#like young enough when the blackberry came out that he adapted to it like a duck to water and then old enough when it was completely

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

I know in my heart Bruce Wayne never got over the blackberry phone going out of vogue. I know he misses that actual keyboard. I know the blackberry era he was thriving. He was emailing from everywhere.

[wlw-imagines-blog]

Abandonment, Enthroned. {Part 3} (Fem!reader x Wanda Maximoff)

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!reader

Warnings: None for this part

Tags: apocalypse au, enemies to friends to lovers, no powers au,

Word count: 2.6K

Summary: “All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey. I’ve been on a walk, on a winter’s day” - John Philips

After checking on Goat, you surveyed the apple orchard. You gathered two whole baskets of red and green apples, picking more off the garden floor than from the branches. Maybe if you went into town next week, you could find enough spices and sugar to make a pie. You smiled. That'd brighten both your and Wanda's mood. You pulled the little hand wagon full of apples and freshly picked blackberries behind you, just around the edge of the estate.

The dirt path separated the cornfield from the wild berry bushes that prowled closer, and closer to the house.

The sight made you smile. There was something so beautiful about how mature always found a way to grow and adapt despite humanity’s meddling.

You remembered what your mother would say when you helped her prune the apple trees as a young girl. The forest can grow without humans, but humans can’t grow without the forest.

It was not hard to imagine what the farm would look like without any care from you. You could already see the invasive sap suckers moving in to demolish the orchard. Tough weeds and ivy crawling and choking out the cornfield and destroying the greenhouse. The blackberry bushes would eventually dominate the house, alongside ivy and ferns.

This wasn’t just a daydream. You knew that in a few years, maybe decades, that that would be the future of your safe haven. 

You looked up as you strolled. Every inch of the sky was covered with grey, but the clouds had yet to open and release.

As you turned the corner, a figure emerged from the tall stalks of corn, dark and staggering.

You stopped, blood turning to ice. The gun you kept in your waistband was in your hand within a second, safety off.

The man, tall and fit, was facing away, only turning when he heard the clank of the wagon handle hitting the ground.

He was light skinned, with long, dark hair. His bright eyes were clouded with a heavy glare. The jacket he wore was black, just like his boots and pants. The insignia was scratched off.

Much like the one Wanda wore, the day you met her.

His face was weather beaten, hair matted, hands bound in weathered bandages. The look in his eye made your heart twist; he seemed so lost, face pinched and confused.

He stood between you and the house.

Between you and Wanda.

"I'm not accepting visitors today," you called out, voice even. It took everything to choke down the fear.

There would have been the option to invite him inside, maybe even help him, if Wanda wasn't upstairs. If she wasn't resting inside, injured, barely able to walk. She was in no state to defend herself.

You called out again. "Come back in two weeks, I might be able to help you. But not now."

The man did nothing. He watched you, sharp blue eyes glancing over the wagon, to the gunning your hand.

"Get out of here, before I get twitchy," you stepped closer.

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.

“Two weeks,” he repeated after what felt like an eternity, before turning away.

Your throat constricted, tight until he walked past the house. You followed him for a few paces, making sure he stayed far away from Wanda.

The man disappeared down the cracked asphalt road, and you watched before fetching the wagon. You hadn't even realized the sweat that had formed on your brow, despite the cold.

As you approached the house, you saw Wanda standing in window of the second floor bedroom. Her eyes were darting from you, to where the man had last been. As she stepped away, you pulled the wagon into the house.

"Who was that?" Wanda asked as you stepped through the front door. She stood with her arms crossed while you carried the baskets to the kitchen. "What did he want? Where was he from?"

You gave her a once over, taking in her pale face and fidgeting hands. There was an unfamiliar tension in Wanda’s shoulders, one that trickled into her voice.

She was nervous. Terrified, even.

Her eyes kept shifting from you to the front door, as though she was waiting for the strange man to bust through. You couldn’t but feel the same jitters Wanda was emitting.

“I don’t know,” You placed the basket of apples down. “He didn’t say, I chased him away before he spoke a word. Why?”

“Nothing, never mind,” she said quickly, turning back to the living room.

It was your turn to cross your arms. “Don’t think I didn’t recognize that jacket he was wearing, Wanda.”

She froze, back stiff. “What about it?”

“You were wearing the same one when you showed up here, right?” You asked, walking to the basket of laundry. The jacket sat on top of the heap. “With the symbols all scratched out?”

Wanda audibly swallowed, forcing calm.

Pulling it out, you continued. “Is your last name Maximoff?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Is that a no?” You stepped closer to her. “ Then who are you? What militia were you a part of?”

“I’m not a part of any militia! Not anymore.”

“Are you AWOL?”

