back with a free form loaf of bread.

“I baked this a few hours ago. The Thuometha is in two days and I would be happy to know I contributed something.”

“My mom is taking over the role of chief priest from Eipen this year. I’ll talk to both of them and have it included. Thank you for this. Do you need me to bring any more flour to replace it?” he said.

“Oh, no. I don’t always eat it fast enough anyways. Thank you for taking my contributions.”

Hiereus nodded, “May the Flame’s light preserve your will.” He gave the blessing, and Patos returned it before leaving.

***

It was late in the evening after the Thuometha. Hiereus had been disappointed but not surprised when he realized Patos had missed the communal meal, and he had taken it on himself to set aside a pot with portions of each of the dishes to take up to the man’s home.

“Patos, It’s Hiereus, I brought food from the Thuometha.” The door opened and Hiereus could see the man had been crying.

“It’s getting cold out. Do you need to step inside?” Patos asked.

Hiereus nodded and came in.

“Thank you for bringing me some of the meal. I tried to come this year, but well I find it difficult to go places,” he said sitting at his table. “I don’t remember how many years it's been since I was able to go. I do miss it though, the celebrations, the community sacrifice, the red of an Euluthanai fire. I could see the braziers on the green from my window; that was nice.”

“I gave your loaf to my mom, they used it for the ritual.”

With that Patos eyes lit up, “Thanks for letting me know; I’m glad I had something to offer. I wish it were easier for me to go to such things.”  

Hierus nodded, “I don’t know if you’re interested,” he said, “but the lighting of the kiln is in a couple weeks. It’ll be my first time taking part in a public ritual.”

“Oh, congratulations!” Patos said warmly, “I… Well I’ll try to go, but I can’t promise anything. I have a hard time with crowds. I haven’t been to a lot for a long time.”

“You know there is always someone at the Temple keeping the Flame under the central oculus. Throughout the night just one or two priests attend it at a time. My sister and I will be taking a turn day after tomorrow. You know me, and if you know me you pretty much know her. You said you missed seeing the red of an Eluthanai fire... if you came it would just be the three of us and the Flame.”

“That would be nice, I’ll probably take you up on that.”

Hiereus nodded, “I’d best be going, enjoy the food. It should still be warm in that pot.”

***

What was called spring elsewhere was more than half gone when the snow finally retreated in Eluthane. Patos never came to the Temple in the nights when Hiereus kept the flame, though he still delivered his baskets every week.  

“Do you mind walking with me for a bit,” Patos asked one evening when Hiereus came.

“Sure there’s still plenty of daylight left,” he answered.

“Thanks,” Patos said, “I like to see the spring flowers on the hillside when they come. It's my favorite in the cycle of seasons.”

Hiereus gestured for Patos to lead on and they walked in silence. Occasionally a passer by would stop them to chat and Hiereus would talk and perform the expected niceties before continuing.

The hillside was speckled with little yellow and orange flowers, and they looked out at them for a bit. Later they walked past the edge of the forest where pine trees were just putting on new growth and the normally dark evergreens were speckled with young light green branches.

“Thank you,” Patos said as they approached his home again. “People are very welcoming, but I never know what to say to people if they want to talk. So thank you for helping me go out today.”

“It was no problem,” Hiereus said, “During the spring and summer at least I can probably go walking each week when I come.”

“Every week sounds like a lot for me, but thank you, I’ll let you know if I’m up to it,” he answered. “Oh before you go...” and Patos retreated into his house, and returned holding a wooden sculpture of a wind blown tree on a hill.

“I had thought to give this to you on a night when I visited you keeping the Flame at the Temple, but I don’t know when I’ll work myself up to go out at night. Anyways I made this when I was about your age.”

“This is…” he stopped, lost for words. “You were very talented even back then. Thank you.”

“I made that for my mother, and I’ve kept it since she died. I want you to have it now, because…” he hesitated, “you remind me of her in a way. I’m sorry. That’s a weird thing to say.” he chuckled nervously.  

“It’s fine,” Hiereus said, looking down at the gift.

“I was saying before, Eluthane is welcoming, but I don’t know how to be with people, and very few take time to even silently spend time with me. Still I don’t know if I could survive anywhere else.”

“The Way of the Flame is a shelter,” Hiereus said.

“It is,” Patos responded.

They sat quietly for several minutes after that. “I should let you go,” Patos said, “it still gets very cold after dark, but thank you again for your time.”

“Thanks again, for the gift.” Hiereus said, standing, “It really is a treasure. Take care and may the Flame guard and guide your path.”

Patos nodded and waved him on.

[angelicamerlinbarnes]

TUA SHOPS / MALL AU

(This is a weird ass mall just work with me here okay)

(Oh, and did I mention they’re all staying in the mall because they’re the last humans left after the zombie apocalypse?)

(BEWARE: mentions of abuse and harassment/assault, murder, death, annihilation, zombies, implied cannibalism but that kind of comes with the territory with zombies let's be honest, etc.)

(If you can handle watching Umbrella Academy, this will be fine for you.)

(Mechanics Shop) Luther came here after an accident left him deformed and lonely. He expects he’ll be there the rest of his life, having no other prospects to fall back on, and he actually thinks that might be alright, maybe. He likes fixing cars well enough and the donuts at Agnes’ are to die for, even if he has to pay for them with some bickering with Diego. He has a good routine - a good life. Until the zombies come to town and stay, and Allison the Fallen Angel Actress comes with them.

(Bakery) Diego took over the bakery when Agnes died. He’s been here since the first zombies came in, and sleeps around with Klaus almost every day, though they both deny feeling any sort of love for each other. (What fucking liars.) Diego wants to get the fuck out, to end it all if that’s what it takes, but his family keeps him here. And then Klaus storms off after one of their fights, and gets bitten, and Diego holds him in his arms as he fades, finally confessing that he loves him. Klaus looks at him with his wide green eyes one last time, whimpering Diego’s name, and Diego makes a split-second decision and kisses him on the mouth. And Klaus bites his lip.

(High-End Fashion) Allison was an actress who fell from grace about a week before the apocalypse. She came to stay with her brother Klaus and Ray, her childhood friend whom she’s almost laughably in love with, helped her get a job here. It’s just as well, since the zombies moved in three days later and they’ve been trapped here ever since.

(Vintage Shop) Klaus is happy to have Allison back in his life. He’s been stuck here in the mall in this weird vintage record/clothing/shoe/whatever store since he turned seventeen, hooked on drugs and going mad. He’s a brilliant inventor, but he can’t cure zombies. And he can’t cure a broken heart, which is what he’s got ever since Dave. And Diego - oh, Diego - Klaus loves him more than he thought it was possible to love another human being, and Diego - Diego - Diego is gonna leave him to save the goddamn world. Fuck, Klaus needs a drink.

(Comic Book Store) Five hates people, but he hates them even more when they’re dead. He’s crazy okay, he knows that - his best friend Dolores died in the first wave and he’s been pretending this mannequin he stole is her ever since. He buries himself in his comic books to distract himself from the doomsday sure to come soon enough, and finds solace in his family’s company - mostly Ben and Diego and Klaus. When Diego and Klaus are turned, Five is the one who has to burn their bodies… and that’s what makes him do it, really. End the world.

(Library) Ben has been researching zombies since long before they were real. One of them tried to bite him, but he dodged them, though only by leaping too close to a grenade. As he was dying from the gashes in his chest filled with shrapnel, Klaus found him and dragged him to safety inside the mall. They’d never met before that day, but now they’re partners, especially as it was one of Klaus’ wacky inventions that did and continues to save Ben’s life, implanted in his chest and keeping his lungs from being impaled by the shrapnel. Ben will always carry, both figuratively and literally, a piece of Klaus in his heart.

(Musical Shop) Vanya mostly stays in her music shop, playing violin by herself. Klaus likes to tweak all the other instruments so they play by themselves like ghosts. Vanya doesn’t let herself get bitten - but Leonard tried. And she made him pay. She spends her days with Sissy, trying to cheer up the beautiful woman she fell in love with when she first moved here… but Sissy is a shell of herself, sad and lost and lonely, and there’s nothing Vanya can do to change that, no matter how hard she tries. And she tries. So. Goddamn. Hard.

(Tech Store) Ray is just trying to get the wifi working again. He reads as many books as he can, mostly on civil rights movements and survivalist theory, but there’s not much time. If they want to send out a signal for help, someone has to brave the outside and reattach the antenna. And Ray knows, has always known, that that’s gonna be him.

(Martial Arts Studio) Lila used to be a martial arts teacher before all this shit went down. She watched her studio and students get ripped to shreds by zombies, and she could save nobody. She made it to the mall by pure luck, and is decorated in scars from scratches and attempted bites. She still practices her craft every day, training to break them out to somewhere safer. But the longer she spends here, the more she knows they’ll never make it - they’re all going to die for each other, in the end. And die for each other they do.

(Record Shop) Eudora used to be a cop. She’s always been on the side that’s moral, righteous, and good. So what’s she supposed to do now that she has to steal and kill to survive? (Make Diego do it for her, that’s how.) She’s bunkered down in the record store, blasting music throughout the mall randomly every day. She’s found out classical lulls the zombies to sleep and metal sends them running. But they always return, more feral than before. She falls so deeply in love with Lila she’s terrified to act on it, but in the end it doesn’t matter - Lila is bitten, and Eudora’s the one who has to burn her down.

(Cooking Store) Sissy is anxious and paranoid, having lost her son Harlan in the first wave of zombies. He ate her husband - not that she cared. He was a dick. But - but - her son. She drifts along like a ghost now, without him. Vanya loves her, and holds her, and takes care of her, but there’s just nothing that can be done. When the zombies finally get in, Sissy just bares her neck and gives in.

(Baby Boutique) Grace is a brilliant inventor and healer who taught Klaus everything he knows. She’s responsible for the shields and fences that keep the zombies out of the mall, and is working towards a cure for the zombie infection. Hopefully one she can dump out on the masses. She dies fighting off the zombies long enough for Ray to fix the antennae, feeling humanity slip out of her as she stares at the sun and moon, eclipsing in the distance. She figures a blind zombie is better than another seeing one.

(Evil CEO) Reginald invented the zombie serum, and he’s not sorry. It’s just a spot of fun that… got out of control, he guesses. He just had some people he needed to get rid of, and this way everyone would be focusing more on the oh-my-god-real-life-zombies part than the hold-up-were-they-murdered part. But then Ben figures it out. Reginald’s stupid, annoying, nerdy son figures it out. And what was Reginald to do? Just let him live? His Klaus-touched heart sits in Reginald’s bloody hand, and Reginald grins and shoves it in his mouth whole.

(Wedding Boutique) The Handler is that crazy bitch who wears wedding dresses every day. She always looks a bit sick, but she also always wears crazy make-up, so they just brush it off. Until one day Five catches her changing and sees the prominent bite marks all over her, proving she’s been bitten nearly six times over. She turns around and looks at him, sneers, and opens her gaping maw when he grabs a nearby candelabra and sets her hair on fire.

(Sports Store) Hazel and Cha-Cha are partners who have been here since the beginning of the apocalypse. Hazel used to be a girls’ soccer coach and Cha-Cha ran the boys’ football team at the same high school, but that’s all over now. Hazel’s been fucked up since Agnes died (only of natural causes. Ha!) and Cha-Cha’s seen her zombie walking around since then. She makes it her mission to shoot it down before Hazel sees it, and manages - but the two of them still go out in a blaze of glory together, sacrificing themselves to take out a horde of the undead just days before the mall falls.

(Woodworking Shop) Leonard got bitten in the third wave, just before entering the mall. He made it a week before they found out. He tried to bite Vanya and she pitched him over the side of the terrace. They use the logs from his wood shop to kill zombies who get too close, setting them on fire and hurling them into the masses.

(Thrift Shop) Dave was travelling with Klaus, the two of them rather involved, and got bitten just before he and Klaus made it to safety. Klaus had to kill him and has been depressed about it ever since, setting Dave’s body to rest in the thrift shop where Klaus does all his experiments. Five and Grace use the body as a test subject, but Klaus doesn’t need to know that. When he figures out how to make a zombie-killing nuke, he lays the button down with Dave, hoping they’ll never have to use it since it will most certainly destroy the world along with all the zombies. The last human left alive runs from the zombies towards the button. He presses it. The zombies close in, Five shuts his eyes, and the planet explodes into nothing.