“I- no, I’m not!” Wanda snapped.

“Then are you? A one woman army?” You threw the jacket onto the ground. “Who was that man outside, Wanda? You knew him, didn’t you?”

She said nothing, just shook her head.

“Wanda,” you pressed your hands together, remembering to breathe. “I cannot let you stay if you’re AWOL. I-I don’t want to get mixed up in the Militia, and the fucking stupid war on the East Coast. If your presence attracts headhunters, or mercenaries from the New Alliance, you need to leave. Now.”

Wanda turned, eyes wild with panic. “They aren’t looking for me, because they think I’m dead. They think my brother killed me three weeks ago.”

Your mouth turned dry. “What?”

She winced, hand hovering over the bandage on her hip. Sitting down heavily on the couch, Wanda only continued when you sat next to her.

“My brother and I, we joined the New Alliance Militia before the war even started. The New Alliance promised to end the nuclear wars, or at least find a way to stop the fighting within America. We were foolish enough to believe it. And at one point, w-we thought we were doing the right thing.” She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t know they were being paid by the government. Or that they were ravaging every city they came upon. I thought we lived in a new utopia that the New Alliance created. I thought it was perfect. I only figured out the truth a month ago, when I caught a broadcast by the Protectors over the transmitters.”

You listened, heart hammering. She had a brother? The boy from the photo?

“I knew I needed to get out. I planned to disappear and go north, as far as I could until the Militia couldn’t find me. But,” Wanda choked on her words. “My brother found out what i was planning, and he turned me in. I was going to be court martialed for abandonment and punished”

“Punished?”

“Privately executed.”

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, hand over your mouth.“How did you escape?”

You saw the muscle in her jaw flex. “My brother saved me. When it came to the execution, he turned a blind eye; he helped me.”

“Why? Wasn’t he the one that turned you in?”

“I’m the only family he has left. He couldn’t go through with it. I got out of there and began to head east-”

“-And met me,” you finished, grimacing at your first impressions of each other.

She nodded.

“So, who was that outside?” you broached the topic carefully. ‘Why was he here?”

Wanda stood heavily, walking to the window. “I don’t know his real name. In fact, I’m pretty certain he doesn’t have one. The other soldiers in the Militia would call him the Winter Soldier.”

“Oh God,” You had heard the name mentioned several times over transmissions and radio channels. The Winter Soldier was the face of the New Alliance Militia. He was formidable, and credited for eradicating whole factions of Protectors.

The New Alliance’s favorite attack dog had been standing a few feet in front of you, just moments ago.

“There were rumors in the camp that every night, the Militia leader, Colonel Rumlow, and the other doctors brainwash him to be a killer,” she continued. “Sometimes when I was on evening parole, I could hear machines and screaming from his compound.”

“He... he could’ve...” your hands were clammy. “He could have killed us. Why didn’t he?”

Wanda paced, each step labored. “I don’t know. At first I thought the Militia had found out I escaped, and that maybe he was here for me, but he saw me in the window and left without a fight.”

“He was alone, and pretty beaten up. The insignia on his jacket was ripped off, like your’s was,”  You scratched your cheek. “Is there any chance he could be AWOL?”

“No,” she answered almost immediately. “I mean, he was the Militia’s most loyal soldier. I don’t know what could have make him turn.”

You nodded slowly. “Anything’s possible.”

“That’s true,” Wanda replied.

“He’ll probably come back.”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll be ready.”

She let out a dissonant laugh. “Yeah, and he’ll kill us before we blink.”

“He’s going to come back,” you remembered the encounter. “He said so himself.”

Wanda hummed, fingers brushing against the dog tags. “Then we’re definitely screwed.”

***

“North? North? You there?” The radio crackled to life. “It’s Queens, you awake?”

You seated yourself at your desk, on the desk light. “I’m here, is the channel secure?”

“Yup,” Queens sounded tired. You could imagine the young man, sitting in the pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, under the stars. Anxiety gripped your heart. “I’m gonna need some directions, North.”

“Where are you now?” You pulled out the various road maps that you had stored away. The study was next to your bedroom, and the second room that you frequented the most. Through the wall, you could hear Wanda tossing in bed.

You waited, listening to him yawn. “I’m in Illinois, just outside Chicago.”

“When was the last time you slept?” The clock on your desk read 2:36 am. “You need to be alert when you drive, Queens.”

“I’ve been driving non-stop,” He replied, letting out another yawn. “The truck’s tank is almost empty.”

You shook your head. “What are you going to do?”

There was a pause. “I...I don’t know.”

Despair was so thick in his voice, it made your eyebrows furrow. You cleared your throat, looking down at the map. “You’re almost here. It might take you a few more days, but you should be able to arrive without any problems.”