[stusbunker]

Feels Like the First Time

A Supernatural Fan-fiction

Featuring: Sam Winchester/ Rowena Macleod

Written for @spnkinkbingo​

Square Filled: Amnesia

Word Count: ~3400

Summary: Rowena takes Sam seriously and indulges them both.

Lovely Banner made by @thoughtslikeaminefield​

Warnings: 18yo+, memory wipe, smut, multiple orgasms, hinted public sex, size difference, magically enhanced sex, annoyed as hell Dean.

^*^*^

He sensed her presence before she said a word, a subtle tingle that started at the base of his neck and sank down his spine, pulling his shoulders back and head up. Sam stood tall; his eyes darting about until he was reassured what the instinctive alarm meant. In unnatural quiet, Rowena had draped herself against the doorframe, amused yet calculating as she watched them ready the ingredients. He couldn’t help but swallow at the sight of her, coiffed and elegant, something so out of place in his boots-on-the-ground, blood-under-the-fingernails kind of life.

               “Hello, boys,” Rowena purred, decadent eyes sinking into his very being.

               “Bout time you showed up,” Dean grumbled, dropping the spell book he had been using onto the table beside the muslin mat. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother and gave her a knowing shrug.

               “A bit surly aren’t ye? What’s a matter Dean, flask dry already?” Rowena bated, holding her hair to the side as she unwrapped the belt on her coat. Beneath it she was dressed in a rich maroon blazer, accented with gold, her tiny waist pinched by a matching pencil skirt. The cream-colored blouse was only a shade darker than her porcelain skin. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what was softer the satin or the parts of her it covered. Quickly, he pulled himself out of his thoughts and his eyes off their witch-to-the-rescue to help finish preparing the ingredients for the spell.

               Sam couldn’t get his hands to work properly, they were thicker now, the joints moving sluggishly. But, eventually, he had the dry ingredients diced as Rowena mixed the mucus and moss. Dean seemed to teeter over them, unsure what to do as he waited, constantly blowing or patting at his hair.

               “Alright, side-by-side you go,” she instructed with a curt nod. She paced in front of them as they settled in place, shallow bowl in her left hand as she began to recite the spell. She stopped in front of Sam first, eyes wide as she continued to chant, when he didn’t understand she beckoned him lower with a quick tug at his neck with her free hand. With a cackle from Dean, they both bent over, allowing her to cover their foreheads with the tar like concoction. At least, it didn’t smell like anything worse than a mud mask, Dean thought.

               Once Sam and Dean wore matching bands of sludge over their brows Rowena finished the spell, voice rising in pristine Latin. The moment the final word was spoken, they both fell to the floor, unconscious. Rowena daintily stepped over their bulk of muscle and limbs, to return her ingredients to their containers. She left the hunters where they lay and made her way to the library.

               An hour later, that is where Sam found her, sipping on Dean’s hidden stash of Scotch, reading. Being back in his own body again magnified every sensation, from the weight of his footsteps to the fit of his clothes. Though mostly it was the hunger, the raw aching need to touch and to take, to fill and be filled. Sam needed her and now that his hands were again his to control; he didn’t hesitate. Without a word he fell to his knees at her feet, hands resting beside her delicate shoulders on the wooden chair. If she was shocked by his antics, she didn’t let on. With a silent plea and panting breaths Sam huffed out his desperation with hazel intensity.

               Carefully setting her glass down, Rowena reached up, and crumbled the remnants of the spell from his face. Her tiny fingers were cold yet soothing, and Sam leaned into her touch, eyes closing in submission.

               She leaned forwards, rubied lips gliding passed his until she spoke hot and dark into his ear, “I don’t suppose you’d like to thank me in private?”

               Sam’s whole body shuddered, and a strangled groan was the only audible sound before he cupped her face and kissed her senseless. She broke away and snaked her hands behind his neck, locking him to her as she rubbed her nose against his. With matching grins and general disregard for Dean who was also righted, but stumbling out of the dungeon, they tucked away in Sam’s room for the foreseeable future.

               Hours later, they lay naked in each other's arms, Sam’s fingers threading through Rowena’s bright hair as she walked her nails over his chest. They sighed in the contented warmth, a mutual relief in ending up there at last. She was silently pleased that he was the one to instigate it after all his inane posturing, but he was a Winchester after all. Rowena nipped up his jaw as he faced the ceiling, lids heavy above a blissful smirk. His dimples were simply scandalous, of course she had to bite each one once they popped up again. Sam’s hand left her hair, sinking to drag her hip tight to his side. It simply fell back, teasing the cleft of her backside, one massive hand encasing her.

               “I can’t believe that actually happened,” Sam said softly, devilishly down his nose to her.

               “Don’t tell me you need a reminder already, Samuel, I’m too sore for that yet,” Rowena warned, eyes melodramatically aghast.

               Sam chuckled, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “No, just, it’d been a long time comin’.”

               “Really now?” Rowena deadpanned. “I wonder why, Mister High-and-Mighty…”

               Sam swatted her ass, dragging her on top of him as he feigned innocence. “Well, you are completely out of my league.”

               Rowena’s bottom lip popped out in consideration before she nodded. “True, poor boy. What will I do with one such as you?”

               She began to rock along his reawakened cock, graceful glides of her supple skin against his, nails digging into his upper arms as she looked him over. Sam hummed appreciatively as she sank down onto him, hot and swollen. “Thought you were sore.”

               She raised an eyebrow in return. “I thought you knew better than to question me. I take what I want,” her teeth were tight over the last word, before she leaned forward and kissed Sam again. His hands gripped her ribcage, thumbs tracing beneath her perfect tits as he thrust back into her. She arched backwards with cantered grace, letting the depths of her magic pull their bodies into a final crescendo. It was maddening how amazing it was. Sam crashed in a state of euphoria that seemed too much for his mind to process. Maybe it was Rowena’s lingering magic, maybe it was just her, but Sam no longer believed Heaven existed on the other side of a sandbox.

               “Oh gods,” Rowena fell forward with a hearty moan, her chest firm and comforting, a slender smothering Sam welcomed. He nuzzled the edge of a nipple, pinning her narrow waist in a hearty hug.

               “That was—” Sam sputtered.

               “Aye,” Rowena agreed, smiling easily as she took her turn to play with his hair.

               “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we can top that,” Sam sighed, delighted and dazed by their coupling. “Maybe it was because it was our first time—"

               “Hardly,” she tatted.

               “You know what I mean,” Sam stared at her suddenly serious, perhaps even a little self-conscious. Sam looked up at her with those puppy dog eyes that she couldn’t stand. “I’d do it all over again.”

Rowena gave a noncommittal reply before slinking her legs together and dropping to the floor. She dragged the comforter back onto the bed to cocoon inside as her body temperature evened. She let Sam hold her tight, finding his hand over her elbow oddly soothing as she drifted off with Sam’s natural furnace adding to her warmth. She awoke with the crack of dawn, and sinful inspiration.

^*^*^

               “So, she’d just bail on you? Kinda harsh,” Dean patted Sam’s back as he sat alone in the kitchen.

Sam turned to his brother in confusion. “Who bailed? What are you talking about?”

Dean stared at Sam and then shifted his weight on his feet and leaned in to really focus on him. “Rowena? Witch? About yea-high?”

“Rowena? Why would Rowena be bailing on me? I haven’t seen her in weeks,” Sam laughed awkwardly. “You okay, man? Still drunk maybe?”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of scalding hot coffee and choked. Once he could get the words out, he came back at Sam, “Trying to play it sly, really?! After the fucking show you guys put on last night. I think I went deaf in this ear trying to drown you guys out.”

“Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam tried not to laugh, but Dean’s absurd aggression over the impossible implication of hooking up with Rowena made it difficult.

“Listen, you don’t want to admit to getting walked out on, fine. But I have just one question. Carpet match the drapes?” Dean’s eyebrows pitched over his mug. Sam stood up without an answer, shaking his head at his brother’s asinine inquiry.

^*^*^

               Their next case, Rowena appeared out of the woodwork, sashaying into the crime scene with credentials from Scotland Yard and a mean streak a mile long. The locals were falling all over themselves with ma’ams and manners. Dean was not amused, especially when Sam’s voice dropped and got exponentially clumsier whenever she glanced his way.

               “Why are you here?!” Dean snapped once he was left alone with her at the morgue.

               “Hello, Rowena. Nice to see you again. Thanks for getting our heads back in our bodies after we blundered it up! Like always,” Rowena retorted, doing a horrible mockery of Dean’s voice.

               Dean sighed, waiting for her rant to run its course. He read over the medical examiner’s report before pulling back the sheet on the latest victim, noticing intricate tattoos on the insides of each wrist.

               “Seriously, what’s your angle? This case barely hit our radar, what’s it to you?” Dean pressed.

               “I’m not the culprit, if that’s what you mean to say!” Rowena primped, tisking at Dean as he continued to look over the body.

“Got something to say, spit it out,” Dean snipped from across the room.

Rowena shrugged dramatically. “It’s nothing, dear. Just a wee bit of ectoplasm along the nasal passage and defensive wounds along one side of the body. But I’m sure a lifelong hunter, a professional of your caliber, noticed such things.”

Dean double flashed his phone’s flashlight up the guy’s nose to find Rowena correct, his head slumped in defeat. He called Sam at the victim’s house, in the process trying not to let Rowena out of his sight. “We got ecto on the vic.”

“Vengeful spirit, huh,” Sam thought aloud. “Okay, well, meet back at the motel? Figure out who we gotta burn?”

“Sounds good. Hide the china though, Glinda hasn’t gone back to Oz,” Dean lamented.

“Whatever you say,” Sam agreed.

^*^*^

               Rowena appreciated a man that could handle physical labor, watching Sam dig the rocky grave was quite a sight. Especially since he was always more the studious type, though she knew firsthand what kind of power his body held. And she wasn’t done with him. The air seemed to hum around them as they watched Dean set the bones on fire, Sam glancing down at her as she reached up to his hair, pulling away dead grass from his efforts. Her dark eyes reflected the flames and Sam lost all sense of control, he crashed into her, mouth open and hands tugging. Dean didn’t even bother complaining, he just walked away as Sam pinned her against a tree. He let Sam walk back to the motel for that traumatizing visual.              

^*^*^

               Their third first time was after a long case when Rowena hadn’t been able to counteract the aftermath of another witch’s botched spell. Visibly shaken over her unexpected shortcomings, Sam held her tight as she tried not to cry. His large hand trailed over her back in languid motions, warm and soothing.

               “You did what you could, no one blames you,” Sam murmured.

               “I bloody should be able to clean up after an amateur, Samuel. I’ve been doing this for so long, maybe I am getting rusty,” she trailed off, not meaning to continue the trail of thought aloud.

               “Hey, look at me?” Sam demanded, pulling her face up towards his with a whisk of his fingertips over her jaw. “You are as sharp as ever. Don’t let someone else’s mistakes take away from what you are.”

               “And what’s that, hmm?” Rowena hummed, eyes sparkling against Sam’s intense affirmation.

               “The most badass witch I have ever—” Sam huffed until his face broke open into a grin of a much younger man. “You’re amazing, you know that. I don’t have to tell you.”

               She tightened her fists into his shirts. “But it sounds so much better when you say it, dear.”

               Sam wiped away a stray tear that had escaped her controlled façade, thick thumb tracing her sharp cheekbone until they fell into a breath of a kiss. Tender and timid.

               “I didn’t figure you’d be a gentle one,” Rowena teased, pressing against him in urgency. They moved in a trance of silent adoration and gentle longing towards Sam’s room. There, they went slowly, lips and hands exploring each other in layers. The hunger grew in his eyes as he saw each fresh strip of flesh, pale and ageless against her overstated lingerie. He kissed down her taut stomach, stubble burning as he tore away the delicate fabric keeping him from tasting her at last. He sank between her thighs as a pilgrim at a prayer rail, gracious and pleading. Swearing oaths and praising her name. She fell apart flushed with emotion; uncertain she could continue such games.

               Sam tucked her into his side, holding her close as he sank into her. Filling her without his lips, eyes or hands ever leaving her skin. She writhed beneath him, keening every version of his name, shaking as he grunted into her hair, sweet nothings that meant more than anything had before. His hand splayed over her heart as he found his release, her name a promise on his lips.

               She woke him with her twisted smile teasing him until he opened his eyes, her nimble fingers dwarfed by his length. He lay back and watched her work, yesterday’s makeup fading onto a somehow younger looking face. Her ancient eyes couldn’t fool him though, they poured out the things she hadn’t said, giving Sam much more than the sweet pulse of her tongue could offer. His throat bobbed as he clenched his jaw, straining as she took him deeper, cupping his balls as her wordless syllables pulled him over the edge in the still morning air.

               Rowena climbed up his body, leaning back against the pillows in signature refinement as Sam groaned and stretched his waking limbs. He kissed her cheek before heading to relieve himself, lingering on the sight of her in his bed. She drank in his proud smirk before burying herself back into his sheets. He woke her late in the morning, with a strong cup of tea and a shy smile.

               “So, Dean’s gone for a few hours, running errands. I don’t really know what you do for fun, but I was kind of hoping we could spend some time together?” Sam stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting for Rowena to blow him off completely.

               Gracefully she set her cup on his desk. She stood, tugging at the neck of his tee shirt so it fell to the back of her knees. “Sam, my idea of fun is precisely what you’ve spent your life fighting against. I’m a witch. You’re a hunter.”

               “What are you saying?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, straightening to his full height. “Are you telling me that you didn’t want this?”

               “No!” She said firmly, turning away. “Perhaps--- it was just all just well and good. Truly, the best. But—I’ve not been honest with ye. And I don’t think you’d want me taking up your free time if you knew everything.”

               “Rowena, what did you do?” Sam relaxed as she dropped back to his bed, looking almost childlike in his shirt, hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

               “It was something you said, the first time. The real first time, a sheoid,” she leaned into each word, eyes pleading for his patience.

               “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam sank beside her, anger and curiosity battling within him.

               “Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve shared your bed. You said you wished we could do it all over again and I thought—” Rowena couldn’t help but smile at the memory, but her voice stumbled once she saw the pain in his eyes.

               “You tricked me,” Sam sighed.

               She turned to face him, pulling his hand into her lap, snugly in her own. “Just a wee memory patch, I can take it away if you’d like?”

               “How many?” Sam said evenly, glaring slightly into her eyes.

               “How many patches or how many bouts? You need to be more specific,” Rowena teased, tongue clipping each word out.

               Sam’s eyes bulged, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Both.”

               “Just two patches, but it was quite a few rounds. I dare say your stamina is—” Rowena started to gush, blowing out her appreciation as she watched Sam squirm.

               “You’re gonna fix my memories, but I need to know one thing before you go digging in my head again.” Sam pointed at her with his free hand.

               “Alright then, out with it,” Rowena rolled her eyes, leaning back to rest on her hands, crossing her bare legs at him.

               “What made you stop? You could have kept leading me along, having your way with me and wiping the slate clean. But something was different today. Why?” Sam’s voice pulled her apart, his eyes intense and knowing. He challenged her in a way only he could and she hated him for it.

               She chewed on her tongue before making a pathetic offer. “I could just leave them lie. You’d be none the wiser and I could be on my way.”

               Sam shook his head at her, the air thick as she felt the remnants of her emotional walls drift away on the breeze.

               “You! You, stupid moose. You come in here with tea, proper strength and sugars and then you stand there, like you do. Tall and offering up your day, like some doaty loun.” Rowena groans and presses her hands to his temples, frustrated she kept going.

               “Because I’m done pretending, Sam. I don’t want you to forget. Satisfied?”

               Sam held her wrists, and searched her eyes, before he could say anything, she kissed him. All of her inhibitions and pretense left on the floor beside her gown. She kissed him like it would be the last time, but he didn’t let her go. He pulled her onto his lap until neither one could breathe.

               “Do it.” Sam leered out of the tops of his eyes. “Before you make me forget again.” He winked at her then. She began muttering under her breath, nails digging into his scalp as she peeled away the layers dulling his memories. It was over in less than a minute. Sam’s eyes slammed closed, too many sensations flooded his system as he remembered pulling splinters out of his knuckles, unspoken for sore muscles and jaw falling into place along their lost timeline.

               “There. Good as new?” Rowena waited for Sam to reply.

               “You fixed us. Why would you hide that?” Sam wondered aloud. Rowena tried to shrug it off, standing as she collected her clothing.

               “Hey—I’m not mad,” Sam pulled her back to him, holding her waist as she stood between his feet. “Don’t do that ever again, but I’m good, if we're good?”

               “We as in—” Rowena grumbled.

               “Us,” Sam nodded infectiously, dimples pulling her from her shell. She rolled her eyes and huffed defiantly.

               “Fine. You want a fecking hen, Samuel. You have one. Happy?” Rowena pushed him playfully.

               “Yup,” Sam pulled her back with him, popping the p. She giggled against his lips as he tucked her hair out his way.

               Later that day, Dean returned, startled to find Sam and Rowena reading on the couch together. She had her hair back and barely any makeup on, but the way Sam was looking at her, Dean didn’t point out the shift. A glib ‘finally’ his only celebration.

^*^*^

[ask-de-writer]

THE HOUSE, (part 2 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

THE HOUSE

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

© 2020

Written 1990

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may  reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in  my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical  compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge  for their images.

All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

///////////////////////

Next, I began to check the walls for hidden panels or the like. The walls of the parlor, sitting room, and kitchen were smooth with elaborate flocked paper. The wainscots were all of solid, if elaborate, woodwork. That left the study, dining room, and library. I set eagerly to work. The paneled walls of the study proved depressingly solid.

I was delighted when I finally found the basement stair in the library. A bookcase camouflaged a hidden door with the spring catch concealed as one of the few knots visible anywhere in the wood of the house.

Flashlight in hand, I ventured down the short flight of stairs. The basement proved to be small and bare. It had mortared stone walls and a cement floor. There were no hiding places, even the space under the stairs was empty, no rats, no dust, and no cobwebs … Slowly I went back up the stairs to the library.

I put away my flashlight and went to the study to look at the land records again. The papers revealed that the house’s first buyer was George Oates. His brother and sole heir sold the house seven years later. His name was Harold.

As I am something of a bibliophile, I decided to give the house’s library a detailed look. I was more than pleasantly surprised. Not one book was published later than 1866. Many were far older. Some of the books went back to the 1400’s. Mr. Wickes was apparently somewhat dishonest, intellectually. He had signed and dated the flyleaf of each book, for example, “Hiram Wickes, acquir’d 1565.” Some of the dates went back to 1540 in books published from 1483 to 1497. He would have to have been over 300 years old, if the inscriptions were true.

Hiram was heavily into the occult. There was little that did not pertain to the various occult ‘sciences.’ Even the books in foreign tongues, and there were many, had illustrations that indicated that they belonged to this awesome collection of lore. The impression was that Hiram had read all or most of this collection. His marginal notes were in a wide range of languages, often not the language of the book in question. From scanning the shelves, I deduced that there were over twenty five hundred books in the library.

My near drenching of the day before had taught me that it was wise to take my car into town. Mrs. Alderman greeted me at the slightly shabby old counter that served the library for a check-out desk. “My goodness, young man, how did you get on when the power went out? I have a gas range, ‘cause you never can tell when, hereabouts, the power might go.”

“I’ve got gas where I’m staying, too,” I told her, “I made out okay.”

“Well,” she said knowingly, “the radio says it’ll be another two-three hours before we got power again. Why don’t you go sit by that window? It’ll give you light all morning.”

I thanked her and turned at once to the death certificates. Bingo! George Oates, his wife Wilfreda, daughters - Caroline and Charity, and son Harold (named for George’s brother in Boston), had all been declared legally dead, seven years having passed since their disappearance, and all reasonable attempts at contact having failed. Now, the reason for that malevolent plaque came into focus.

Turning to the letters, I started with the earliest. The Post Office had saved Hiram’s mail in the hope that it would yield some clue to his whereabouts. This practice was followed in the disappearance of all subsequent owners of the house. Hiram’s mail was of considerable interest to any who might know a bit of the occult and something of rare books, as I did. The first letter follows:

My Dear Hiram:

It is with the utmost concern that I read your last communication. You were always my most talented pupil and are a valued associate. I pray you, please, reconsider the rash course that you are now contemplating.

Remember, your copy of Alhazarad is not a good one. The edition of 1784 contains many minor lacunae. Before you attempt anything, consult also the Pnakotic Manuscripts and collate what you learn there with Von Junst.

I know that reading the Pnakotic Manuscripts is a difficult and time-consuming task. Never forget that the source of your present wealth and mine lies in those ancient pages. There is much wisdom there for those with the courage to seek. Everything must be checked against other knowledge.

To call upon Him Whose Name Must NOT be Uttered for so trivial a task is a sure way to serious mishap. Remember, your Alhazarad is incomplete!

In concern for your welfare,

I remain, Richten

At Darkhouse, Arkham, Mass.

Unfortunately, the authorities were unable to trace the mysterious Richten or his address. Arkham, Mass. is, of course well known to all scholars and bibliophiles as the home of Miskatonic University, with its astounding collection of rare books of occult lore.

I had never heard of the Pnakotic Manuscripts but the other items mentioned in the letter were familiar to me. Alhazarad could be none other than the author of the infamous Necronomicon. The 1784 edition survives only as a fragmentary copy in the vaults of Miskatonic University. Von Junst could only be the almost as infamous Black Book. This book also survives in only a few priceless copies. Two of the best ones lurked in the vaults of the rare book collection at Miskatonic. They were separate editions, published a century apart.

Another letter, about a week later than the first, was a bit more specific. Richten started in much the same vein as before but went on:

Calling so mighty a being for so trivial a task is absolutely insane. I know that you enjoy tidiness. Who does not? Yet He Whose Name Must NOT be Uttered is not a mere servant and can be disastrously literal, even when all else is done perfectly.

Binding Him, as you have, cannot please Him. What you have learned from the Necronomicon and the Pnakotic Manuscripts has enabled you to compel Him to bring you gold. The first time that He did was almost fatal. Remember, being able to compel is not the same as being master.

For your own safety, Do Not Do This!!!

Wishing you the best,

Your friend and former Master,

Richten

At Darkhouse, Arkham, Mass.

There were also, unfortunately, not translated, letters from Korea, China, India, the 0ttoman Empire, Germany, France, Morocco, and several places in South America. Apparently our Mr. Wickes had been something of a polyglot and did in fact read all of the languages of the books in his library.

It appeared that a careful search of the house, attic to basement, was in order. If there were any chance that I might find a copy of either the Necronomicon or the Black Book, I could turn a fine profit. Either book in almost any condition, was worth in far in excess of mere $45,000.00 that I had paid for the house.

Turning to the newspaper clippings, I found mostly stories of the disappearances of people who had bought the Wickes place. The George Oates family was only the first. They were not alone. The clippings gave some flesh to the legal death declarations. There was another detail to add to my list. No trace was ever found of the possessions of any person who vanished.

Electric wiring had been installed. Several times. It too had vanished without a trace. After each disappearance, the house was exactly as it had been when Hiram Wickes vanished. Even if the furniture and books were sold or even burned, everything always came back.

The Reverend Orville Olson piled all of Hiram’s books and furniture on the lawn and burned it all. He then exorcised the whole place of the “evil ghost of Hiram Wickes.” To prove that the evil was gone, he spent the night in the house. The burn scar on the lawn and the Reverend Olson both vanished. The furniture and books returned.

I made careful tracings of the strange gold coin in the file and made longhand copies of such of the letters as I could and included all of the oddments that I knew of Hiram Wickes and the Wickes house, and prepared the lot for mailing. I addressed it to Professor Gordon Wetherbee at Miskatonic University.