“Really?” Queens seemed to perk up. “Tell me how far I am.”

You were hesitant to give him a list of highways and slip routes to take. What if the channel wasn’t secure? What if someone was listening right now? prayed to god that Queens remembered most of them, there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in,” you called to the door. Wanda poked her head in, showing no traces of ever sleeping.

She wore her pajamas and one of your sweaters, arms crossed against the chill of the house. You nodded when she mouthed can I come in?

“Okay, North,” Queens said. “I’m going to settle in for the night. My eyes can’t stay open.”

“Sounds good, kiddo. Make sure you lock the doors and stay out of sight,” you responded.

“Aye aye captain,”

You grinned. “Goodnight. See you in a few days.”

“Goodnight, see you soon.”

You laughed softly and turned off the radio.

“Who was that?” She asked, sitting on the leather couch next to the desk. Her legs were crossed, hands folded. Your eyes landed on the strands of hair that had fallen out of her pony tail. The gas lantern on your desk illuminated her eyes, letting a warm light fall over her skin.

“Queens,” you responded, unable to swallow. “He’s a kid I found over the radio a year ago.”

She frowned. “Queens?”

“His code name,” you explained. “We can never be certain if the channel is secure, so we try to avoid using real names. I’ve already taken a risk in telling him how to get here.”

“And you’re ‘North’?”

“Uh huh. Like North Dakota.”

“Why are you helping him?” She asked carefully.

You smiled, a little strained. “Queens just got into high school when war broke out. There are so many people, especially kids, that are suffering because of this war. I want to help him get out in one piece.”

“He’s just some random kid?”

“He’s just some random kid.” You sat back in your chair. “He’s actually quite brilliant. I think he hasn’t gotten this far on pure luck; the kid’s a genius with machines.”

Wanda offered you a rare smile. “That’s really kind of you to help him.”

“It helps me sleep at night,” you shrugged, forcing nonchalance. The complement caught you off guard.

Wanda shook her head, face pinched. It was as though she could not muster the energy to be frustrated with you. “You’re a good person, Y/N.”

You laughed bitterly. “Wanda, I wasn’t always the bleeding heart humanitarian you see before you.” Leaning towards her, elbows on your knees, you spoke in a whisper. “It takes more than what you’re willing to give to live in the blast zone. You can’t tell me that I’m a good person, not after what I’ve done to get here.”

Wanda watched you intently as you rambled.

“It’s never been easy out here. Not once have I woken up and been glad to be alive; not since the war started. You have to be ruthless to survive, and I’m so damn tired of surviving. I want to live, and feel alive.” You choked out the last word, head dropping to your hands. “Wanda, it took so much of me to find a home in this wreckage. I’m so... so different now.”

If you knew everything, you’d call me a monster.

There was silence as you took in ragged breaths, as though you had never learnt to breathe. Those were words you had not ever spoken aloud. Instead of felling like a weight being lifted, the confession felt like a brick falling through glass, and now you were picking up the pieces. The moment the words were out, you felt hot embarrassment work its way through your system. God, did Wanda really want to hear about your sob story now?

You felt a cool hand on your wrist, pulling your hands away from your face.

Instead of the usual vindictive look she held in her eyes, Wanda was looking at you with nothing but sympathy. The corners of her lips were pulled into a soft smile that chipped away at the husk around your heart.

“It’s never too late to change, Y/N,” she murmured, eyes glancing down to where her hand encircled your wrist. “I know that better than anyone.”

Before you could think, your finger brushed over her knuckles, a gesture so intimate and unfamiliar. You closed your eyes.

“Thank you, Wanda.”

As fast as it happened, the hand was gone. When you looked up, Wanda was standing, appearing equally stunned as apologetic. In the dim light, you could see the faintest blush on her cheeks, but ignored it for now.

“Wanda, wait, plea-”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” she said quickly, unable to meet your gaze. “See you tomorrow.”

The door closed hastily, leaving you alone in your study, unable to comprehend what just happened. 

As you extinguished the lantern, you felt the phantom sensations of Wanda’s hand around your wrist, gentle and comforting.

As you crawled into the guest room’s bed, you forced yourself to stop over analyzing everything about Wanda.

[bakingthedetectives]

Chocolate Doughnuts For Lockwood And Co

'George had returned, carrying the tray on which he'd assembled a tea service I'd never before set eyes on. It was all fine-bone china and little pink flowers, the kind of mincing cups that are so delicate and brittle you expect them to shatter when you put them to your lips. This classy effect was slightly undermined by a teetering pile of fat jam doughnuts on a plate beside them'.