He was a sort ‘uncle’ to me. He and my father had been close friends since long before my birth. That friendship had been extended to me as I grew and was largely responsible for my love of books and learning. I did not know all or even a fraction of what ‘uncle’ Gordon knew or did but I trusted him absolutely.

I did know that his research had taken him all over the world. He knew more of the occult than any other man of my acquaintance.

One set of clippings caught my eye. “BOY GOES MAD!!” Curiosity piqued, I read on. In essence, the story was this:

It was a fine day in April, 1896. Willie Asphel, age 10, was in the mood to get into trouble. He sneaked off to the Wickes place to break windows. Apparently he missed the house with the first stone, as there was no crash of glass or thump of stone on board. He took precise aim and watched carefully where the stone went. Ever after, his hair was stark white, his eyes crossed, and even after he stopped raving, his mind was never fully normal. He demonstrated a talent for seeing into closed containers and the like.

He died of a brain hemorrhage at the age of fifteen.

The power which had failed last night, came back at 3:30 p.m. I felt a need to digest the tale of Reverend Olson and young Willie Asphel, so I left the library. I walked up the street in the sunlight. Cobbles could be seen here and there through old cracks and holes in the paving. Stepping around the occasional weed, I followed the sidewalk to the Post Office. There I mailed my letter to uncle Gordon.

Thoughtfully, I retraced my steps. My car awaited me. No sooner had I got into it than a gust of wind slammed the door. The impact caused the glove box door to fall open. Inside were five gold coins exactly like the one in the file

To say that I was stunned by this occurrence would have been an understatement. A breeze plucked at my right hand, almost as if it were guiding me to the gold. The moment that I took the gold in my hand, the breeze died away. Only then did I notice that my car windows were closed.

My first response was to say, “Thank you, whoever or whatever you may be.” I drove home slowly, mulling over the day’s events. The clouds roiled overhead like fighting dogs.

Once home, I got my flashlight and went straight to the attic. At the stairs, my light would not shine. Somehow, I must have left it on when I last put it away. Irritating.

I had lots of candles down in the kitchen. For a prize like the Necronomicon or the Black Book, I could search by candlelight. An obsession to find those books seized my spirit.

I hurried down to the kitchen and set up a candlestick, which I took back to the attic. The soft glow of the candlelight revealed the same boxes and trunks that I had seen before. There were still no dust or spider webs to be seen. I heard what sounded like a hundred rats on the floor below. A glance out an attic window showed that night had fallen. The ‘spectral brigade’ never started before dark.

The boxes and trunks contained the curios, mementos and journals of travels on six of the seven continents (only Antarctica was not represented.) Glancing through the journals revealed that although Hiram was meticulous at recording detail and observations, he was also quite secretive about the object of his searches and research. It was both fascinating and frustrating.

Some of the boxes contained disturbingly carved stones and other artifacts. Many of these were only disquieting to look at but a few were truly mind twisting. A number of the journals contained finely drawn sketches in ink of architecture that Escher would have loved, had it not caused actual nausea when studied too closely. Many of the drawings were of ruins but they still retained their otherworldly power. Their geometry was subtly skewed from any earthly construction. There was little else, aside from literally thousands of the above mentioned journals. Valuable to the right collector perhaps but not the precious books that I was seeking.

I tried the second floor next. Both bedrooms, the bath, and the large room that I had dubbed ‘the work room’ all proved to have no secret hiding places. If there were any hidden doors or concealed panels they defied me.

The ground floor was next. I started with the kitchen. The parlor got a once-over walls and ceiling. (I had done the floor when I searched for the basement.) The same was done with the dining room, sitting room, and study. Then it was the library’s turn.

Looking at the wall to wall, knee to ceiling, cases of books with their sliding ladders, I despaired of finishing my search that night. There were over twenty five hundred volumes on those shelves.

I stared at the sea of brown leather backs, some stamped with gold, and decided to start at the right of the door and work my way around the room. Each book had to be inspected to be sure that it was not concealing another book in innocent appearing binding. Many of them were valuable in their own right but none could compare with the Necronomicon or the Black Book.

I did not get far before I was too tired to continue. The books that I was seeking had waited for century and a third. They could wait until morning.

The next day, my inspection of the library resumed. Here, at least, Hiram had achieved order. The books were shelved by subject and author, regardless of language. There was precious little of outright fiction though many were obvious foolishness in the light of modern knowledge. At ten in the morning, I stopped, arms aching and eyes swimming. I was less than a quarter of the way through the herculean task.

<==Previous ~~ Next==>

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Return to Flocking Bay

[rmjagonshi]

You asked for prompts. Will you do mutual pining teen stans as they build the stanowar and imagine whisking thier brother away to be all alone on a ship??? Pretty please?

I didn’t ignore you, anon! Promise! I hope this fits what you were looking for. I have never written a song fic before, so, I hope it’s okay that I did that.  

Song by Michelle Branch (All You Wanted)

Stan Pines wasn’t jealous of his brother. Sure, Ford got a lot of attention from teachers and old grannies, and their father, but Stan wasn’t jealous. Ford was interested in nerd things, like math and chemistry and monsters…well, monsters were cool. But still, Stan had other things. He had…well…he had…

What did Stan have?

Ford had his smarts and Stan just kind of tagged along for the ride. But that was okay. He had Ford. They didn’t have much else, but they had each other. And that was enough. That was enough for years.

When the schoolyard bullies came to throw rocks and shove dirt down their pants, at least they were together and they could help each other up. And when their father decided he’d had enough of their shenanigans and wailed on Stan with the metal end of a belt, well…Ford was there. They were never alone. They always had each other. And they always would.

~I wanted, to be like you. I wanted everythingSo I tried, to be like you, and I got swept away.~  

But still, it bothered Stan sometimes that Ford was obviously the epicenter of their dynamic duo, and Stan was the poor helpless planet caught in Ford’s orbit. Ford was smart and creative and always had the answer to everything. So, Stan started trying to be like him. He picked a book at random from the library shelf and tried reading it. But the words blurred and he didn’t understand half of what he was reading. And it was so boring. I was talking about shapes or ‘faces’ or bonds…Stan didn’t understand. The book cover showed a picture of a rock and some weird drawn shapes where you could see all the sides.

When book reading failed, Stan moved onto experiments. Experiments were more fun than reading because he got to mix things together and watch what happened. But one too many explosions and one used fire-extinguisher later, Stan was banned from doing experiments without Ford’s help. That only left school. So Stan tried doing well in school. But school work was even harder than book reading. Math was just a jumble of numbers and symbols, and history was all memorizing facts and dates. None of it was interesting, but his grades did improve, if only marginally. He was so excited when he’d studied all week for a test and got a B-. A B-!

That was the best grade he had ever gotten EVER! He was so happy he raced home after detention to show it to Pa, finally something of worth to show him. But Ford had gotten there first. Of course he had. Ford didn’t have detention. Ford had gotten an A+, as usual. All of a sudden, the lousy B- didn’t mean much. He didn’t bother showing it to his parents.  

Stan went back to just tagging along and helping out his brother. He wasn’t jealous, but he did kind of wish Ford was so horribly bad at something, so Stan could be good at it. After one bad run in with Crampelter, Stan dragged himself and Ford home to their mom to get bandaged up. Through ringing ears and two black eyes, Stan heard his father tell him he was signing them both up for boxing lessons.

Boxing lessons were more horrible than Crampelter. At least with Crampelter, they could run away or hide or something. And they didn’t always cross paths with the bully. Boxing lessons were every other day and you couldn’t run. Both Stan and Ford came home sore and beaten more and more, but their pa never let up. No friends but each other, no support from family but each other. They clung together tighter and tighter.

~I didn’t know that, it was so cold, And you needed someone to show you the way.~

But boxing lessons paid off in the end. Stan was getting stronger. He stuck close to Ford and together, they stayed mostly out of trouble. Stan on his own would always wind up in detention, but Stan with Ford was able to weasel his way out of most things. Sticking with Ford made Stan aware of the crap Crampelter pulled when Stan was in detention. They both got bullied, but Ford had it bad. He had tried to hide the cuts and bruises and missing notebooks, but Stan saw them. Ford didn’t stand a chance. The next time they were cornered in the field behind the school, Stan fought back. He tackled the lard-butt and wailed on his face with all his strength until Crampelter kicked him off and rode away on his stupid bike. Stan got detention and was grounded for a month, but he didn’t care. When he’d held out his hand to help Ford up, Ford had looked at him like was was some kind of hero. From then on, Stan was the muscle, and he would protect Ford at all costs.  

~So I took your hand and, we figured out thatWhen the time comes I’d take you away.~

It wasn’t long after that they found the boat, and the dream of sailing away on the Stan O’ War, just the two of them, was born. Stan threw himself into fixing the Stan O’ War. If no one else wanted them, then they would go somewhere else. Bullies didn’t really pick on Stan anymore. He was popular, exactly, but he was left alone enough that he was a 'pseudo’ jock. Ford wasn’t so lucky. Sure, people liked him, he was smart and could help them with their homework, but they weren’t interested in being friends. It became apparent when Ford had asked Lucy out for drinks after he’d helped her study for the upcoming Physics exam. She’d laughed in his face so long, he’d just gathered up his stuff and left, her laughing echoing down the empty school hall. Stan had gotten pissed when Ford told him about it. She didn’t deserve Ford, and Stan said as much, but Ford was still felling shitty about the whole thing.

“Why do people hate me?” Ford was curled up with his face pressed to his knees on Stan’s bunk. He’d stopped crying (not that there were many tears, but still, he was embarrassed about the few drops that had worked their way from between his eyelids), and was now just sitting, moping and wondering if he’d ever find someone who actually liked him.

“No one hates you! Okay, maybe Crampelter and Sonia do, but they hate everyone. And I think Sonia doesn’t like you because you’re associated with me. And that bitch haaaaaates me.” Stan had sat beside Ford with a bag of toffee peanuts and had refused to move until Ford cheered up.  

“Okay, fine. They don’t hate me, but they sure as hell don’t like me.” Nobody liked him. They were only interested in if he could help them, then they were more than happy to drop him. Ford was too weird. And not just his hands, though they were part of it. Ford liked weird things. Shrunken heads and six-legged cats. Sea monsters and the Jersey Devil. Ma did her best to connect, but she didn’t understand his interests, and Pa…well, it was best not to engage Pa with anything that might be considered 'weird’. They only one that had ever tried to understand and take an interest in him was…    

“Hey, you don’t need them. I like ya. And once we sail away on the Stan O’ War, it doesn’t matter what these bozos think.”

Ford grinned. Maybe Stan was enough.  

~If you want to, I can save you. I can take you away from here.So lonely inside, So busy out there,And all you wanted was somebody who cares.~

Stan doesn’t know when it happened, or what caused it. Like growing up, you know it’s happening, but each change is so gradual, you don’t notice it until you compare it to where you were before. And that’s what he was doing, comparing himself now to how he used to be. Because he never used to think like he does now. At least…he doesn’t think so. He’d always been trapped in Ford’s orbit, and he never really thought much about it before. They were inseparable. And that never used to be a problem. But Stan finds himself thinking about Ford more and more. His brother invades his thoughts more often than anything else, and if he isn’t thinking of Ford exactly, then he’s thinking of something in tangent to him. Thinking about how boring math class is makes him think about how excited Ford it to learn new things. Thinking about his favorite snack reminds him how much Ford hates toffee peanuts. And, of course, thinking about the boat makes him think about sailing away from all the shit they deal with. When Ford starts making an appearance during his dreams in place of Carla, well, it really isn’t all that surprising, if a bit disturbing.

Middle school passed in a whirlwind of working on the boat and keeping out of trouble. Sooner than they realized, they were in high-school. Classwork got harder and Stan was struggling. Stan throws himself into working on the boat. He even takes welding and woodworking when they’re offered. He might not be great at reading a map or doing math, but he can work with his hands to make things and fix things. He gets a part-time job and works down at the dock when he can. He spends more time in the library than Ford does some days. It’s hard. All of the work. He tried and tried and it never gets easier. Sometimes he thinks he ought to leave things alone. Ford had potential to be something. And he wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings. He did his best, lifting porn mags from the corner store and keeping a pin-up calendar tacked to his wall, but it felt hollow. It also didn’t help that Ford had picked up on his acting. Who was he to try and hide something from the person who knew him best? But he still hid. And still thought about letting go even as he wanted so desperately to hang on. Some days, he wants to throw his hands in the air and say 'Fuck It" and give up. But then he sees Ford come home with bruises and busted glasses, or maybe it’s just a smile or a belly laugh at one of his jokes and he’s right back, putting everything he has into making this work. In the end, it’s all for Ford. It always was.

Ford is all too aware that Stan is struggling. And he hates it. He hates seeing Stan like this. There are days, sometimes, where Stan doesn’t smile, at least, not a real smile. Days when he cries  because he just doesn’t understand the work. Days when he does whatever he can to prove he’s a man because someone or something convinces him that he isn’t. He does his best to help.  He tutors Stan when he can and works out homework problems with him. Stan is trying. He really is, but he gets confused and forgets things easily. He could read a page and not remember anything he’d just read. Every day, Stan would be ridiculed by their father, be constantly told he wasn’t worth anything, constantly told he 'was being a girl’. Every day, Stan would chases skirts and flirt with any woman who looked at him, got into more fights than he had any right to, and tried harder to prove himself worthy.

Ford knew the dream about sailing away on a ship was a childish one. He knew Stan was holding onto that dream with everything he had. But their future was so vague. They needed money to live, jobs paid money. Sailing around the world on a boat wasn’t going to get them there. It was just a matter of fact. But when Stan would get excited about progress on the ship or would tell stories about all the adventures they would go on, Ford found it harder and harder to admit that it was all just a fantasy. When Ford found Stan coming home with a chip on his shoulder and a black eye from getting in a fight with some chump that called him a fag, Ford found himself wanting to take away all the pain and misery. And the dream of whisking Stan away from everything on a ship felt all the more real.    

~I’m sinking slowly, So hurry hold me. Your hand is all I have to keep me hanging on.Please can you tell me, So I can finally see Where you go when you’re gone.~

As senior year drew closer and closer, so too did their dreams. Ford was convinced they could sail away on the Stan O’ War to somewhere else. They could live on the boat while they worked and saved up money to get a decent place to live. And if something happened, then they would always have the boat. But they couldn’t just be treasure hunters. It wasn’t possible. He was drawing up a plan to figure out how they could manage. As soon as they were old enough, they were out of Glass Shard. But there was still work to be done to get there. And he still wasn’t sure how to break it to Stan. Stan was so dedicated to the idea that they would be treasure hunters, the he was blind to the reality they were facing. But Ford still wanted to get them away from there. He still wanted to rescue his brother.  And maybe…maybe, if they were away from this, Stan could just be himself. Maybe Ford could…

~If you want to, I can save you. I can take you away from hereSo lonely inside, So busy out there,And all you wanted was somebody who cares.~

But things got harder. The science fair came, and Ford saw an opportunity. He could build something that would he could patent. He could sell it and they would have a nice nest egg to get started. But then, West Coast Tech was interested. And the promise of millions. Millions. What would he do with millions? They could do anything. They could sail away for months or years at a time and they would never have to come back to this shitty ass town. Finally, some success. Finally, something good. Ford would make some discovery, make a fortune, and he would come back for Stan. They would escape. He was so excited! He didn’t want Stan to get discouraged. It wasn’t forever. It was only until he was able to make something that would secure their future. And maybe it would give Ford time to process his…desires.  

All you wanted was somebody who cares.

Everything fell apart after that. Ford spent years throwing himself into his work, and Stan spent the same time doing everything he could to make it rich.

If you need me, you know I’ll be there…

But when the post card was sent, Stan came without a second thought. And when the call came to correct his mistake, Stan stepped up to the challenge.

~If you want to, I can save you. I can take you away from here.So lonely inside, So busy out there.And all you wanted was somebody who cares.~

And in the end, after more hardship than either one had ever thought, in the end, they found themselves on a boat, with more money than they needed, and no more need to run away. No more need to hide. In the end, none of the past really matters. Because Stan has a family that cares. Ford found a way to use his sills to help. And they finally decide, to hell with all of the fear, to hell with the self-denial. Standing aboard their ship, lost in the middle of the ocean after having hauled up an actual crate of lost pirate gold, Ford and Stan share their first kiss.

[nish-s-random-writing]

Growing Up (5/?)

Chapter 5! USUK Cardverse AU!

(a/n): This took a bit longer than expected, but heyyy, I’m gettin to that good stuff. 

ff.net || <<ch 4    ch6>>

------

“Hey, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

It was nighttime now, and Alfred was not surprised to find Arthur sitting on his own bed by lamplight, a thick book in his hands and all his attention focused in between. A tiny twitch of an impressive eyebrow was the only signal that he’d acknowledged Alfred’s presence, albeit in a manner that was far from pleased.

Hopping onto the foot of Arthur’s extremely large bed, Alfred repeated his question. With a sigh and deliberate lowering of his book, Arthur grumbled out a reluctant, “Fine.”

Alfred had not seen Arthur during lunch that day, the latter having requested that his food be brought into the library so he could continue his reading and exploration of its collection without interruption. When Alfred tried to visit him afterwards, he was given the cold shoulder until the young king retreated back to the winding hallways of the palace, left to juggle doorknobs all afternoon. When the sun was low in the sky he made a round trip back to the secret garden where he met the old man, who he now knew as Reece the gardener, and conversed with him until dinnertime.

Now he had Arthur sitting several feet away from him, both on a large bed that could fit ten orphans, while he read a book in an attempt to ignore Alfred as much as possible.

“What’s your favorite flower?” Came Alfred’s voice. Arthur seemed to startle and lower his book even more, although his eyes never looked up.

“Why would you ask such a question?” He said with the usual scowl.

Alfred shrugged. “I was in the gardens today, and I didn’t see too much flowers. That just got me wondering what sort of flowers you like.”

“The gardens hmm?” Arthur muttered as he flipped a page. “Were there any roses out there?”

Alfred lit up at that. “Roses? I didn’t see any. Are those your favorite flowers?”

Arthur seemed to hesitate at that, drawing out a long silence, until finally he nodded in that slow, unsteady way. “I suppose so.” And as he said it, without even looking up, the young queen could already feel the physical embodiment of childish glee lighting up as an impossibly wide grin on Alfred’s face.

“Well I think it would be awesome if we had roses in the gardens,” said Alfred in a vain attempt at a casual tone. “I wonder if they could make roses in all sorts of colors! We could have blue roses, they might like that; it could go along with all the blue decorations in this palace!”

“I don’t think those exist, Alfred.”

“Maybe we can have some made! After all, we are the ki—um, I mean,” Alfred furrowed his brows. He’d caught himself in time. “I mean, Yao told me if we had a request he’d look into it! Maybe they actually did find a way to make blue roses.” He tried for a laugh, but Arthur seemed unimpressed. He had made no acknowledgement of Alfred’s words and kept on ‘reading’.

“I explored the gardens today,” said Alfred again.

“You already told me that.”

“Well, what did you do? Were you reading that same book all day?”

“No, I was not. I’ve finished two others earlier.”

“Woah! You’re a fast reader. That thing would’ve taken me like, a month to finish!”

Arthur raised a brow. “Makes sense, I suppose, if it’s you we’re talking about.”

Alfred snorted. “Well you probably had a lot of practice so that’s no fair. Miss Amelia usually reads the books to us. You’ve probably read a lot of books on your own.”

“Well, I suppose I have.”

“Woah, did your old orphanage have a huge library too?”

“No. In fact, it was rather similar to Miss Amelia’s. My home had a small collection that my father used to add to.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows at that. “You remember your home?”

Arthur squinted at his book, holding it up a bit more over his face. “I wasn’t in the orphanage that long.”

“What happened? Did your house burn down? Was there an accident?”

Arthur didn’t respond. He held the book closer to his face.

“Arthur?” Alfred tried to prompt him, but it was clear that the older boy was closed off for the night. Alfred made a mental note to add ‘family’ to the list of things he should never mention around Arthur, alongside being king and queen, as he made his way over to his own bed.

OOOOOOOOOO

The classes began a week later. Three kind teachers a day sat them down in the library for a few hours, teaching them history, and arithmetic, and sciences. Arthur was quiet most of the time, but he’d be able to answer any question their teachers shot at them. Alfred was vocal; he tried to answer as best as possible and steer any lectures away into an off-topic story from the teacher’s life, because he found those more interesting.

They’d have lunchtime and the afternoon to play. Then they met up with Captain Herdevary, who initiated little games and races. Arthur wasn’t one to care and tended to idly run the laps as Alfred tried, and failed, to awaken his competitive spirit.

It would be like that for five days, and then they were free to explore as they pleased on the weekends. Arthur would coop himself up in the library and draw, write, or read. He always became hostile whenever Alfred got more insistent on him joining his exploration. Nevertheless, Alfred tried every day.

By himself, he’d walk down hallways he was unfamiliar with until he’d wind up at some ominous locked door or dusty broom closet. He’d walked into a few lavish bedrooms whose furniture were covered in immaculate white sheets. He ogled at the various tapestries that depicted royalty and war, often wishing Yao would be there to explain them to him.

He had visited the kitchens and befriended the sparse servants and cooks who worked there. He’d found the smithies where he found busy, burly men working with glowing hot metal and splintery woodwork. He’d also visit Reece and converse with him about the gardens and the old monarchy, about the stars and the sunset and whatever the old man would endure. Sometimes he was like Arthur, Alfred thought. Reece would be impatient and irritated if Alfred bothered him while he was working on a cluster of weeds, perhaps, or a bush or a stalk, but would eventually open himself to a bout of conversation. Sometimes, he’d laugh, and quite heartily at that.

Then, Alfred thought, maybe Reece wasn’t like Arthur. Maybe Arthur was like Reece. Maybe Arthur was like a grouchy old man who just needed to be spoken to even if he never talked back.

So, every night, when Alfred returns from his after-dinner explorations, he’d sit down at the foot of Arthur’s bed while the older boy read his novels. He’d talk and talk about what he’d seen that day. He’d talk about the extremely kind cooks who gave him desserts, to the heat of the smithies, of the fresh breeze in the gardens, of the tapestries and ornately carved doors and wide open windows and seemingly secret passages that wound themselves throughout the palace.

Arthur would never really look up at him in his pretense of ignorance. And Alfred would’ve bought it if Arthur wouldn’t snort at his misuse of a word, or supply a name to an interesting object Alfred would describe, or call him an idiot whenever he mentioned tripping on a rug or getting hurt otherwise. Sometimes, he’d even laugh.

And even if those instances would be called Arthur’s selective hearing, Alfred never failed to notice how frequently it had become when Arthur would ‘read’ with the book upside down in his hands. And when the book was upright, he never seemed to turn a page.

Weeks went by like this, and Alfred reveled in Arthur’s not-so-discreetly hidden attention at his tales of the palace. Although, Alfred had come to wonder why it is Arthur would never want to explore the place himself.

One night, three months after they had arrived at the palace, Alfred dared to voice out his question.

“Hey, Arthur, how come you never want to explore the place yourself?”

Arthur snorted. “What gave you the idea that I would want to do that?”

Alfred stared at the upside down cover of the book in the older boy’s hands. “Well, a few things,” He mumbled. “I don’t know. You like the place, don’t you? You call the gardens I talk about pretty, you say that the tapestries are interesting. Wouldn’t you want to see for yourself?”

Arthur hesitated, but his attention was still clearly not on his book. “I would,” he said carefully. “I would think them a, well, pleasing sight. But I’d hate to look at them thinking that I own them.”

Alfred tilted his head. “But it’s not like you own them, right?”

Arthur let out an exasperated huff. “We own them, Alfred. Our home, our place, our stuff, as Yao said. What do you think makes all of this our stuff?”

“Well, we’re the k—oh.” Alfred blinked. “Oh.”

Arthur glared at him over the top—or perhaps bottom—of his book. “Yeah. Oh.”

So that was it, then. The palace, everything—it’s another reminder to Arthur.

“Aren’t you happy about technically owning the library, though?”

Arthur seemed to pause again, but then shook his head. “I’m happy knowing it’s something I’ll use, anyway.”

Alfred didn’t really get that. Heck, he didn’t completely get anything Arthur said or did, but as long as he knew what not to mention, he felt that he would be a few steps closer to winning the other boy over.

OOOOOOOOOO

The next day was the sixth breakfast Yao had been late for. He showed up with his coat sloppily slipped on, bags deep under his eyes, and he was practically dragging himself towards the table. Even Arthur was sporting an expression of concern.

As Yao walked through the doors, three guards followed him and took up position at the entrance. After the Jack had slumped into his chair and began wearily scooping up porridge, Arthur spoke.

“Yao? Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah, dude, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Yao gave Alfred a sidelong grin. “You’re not that far off, kid.” He chuckled lightly and began to eat his food, whereas the boys were nearly finished with theirs. “But don’t worry about me. It’s just that, well, tensions have been rising for the past few days now—but you needn’t concern yourselves! Things have just been busy.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “Tensions? What sort of—?”

“Yao!” Interrupted a familiar cry from the doorway. Captain Herdevary was there, hair tied in a ponytail and half-dressed in leather armor, taking a few long strides into the room. “Yao, I need you at the Hall now.”

Yao looked rather dejected, but gave the two young monarchs a weary smile then he took his final gulp of orange juice, before getting up and following the captain of the guard. Elizabeta only had time to flash the boys a slightly forced smile before disappearing beyond the doorway.

Across the table, Alfred shared a worried look with Arthur, and they finished their meals in silence.

OOOOOOOOOO

The next day, things seemed a bit off around the palace.

Alfred and Arthur woke up to two guards posted by their door, both regarding them with solemn nods as they headed off to breakfast. Yao wasn’t with them at breakfast and neither was he there at lunch. At both times, a set of guards were posted in and out the doors, as well as trickled throughout the hallways.

When Alfred tried leaving through the front doors of the palace for the gardens, the guards posted there—who wore heavier metal armor and carried a greater set of weapons—forbade Alfred from leaving the immediate courtyard, whose gates were also generously guarded. The young king attempted to amuse himself by splashing around in the marble fountain, but that quickly became boring.

He went to see Arthur but was surprised to find guards by the library door too. When he sought out his other routes to the gardens, he’d found the doors to those were guarded as well and was forbidden from leaving.

Finally, Alfred found an exit that wasn’t guarded. The passage to the king and queen’s private garden must have been so far behind the palace and lost in the inner maze of the outer gardens that whoever was posting the guards didn’t see it necessary to have them there.

Alfred found Reece and was relieved to finally be entertained. They began speaking of the flowers again, beginning with their daily discussions of Alfred’s gardening plans and winding up somewhere obscure like the evolution of horses. Eventually, the young king talked to Reece about the guards.

“It’s weird. They’re everywhere! I can’t take a shower or get some bread without passing like, fifty guards!” Alfred exclaimed.

Seeing the young boy’s wild grin, the gardener decided to take that statement with a grain of salt and regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Oh? Come now, mayhaps your Jack’s just been increasin’ them guards for your sake!  You seem to be a rowdy young’un and he might think you to set the place on fire with all yer runnin’ about.”

Alfred scrunched his face in an attempt to look offended, but ended up with a mix of furrowed eyebrows and a half-suppressed grin. “Please, I don’t go running around with a match!” Alfred giggled. “But really, I can’t even go out around the gardens. I only got here because those doors were the only ones without guards. All the side entrances—heck, even the front doors! They’ve all got guards carrying swords with them. What if we’re under attack?”

Reece hummed thoughtfully as he worked on trimming his bush. “Maybe your jack’s just bein’ extra secure, eh? After the last monarchy were killed he’d never been quite the same. Maybe he’s just been takin’ precautions for your sake, lad. Nothin’ to worry about.”

Alfred mimicked his thoughtful hum and planted his rump on the grass. “I guess so,” he muttered with furrowed brows. “Still. I feel kinda caged in. The guards being all around are giving me a bad feeling.”

OOOOOOOOOO

“Alfred?”

The young king jumps. Upon walking into his shared room, he was surprised to have his companion speak to him first.

“Yeah?” Alfred responds, taking his usual seat at the foot of Arthur’s bed. Arthur, meanwhile, has his book open on the mattress and he stares at it with hands folded in his lap.

“Yao wasn’t at dinner today,” Arthur muses.

“Or lunch.” Alfred nods.

Arthur clearly isn’t staring at his book any longer, instead picking idly at the sheets. Alfred waits for him to say something, and when he finally does, it’s in a hoarse, strangled voice that shook with something that was almost like fear.

“Are we in danger?” Arthur whispered, eyes lowered. “Yao’s been talking about tensions rising. Are we… Do you think we’re about to head into war?”

Alfred’s brows furrowed, and he instinctively inched closer to the other boy. “W-well, maybe Yao’s just adding guards up to be secure, because, you know, we’re kids. Maybe he just wants us to be extra safe. I mean, I don’t think we’re in danger, you know. I’ve been talking to Reece—the gardener I told you about—and he says Yao really cared about the last king and queen. He’s just adding extra protection ‘cuz he cares about us too!”

Alfred offered his brightest smile and got a nervous glance in return. In the candlelight, Arthur’s eyes were wide and unsure, that pretty forest-green flickering with a warm gold. In an instant those eyes weren’t pointed at him anymore, and were instead staring out the windows, up at the silver glow of the moon over the gardens. He seemed concentrated, contemplative, like he was deciding something in his head.

Then Arthur sighed, and closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. “You know, Alfred…”

Arthur trailed off at the distant sound of breaking glass that came from down the hall. There were footsteps, loud and rushed, as though the guards at their door were running away. Then, there was a short, distant yell, almost a cry that was immediately cut off by what sounded like a loud thud.

Arthur was frozen and Alfred was right next to him, clutching his arm in his childlike grip.

And then all was quiet.

[skeletonscribbles]

I Burn, I Pine, I Perish (Chapter 1)

10 Things I Hate About You, but Reddie? It’s more likely than you think.

Title: I Burn, I Pine, I Perish Pairings: Reddie, Benverly, Mike/Bill/Stan Rating: we’ll call it a cool T for now Chapter: "I Want You To Want Me” (Ben) Summary: Padua High School, 1999 “But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you; Not even close; Not even a little bit; Not even at all.” or: when no respectable gays will date Eddie “Shrew” Kaspbrak, other, less respectable gays are forced to come out of the woodwork.

Read on Ao3!

Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Finale

Ben Hanscom, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, was completely, totally, and utterly lost.

It was his first day at Padua High School, the public institution that the children of several of Maine’s small towns (including Ben’s new home, Derry) attended because said towns couldn’t afford to maintain their own high schools. It was also November, which meant that Ben was particularly conspicuous in that everyone else knew exactly where they were going, and he couldn’t even get it together well enough to find the guidance office.

He should be better at this by now. He was no stranger to transferring schools. His mother had been jumping from job to job since before he could remember, chasing higher paychecks and a better life, and that had meant that Ben’s adolescence was sort of a patchwork quilt of new schools and missed experiences. He’d never been in one place for long enough to really have friends, but that was okay. He knew that he’d get there eventually. For now, he was content with his mother, his cat, and his books.

No book in the world, though, could have prepared him for the enormity of Padua High School. This was the biggest school he’d ever attended, and so he reasoned that it was probably not the most embarrassing thing for him to be too turned around to find his counselor.

Still, he had a little time before the bell was set to ring. He could try.

“Um, excuse me,” he said timidly in the direction of a group of students, “I was wondering, um, if you could help…”

One of the students turned around, and Ben immediately realized that he’d made a mistake in choosing this clique to talk to. The boy he was looking at had rodent-like features, greasy, dark hair with frosted tips, and mean eyes. He sneered back at Ben, gaze dropping to the library copy of Harry Potter Ben had clutched to his chest.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, nerd?” The boy snatched Ben’s book out of his hand. “Wizards? That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever seen, and I have Eddie fucking Kaspbrak in my study hall.”

“You should set him up with this moonface,” another, taller boy jeered. “They could have wand practice together.”

“Shut up, Patrick. No one wants to hear about your fag fantasies.” A third boy shoved the second boy into the lockers. “And Henry, make this quick. We don’t want to be caught talking to trash for any longer than we have to.”

“Can I have my book back?” Ben tried, knowing full well that asking wouldn’t work.

Henry (of the rodent face and frosted tips) dangled the book in front of Ben’s face. “Oh, yeah, I’m just gonna let you leave with this dumb book. NOT.” He pulled the book back before Ben could grab it. “Do my homework for the rest of the year and you can have it.”

Oh, hell no. Ben wasn’t going to get himself stuck with a chump punishment on the first day.

“Give me my book,” he insisted, holding out his hand.

“Are you deaf?” Henry said, speaking slowly and loudly.

“I heard what you said. No deal. I want my book.” Ben punctuated his demand by ripping the book out of Henry’s hands. Henry stumbled backwards.

The expression on the boys’ faces had turned murderous, and it occurred to Ben that he might have made a huge mistake.

“You’re dead, nerd trash,” Henry roared, reaching for something in his pocket.

“After school, you idiot.” The third boy, who seemed to be the group’s ringleader, threw a hand out in front of Henry. “You can’t get caught with a knife again or you’ll get expelled. Idiot.”

The bell rang, and Ben began to back away.

“You’re dead,” Henry repeated, before following his group down the hall. “Dead.”

Well, Ben thought, I’ve made worse first impressions.

“Hey, Harry Potter kid!” A voice called out from down the hallway. Ben turned around, half-expecting it to be Henry again with a fresh round of threats.

It wasn’t, thank God. It was a dark-skinned kid in an X-Files t-shirt. Ben eyed him suspiciously.

“Me?” Ben asked carefully.

“Yeah.” The guy caught up with Ben and clapped him on the shoulder. Two other kids were now approaching from the end of the hallway. Ben feared the worst.

“What do you want?” Ben gripped his book tightly. “You can’t have this, it’s from the library.”

“Want?” The dark skinned kid laughed. “No, buddy, we just wanted to tell you that what you just did was freaking awesome.”

“Oh” Ben blinked. “It was?”

“Yes.” One of the other two boys stepped forward. He was dressed in a style that could really only be described as business-casual, and Ben thought he looked kind of funny next to the kid in the X-Files t-shirt, in an Odd Couple sort of way. “You just stood up to Padua’s biggest and meanest pack of idiot bullies.”

“They’ve been after us for yuh-years,” the third boy chimed in. Ben hadn’t noticed him, really, until he spoke, but once his attention had been called to the boy, Ben didn’t feel like he could focus anywhere else. There was something incredibly compelling about this quiet redhead, somehow. “Huh-how’d you do it?”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t really know. It’s my first day - I guess I just didn’t want them to mess that up.”

The other three exchanged delighted looks.

“First day,” beamed the dark-skinned boy, “that means you’re our tour for first period! Awesome. “Mike Hanlon, at your service.” He stuck out his hand for Ben to shake. Ben took it gratefully.

“Ben Hanscom.”

“Buh-Ben,” the redheaded kid smiled. “Nice. I’m Buh-Bill Denbrough.”

“And I’m Stanley Uris,” finished the business-casual boy, “but you can call me Stan. Pleasure to meet you, Ben Hanscom.”

“We’ll take you up to guidance, if that’s cool,” Mike offered. “It’s kind of impossible to find, otherwise. Mr. Keene keeps himself tucked away at the back of the school so that kids don’t bother him.”

“He’s wuh-writing a p-p-porn novel,” Bill volunteered helpfully. (Ben did not find this information helpful, but he appreciated the thought.)

“Thanks?” Ben said tentatively, looking between the three boys. “I appreciate…I mean, schools usually send me off with some weirdo from AV club, so.”

Mike covered his mouth to stifle a laugh, and Stan shoved his hands into his pockets, embarrassed.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with AV club!” Ben corrected hastily. “But…y’know what I’m saying. Right?”

“We know, yes,” Stan muttered, still a little red around the ears. “It’s one thing to be a geek, and another to talk incessantly about it.”

Ben nodded, relieved that they’d followed his train of thought. Mike was still laughing.

“Oh, man!” Mike wiped his eyes. “This guy’s got your number and he doesn’t even know you, Stan, holy cow…”

“We can’t all be on the football team, Michael,” Stan snapped.

“Let’s guh-go see Keene,” Bill insisted. “We’re l-late.”

Ben followed his new acquaintances up two flights of stairs and down a narrow hallway to the guidance office. He felt strangely comfortable in conversation with them, especially when Mike, a fellow Harry Potter fan, switched the subject to Hogwarts Houses.

He wondered if this was what people with friends felt like every day. If so, he couldn’t wait to have friends.

The 12th grade guidance counselor, Mr. Keene, was waiting for them when they reached his office. He was pretty average in appearance, as stocky, thin-haired middle aged men went, but there was something about his countenance that Ben felt deeply unsettled by. He couldn’t put a finger on exactly what that was, though.

“Hanscom?” Keene asked, pushing his glasses up his nose to read the schedule in his hand.

Ben nodded, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty hands on the bottom of his plain red t-shirt.

“This is yours.” He handed Ben the schedule. “I see you’ve already met the three stooges; they’ll tell you where to go.”

Mike and Bill grinned from where they stood in the doorway. Stan scowled, adjusting the collar of his button-down shirt.

“That’s basically all I’ve got for you,” Mr. Keene continued. “Looks like you’ve been to a lot of schools, so you know the drill. Same little asswipe shit-for-brains everywhere.”

Ben swallowed. “Uh.”

“Now, if you boys would be so kind,” Mr. Keene dismissed them with a wave of his hand, “I have a novel to write.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” promised Stan, dragging Ben out by the arm.

Once they were out in the hallway, Mike and Bill collapsed into giggles.

“Cluh-classic Keene,” Bill sighed, putting his hand over his heart.

“You know, when you guys said ‘porn novel’ before, I was a little lost, but I get it now, definitely.” said Ben, looking over his schedule.

“Dude, let me see.” Mike held out a hand, and Ben passed over the piece of paper. “You’ve got English first. Stan, you’re in there, right? With Mr. King?”

“Yes.” Stan looked less than enthused. “With Mr. King, and Tom Rogan, and Patrick Hocksetter, and–”

“Tuh-touchy little Eddie Kuh-Kaspbrak, and fuh-fuh-fucking Richie Tozier.” Bill rolled his eyes. “We know, Stan. You only compluh-ain about it every d-day.”

“No Bowers though,” Mike asked quickly, “right?”

“No.” Stan huffed. “He’s in remedial English. Good thing, too.” He turned to Ben, fixing him with a serious look. “Rogan’s probably too self-absorbed to remember what you did this morning, and Hocksetter’s mind is an incomprehensible void, but Bowers will never forget, and will probably kill you as soon as he gets you alone.”

Oh. They were talking about the bullies from before. “Sounds like a really good time.”

“Anyway, you’ve got Spanish second period. I don’t think any of us are in that one,” Mike continued.

“Fuh-French,” Bill said, gesturing between himself and Stan.

“And I take Latin,” Mike said, “so Stan’ll walk you there, and then you’ll be on your own for a bit.”

“It’ll be luh-lunch after that, so juh-just follow the crowd,” Bill added.

“Are you ready to go?” Stan was looking at Ben again, and Ben couldn’t help but straighten up under his gaze.

“Sure.” Ben turned to Mike and Bill. “I’ll see you guys at lunch?”

“You know it.” Mike smiled, giving Ben a thumbs up. Bill nodded along.

“Great, wonderful, awesome, okay, let’s go.” Stan said exasperatedly. “I want to get this over with.”

Mike and Bill departed for their own classes, and Ben was left to follow Stan, who walked inhumanly fast.

“The library’s over here.” Stan gestured towards a large set of double-doors as he passed them. “AV meets there, and so do the Future MBAs…although I am not on speaking terms with them at the moment.”

“What happened?” asked Ben.

Stan scrunched up his face, obviously still upset. “They found out I owned Backstreet Boys apparel.”

Ben thought of all the New Kids on the Block stuff he had at home, and felt a sense of solidarity with Stan. “That’s it?”

“They’re a vindictive bunch,” Stan muttered. “I didn’t even buy the damn visor for myself. Mike got it for me as a joke. A joke,” he repeated, checking in with Ben to make sure he got the point.

Ben decided against bringing New Kids on the Block into the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, “they sound like they suck.”

Stan pressed his lips together into a thin line. “They do suck. And they’ll pay for exiling me, certainly. I have plans.”

They walked quietly together for a moment. Ben wondered, idly, if Stan had ever killed a man.

“This is the cafeteria.” Stan finally broke the silence, and Ben let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

He didn’t hear anything else Stan said about the cafeteria, though, because at that moment, the most beautiful girl in the entire world walked by.

Ben had never really paid much attention to girls at his other high schools, partially because he knew that he wasn’t going to be around for very long, and partially because he’d never met a girl that was more interesting to him than a book. He knew intuitively that this girl was going to be the exception. She had ferocious red hair, freckles that wound in constellation patterns across her face and down her back, and the kind of green eyes that Ben imagined J.K. Rowling was thinking about when she described Harry Potter.

He couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted her to look at him. On the one hand, she was the most incredible person he’d ever laid eyes on in his life. On…well, on the same hand, he was absolutely terrified of her.

He’d stopped walking somewhere along the line, too caught up in the girl to notice that he was standing still in the middle of the hallway like an idiot. Stan noticed, though, and was not amused. He smacked Ben in the arm, effectively ending his reverie.

“No. No way.” Stan shook his head. “Terrible idea.”

“Who is she?” Ben asked faintly.

“Beverly Marsh,” Stan replied. “Sophomore. She’s a goddess among mortals, obviously, and like a goddess, she has very little interest in us lowly normal kids. You’re better off forgetting her.”

“How am I supposed to forget about her?” Ben wrung his hands. “Her hair…”

“Look, buddy.” Stan stared flatly at him. “Even if you figured out how to make her pay attention to you, you couldn’t take her out. It’s popular knowledge that she doesn’t date.”

“Why not?”

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Who?”

“We’re here,” Stan said, pulling open a door at the end of the hallway and ushering Ben in to meet Mr. King.

Mr. King was a grey-haired, no-nonsense sort of fellow with a very stern face. He stopped speaking when Stan and Ben walked in, and looked over at them disinterestedly.

“New student, I presume,” he said in a bored drawl. “Mr. Uris, kindly do the honors.”

“This is Ben Hanscom,” Stan said, gesturing to Ben. A chorus of ‘hi, Ben’ rang through the room. “Be nice to him. Thanks.”

“Take the desks at the far side of the classroom, you two,” said Mr. King, “and let’s get back to Hemingway, shall we?”

Ben took his specified seat and looked around. A gangly, gawky kid near Stan was throwing paper clips in Stan’s direction.

“Stanthony!” The kid whispered, comically loud. “Stan! The! Man! Introduce me to the new kid!”

“No,” said Stan in a heavy monotone.

Unfortunately for Stan, this didn’t deter the kid; rather, it prompted him to instead lick his hand and reach out towards Stan’s desk. Stan recoiled immediately.

“Disgusting,” he hissed. The gawky boy giggled. “Ben, this is Richie Tozier. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“What’d I do to deserve that intro?” Richie squawked indignantly. Stan buried his face in his hands.

“Mr. Tozier,” called Mr. King.

“The office, yup.” Richie winked as he slid out of his seat. “Catch ya later, Ben Handsome.”

“Thanks?” Ben replied, unsure of whether or not he was supposed to feel flattered.

“Let’s proceed without distraction, please.” Mr. King sounded annoyed. “I’d like to hear thoughts on the relationship between Frederic and Katherine. Mr. Rogan, did we read the book this time?”

The ringleader of the group of bullies from earlier looked up with a lazy smile. Ben quietly moved to slide his Harry Potter book into his bag.

“I was proud of my boy Freddy for gettin’ some–” Tom began, but was almost immediately cut off.

“Alas, we did not, in fact, read the book this time.” Mr. King massaged his temples. “Someone else, then.”

“Well, it’s obvious that Hemingway hates women.” A small, sweet looking boy near the front of the classroom crossed his arms. Ben noticed with some interest that the boy was wearing a fanny pack.

“We don’t have to do this today, Mr. Kaspbrak.” Mr. King looked, for all intents and purposes, like a man ready to quit his job immediately, but that was the furthest thing from Ben’s mind in that moment.

Hadn’t Stan said the name Kaspbrak before…?

“I think we do, though,” continued Fanny Pack Kaspbrak. “Katherine’s whole mission is to get pregnant? Really? And then when she can’t deliver the baby, she just…dies? Like, okay, Ernest, is that really all that you think that women are good for -”

“That is all that women are good for, though,” said Tom Rogan suddenly, sitting up and staring at Fanny Pack. “You’d know that, too, if you weren’t the world’s faggiest little bitch.”

“Office. Both of you. Now.” Mr. King crossed to the door and pushed it open for them.

“What did I do?” Fanny Pack spluttered.

“Just go, Kaspbrak.” Mr. King sighed. Ben turned to look at Stan, who shrugged.

“That’s Eddie for you.”

Eddie.

Eddie Kaspbrak.

The reason Beverly Marsh didn’t date.

Ben put his head down on the desk, and hoped to God he wouldn’t have to buy a fanny pack to impress this girl.

—-

When lunch rolled around, Ben felt a little sick with nerves. Given the size of the school, it was unlikely that he’d run into either Henry Bowers or Beverly Marsh in the cafeteria, but he was equally nervous about both prospects.

Fortunately, Mike found him first.

“Ben!” Mike pushed through the throng of students. “Como se dice, dude, how was Spanish?”

“Good enough for me to confidently be able to say that you’re terrible at Spanish,” said Ben, a little numb from being jostled by the stream of students jockeying towards the cafeteria.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Mike shrugged amiably. “Any familiar faces?”

“Not really. No you, no Stan, no Bill…I guess the teacher did call for that Richie kid, but he didn’t show. I think he was still in the office.”

“He skips sometimes, too.” Mike looked back at Ben. “You buy your lunch?”

“Bring,” said Ben. “My mom likes to make it. Makes her feel useful.”

“That’s pretty cool of her - and a good thing, too. Padua food is crap.” Mike brought Ben around a large group of people and through the cafeteria doors Stan had pointed out earlier. “We all bring our lunches, too. I assume you’re hanging out?”

Ben suddenly felt warm. “With you, Bill, and Stan? That’s okay?”

“You bet, buddy.” Smiling, Mike led him to a table near the back of the room. “Here he is, boys!”

“You muh-made it!” Bill cheered. “How’s it been?”

Ben sat down, pulling his bag lunch out of his backpack, and thought back over the last two periods.

“Well, English was…interesting.”

“I told you that class was terrible.” Stan rolled his eyes.

“And then in Spanish, we…” but there was no way Ben was finishing that sentence, because he’d just seen Beverly Marsh across the room, carrying a tray of food and looking like a literal angel.

“Earth to Ben, come in, Ben,” called Mike. “Who’re you looking at?”

“Oh, right, he’s fallen in love with Beverly Marsh.” Stan shrugged and took a small bite of his sandwich.

Mike and Bill exchanged an astonished look.

“All right, all right!” Mike clapped him on the back, nodding appreciatively. “Dream big, buddy.”

“She’s really nuh-nice,” offered Bill, smiling kindly. “We were uh-in the school pluh-uh-ay together once.”

“Oh yeah! You kissed her! Nicely managed, my man.” Mike and Bill high-fived messily over the table.

“We’re just going to ignore her whole Eddie pact, then?” asked Stan, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shit, I forgot.” Mike’s smile disappeared. “Man, she’s gonna be single for life.”

“Eddie pact?” Ben asked, trying not to sound desperate.

“It’s not huh-huge, really.” Bill shrugged, sipping a Capri Sun. “Eddie went through some kind of bad buh-buh-breakup a year or suh-so ago, and swore off d-dating. Buh-Bev’s his best f-f-friend, so she swore off d-dating too.”

“Until he dates.” Mike corrected. “Beverly will start dating again when Eddie starts dating again.”

“So all we have to do is set up Eddie Kaspbrak?” Ben grinned. “I think I can manage that.”

“Okay, no. Two things.” Stan folded his arms. “One, she still doesn’t know you exist. Two, you’re not going to find a date for Eddie.”

“Why not? I bet some of the girls think he’s cute,” said Ben, looking at Beverly again.

“Yeah, bud…he doesn’t swing for that team,” said Mike, scratching his head sheepishly, “so that limits your pool a lil’ bit. And then there’s the fact that he’s not known for being, you know, super nice.”

“The nicest name he gets called is Shrew,” Stan said bluntly. “No respectable gay is going to date the Shrew.”

Beverly had sat down at a table near the front of the room. The table’s only other occupant was Eddie Kaspbrak. They were conversing about something.

“What subjects does Beverly take?” Ben changed the subject.

“She’s in Fuh-French class,” offered Bill. “She’s not very guh-good.”

Ben’s face lit up. “That’s perfect!”

Bill, Stan, and Mike all squinted back at him, confused.

“So in order to be the girl of Ben Hanscom’s dreams,” Stan clarified, “you have to have red hair, bad taste in friends, and speak French poorly.”

“No, no.” Ben waved his hands in front of him. “No. I’ll tutor her in French. That can be my in.”

“I don’t think that’s as good of a plan as you think it is,” Mike warned, opening his water bottle.

“Why not?” Ben asked, indignant.

“You don’t take French.”

“I can learn.” Ben balled up his paper bag and tossed it towards the trashcan. Instead of going in, it hit one of the kids passing by. The kid turned around, fists clenched - and of course it was Henry Bowers, of all the hundreds of kids at Padua High, of fucking course.

“Run,” advised Bill, and they all grabbed their stuff and high-tailed it across the cafeteria, with a howling Henry in tow.

They finally lost him over by the football stadium bleachers.

“Why did we take you on again? You clearly have a death wish,” wheezed Stan, leaning up against one of the metal supports.

“Did someone say death wish?” A head of curly hair popped up from where it had been resting on the grass. Ben recognized Richie Tozier’s freckled face and stupid glasses, and stifled a laugh - so Richie had been skipping, after all. “Stan the Man!”

“Can I not have one moment of peace?” Stan groaned, banging his head against the support. “Can I not just be left alone?”

“The universe huh-hates you, Stan,” Bill agreed solemnly.

“It hates all of us today. Especially you, Hanscom, and your impossible French tutoring scheme.” Mike plopped down on the grass by Richie, and everyone else followed suit.

“French tutoring?” Richie asked, “like…french kissing, tutoring?”

“There’s not an ounce of romance in your entire body, is there?” Stan asked, folding his arms over his eyes.

“I don’t know about ounces,” Richie grinned, “but I have a couple of good inches, and I’ve been saving them for your mom.”

“I thought you were gay, Tozier,” Mike remarked, throwing a handful of grass in Richie’s direction.

“I mean, a little. Like Freddie Mercury.” Richie kept smiling, nonplussed. “I like both.”

A lightbulb went off in Ben’s head. He scooted over to Stan and started whispering.

“Remember earlier, when you said no respectable gay would date the Shrew?”

“Yes.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I stand by it.”

“What about gays that might be…less respectable?”

It took Stan a minute, but the lightbulb eventually went off for him, too. He looked at Ben, and then at Richie, and then down at his own hands, clearly thinking it over.

When Stan looked back up, Ben expected him to shoot the idea down immediately…but instead, he smiled, huge and terrible.

“Suddenly, I’m invested in your stupid crush, Ben Hanscom. That would be fucking hilarious. Let’s make it happen.”

[twistednuns]

April 2018

Rediscovering an old passion of mine: The ice. I went to another ice-hockey match the other day and the atmosphere was fantastic - tense, excited, the players were really going for it. Hannes bought me beer and a hot dog and I enganged in friendly banter with the enemy (I wished him a safe trip home to Karlsruhe after Mannheim had lost and he winked at me). I really hope we'll win the semi-finals. I desperately want to go to the final! Ice-hockey brings back childhood memories for me because I used to join my dad who had season tickets for the LA Cannibals. He was allowed to bring children under 6 for free (I think I must have been 6 until I was about 10 years old...) I also saw the movie I, Tonya about the infamous figure skater Tonya Harding on Easter Sunday, sitting alone in the cinema, enjoying my popcorn. I loved this film. The soundtrack is awesome, the acting and the humour are spot-on. A few days later I actually went ice-skating with Korbian (in the EHC Red Bull rink!) and even though my feet still hurt so much that I have to unfasten the ice skates every twenty minutes it was great fun. Water and ice - I'm in my element.

A small present from a sixth-grader: a sticker of a smiling bowl of ramen noodle soup!

I can see that I'm so much fitter now than a few months ago. I can run up a flight of stairs without being out of breath. Not even a bit.

Sewing together all the granny squares I had lying around. The size is still on baby blanket level so just give me a few more years to finish it...

The first warm days. Planting flowers in front of my window (primrose, forget-me-not, buttercups). Setting up the canvas chair. Hanging up the laundry on the balcony. Eating outside, walking over Viktualienmarkt just before sunset. Great light and amazing smells.

Climbing the hill in Olympiapark. Lying in the grass, making out with K., enjoying a spectacular view over the Alps and the city.

Having painted toe nails for the first time after the winter. I especially like O.P.I's Tickle my France-y (and how every nail polish just looks so much prettier under water).

The Describe Yourself Like a Male Author Would Twitter thread: Her breasts entered the room before her far less interesting face, decidedly maternal hips and rounded thighs. He found her voice unpleasantly audible. As his gaze dropped from her mouth (still talking!) to her cleavage, he wondered why feminists were so angry all the time. (stellar example by Jennifer Weiner)

Watching Gegen die Wand by Fatih Akin for the first time. And Frida - seems like I'm quite into biopics considering how much I liked I, Tonya.

Seeing how the cat reacted to Korbinian. She just rolled into a little ball in his palms and he held her in his hands for quite a while. Seems like she prefers men...

Amira Casar is very pretty.

He said I didn't snore!

Unter Glück hatte ich mir eigentlich was anderes vorgestellt.

A new double-ended eyebrow brush.

Talking about that one illustration in Janosch's Post für den Tiger (mole network!) and Lena knew immediately what I meant.

Walking over the playground with Lena and Alexandra. Trying out the seesaw, a carousel and the swings. Climbing a jungle gym, squeezing through the ropes, sliding down (my ass didn't get stuck!!)

Lying outside in the sun on a deck chair after one hour of swimming. Cold at first, very very nice after I was dry. It's incredible how much power the sun already has.

Sore muscles from ice-skating. Hill-climbing. Swimming.

Talking a walk in the Nymphenburg castle grounds. Taking a photo of Magdalenenklause (as always - I think it's fascinating how you can see the reflection of the trees and the blue sky as well as the interior of the chapel and the windows at the far end). Reading at Königsplatz. Buying food at the Asian market and some candy at Pomeroy & Winterbottom. Meeting Lena and Obi, having avocado toast with fried eggs at Holzkranich in Schwabing. All in all a really nice day even though I wasn't in a great mood to begin with.

Trommeln in der Nacht was the best play I've seen at the Kammerspiele so far. I really liked it. I mean, an Australian guy singing pop songs during a classic Brecht play - what can go wrong?

Swimming freestyle laps for the first time! My technique is probably shit but all that matters is that it gets my heart rate up.

Finding four tiny holo stars on a page in a librabry book.

Deciding to ride my bike down to Großhesselohe - I lay around in the sunshine in my bathing suit. And I needed sunscreen for the first time this year! I love the smell of the Garnier sun oil. Felt like summer! Isarkaribik... I also lay across from a nudist guy with a pretty good ass. Doesn't hurt.

Moser Roth lemon yoghurt chocolate.

Getting a bunch of Alstroemeria flowers at the supermarket. They were so pretty and stayed fresh for weeks.

Scene hunting.

The sound of the woodpeckers in the trees outside my apartment.

Delicious recipes for all kinds of wraps in the latest issue of Schrot und Korn.

Walking barefoot.

Meeting two huge, fat cats on my evening walk over the fields. Seeing the illuminated living rooms, watching people having dinner, wondering if they actually like each other. The smell of the first blossoming trees. The view over the forest after sunset, watching planes rise above the clouds. The sound of last year's leaves in the wind. Still some traces of light left. Seeing a hedgehog behind a garden fence.

How interested the cat was in the little blooming twig I brought home from a walk.

Reading so incredibly much.

Reading, yes, again - reading about Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes in Connie Palmen's Du sagst es. It's a fictional autobiography of Hughes. All these feelings, so much drama and a life for literature.

Another evening walk (I like them best) - lying down in the big nest swing at the playground. Finding a pile of free give-aways on a bench, taking home paper plates (I use them for acrylic paints).

Trauringe have only one letter more than traurige.

Going to work by tram on a sunny morning. A book in my lap, eating fruit salad. Seeing the city in a different light and discovering places I had never seen before because I usually only go there by night (for example the square/monument left of the Isar near Müllersches Volksbad).

The fact that the laundry dries in a matter of hours on the balcony now.

Taking a random library book to read on my way to work. Reading the passage "Es war April, der Monat, der von T.S. Eliot zum grausamsten unter seinesgleichen gekürt wurde, und es war Freitag, der dreizehnte." in April, on Friday the 13th. The likelihood of this happening is approximately 1 in 2500.

Kunstautomaten.

Meeting basically everyone at Muffat-Biergarten. The Fabis, Claudia, Frank, Manu and Susa. Even Lucy the dog-lady was there.

Paying Rasmus a compliment which he was really happy about.

Hanging up some crystals in the trellis on the balcony.

Spending a day at the Northern part of the English Garden with the "family". Playing Kubb, somersaulting spontaneously, so much delicious food (pizza, chocolate fruit, chickpea salad, sushi, cold drip coffee, ...), exploring some old trees at the riverside, climbing, playing with cheeky dogs, reading Lena's graphic novel.

The Destiny's Child reunion at Coachella.

Ferrero is making mother-effin' Kinder Bueno, Milchschnitte and Kinderriegel ice-cream now! Deliiiish.

Going to a workshop about voice and body language. I actually got way more positive feedback than expected. Apparently my voice and articulation are quite nice and I keep eye contact much better than I thought. Also, I asked another girl from the group to join me for lunch. Yay, talking to people! Hello, new extrovert me!

Foldable silicon lunch boxes.

Playing badminton in the park. I want to do that more often!

Getting eight more books from the library even though I still had five at home.

When your book fits exactly into the handle on the seat in front of you and you don't need a bookmark.

Having a monthly ticket for public transport is surprisingly nice. Hop on, hop off.

Visiting some of my students at their work place on Girls'/Boy's Day. We went to Deutsches Museum and a kindergarden, for example. It was great to see how much the kids enjoyed their days.

The playoff final!!! Two goals in 10 seconds, omg. So EHC Red Bull Munich won for the third time in a row. There were gold glitter, beer showers, the players' children on the ice. And I flirted with a dude from Garmisch who kept calling me princess.

Woodworking. I'm currently carving a bowl and a small bird out of limewood.

Carrying a huge pot of flowers all the way home on the train.

That other kind of mango. The type you usually get in Asia. Less sweet, creamier.

Going to the market on Saturdays. Getting fresh bread, vegetables or flowers for the balcony.

Riding my bike through the forest in order to get to the garden centre.

A weird childhood flashback while washing my dirty feet in the sink: the memory of my grandma who wouldn't let us sit on the sofa in the summer if we didn't do that.

Spending a day with a happy-go-lucky woodworker. Playing games at the Starnberger See. Driving around in his Skoda. Eating pizza.

Wearing the &otherstories sunflower necklace with the one I bought in Portland and had always been to tight for me. And wearing the pink-blue checked pyjama pants in combination with a soft grey longsleeve shirt. Another thing that used to be too small.

The balcony!!! Tomatoes, yellow zucchini, pink poppies, multi-coloured petunias, I mean, YES. The light breaking in one of the crystals. Rainbow reflections.