When I was young I had horrifying dreams on an almost nightly basis. When I look back they were all silly things, like the moon coming down from the sky to lurk outside my window. It seems ridiculous now but when you're 5 the moon being able to move really unsettles you. (Actually, I don't think we should just confine the fear of the moon moving towards us to when we're young, it really shouldn't be moving in that way at all, whatever age you are). Eventually I was taken to a doctor who said I was making it up, so we went to another doctor, and he told me to stop watching scary television shows, films, or reading scary books. I was 8 at this point...where was I getting access to scary films!? I wasn't, I wasn't involved in any frightening activity at all, apart from going to school but that isn't marketed as a scary activity. It is though. 

So anyway, the nightmare continued. I avoided all horror, shut myself away and suffered with insomnia for all of my early teens. Would you believe I accidentally watched The Wicker Man? Well, I did. I was at a sleepover at it happened to be on (by which I mean a small select group decided to wait until everyone else was asleep to gather round the tv. I wasn't one of those, but I was pretending to be asleep and watching it on my side). I loved it. I was obsessed with it. The psychology of it. The tragedy of it. And just like that the nightmares stopped. As it turns out...well, to quote Sherlock 'Your mind, it's so placid. Straightforward. Barely used.' Because I wasn't stimulating my imagination enough my brain decided to take over and all the little horrors came out at night. I wouldn't say I was the world's biggest horror fan, but a small dose of it now and again is enough to keep me sane! And this is the brilliant thing about the Lockwood and Co series. It is genuinely scary. The series falls into the 'young adult' category, but everyone would enjoy this. The difficult themes are dealt with honesty and wit. Children want honest stories, real people, and all of the characters are crafted so well you can really believe you're following a ghost-hunting agency in an alternative London. Lucy is clever and brave, George is a mother hen, and Lockwood is indeed dashing and scatty (it says so in the back of the book, but it's very true).

Finding a book that hands me everything I'm looking for on a plate brings me the greatest joy. 15 pages in comes the first mention of tea, soon after we've blossomed onto tea and biscuits. There's eggs and bacon and toast and cornflakes. There's jam sandwiches and ginger ale. And then there's the doughnuts.If you're going to be out battling ghosts all night I'd say doughnuts were the right amount of fortification needed the following morning. I was initially going to make blackberry and custard doughnuts, but as I was reading George decided to throw me off by talking about chocolate doughnuts. It's so rare that I make something specifically mentioned by the characters I felt I really must make more of an effort here. I went through chocolate dough, chocolate brownie mix, chocolate coatings, and then settled on an easy chocolate custard to go inside for a pure chocolate hit. They're thick and stodgy and I'm sure Lucy would say that rather describes George too. At the back of the book there's descriptions of all the different ghost entities. I think if I could be any I'd be a Gibbering Mist, they sound hilarious! What would you be? The only bread I am any good at baking is brioche. Anything with mounds of butter is a winner for me, so I've adapted my brioche loaf recipe to make doughnuts. I'm as surprised as you are that it worked! For the doughnuts: 375g strong white bread flour, or '00' grade flour 140ml warm water 45g caster sugar 7g dried yeast 3 large eggs 1/2 tsp vanilla extract pinch of sea salt 100g butter, softened Some caster sugar for rolling the doughnuts in cacao nibs (optional) for rolling the doughnuts in about 2l sunflower oil For the chocolate custard filling: 375ml milk 1 tsp vanilla extract/pure vanilla bean paste 110g mix of milk and dark chocolate1 tbsp cocoa powder 4 large egg yolks 200g caster sugar 60g plain flour ​1 tbsp cocoa powder 75ml double cream You will need a food thermometer, a heavy based saucepan and a piping bag. Put the warm water into a mixing bowl with all of the doughnut ingredients except for the butter. Mix for around 10 minutes in a mixer with a paddle beater (you can do this by hand but it'll take some welly). The dough will start to come away from the sides and look almost creamy smooth. Let the dough rest while you tear up pieces of butter. The butter should be soft enough for you to tear pieces off with your hands, but not so soft that it's melting and greasy. Start the mixer again on a medium speed and slowly add pieces of the butter and keep mixing until it's all been added. Mix on a high speed for around 5 minutes just to give the dough a good talking to. It should now be smooth and glossy. Cover the bowl with clingfilm and leave it to prove until it has doubled in size. Don't put it somewhere warm, just leave it where it is. It may take a while, mine actually never rises but I carry on regardless and it always works. Once it has proved, prod it a bit to knock it back, then put it in the fridge to chill overnight.   The next day, take out the dough and roll it into even sized pieces. I usually get around 16 at 45g each. Put them on floured baking trays, leaving plenty of space between them. Cover loosely with cling film and leave for around 4 hours to prove, or until doubled in size. Heat the oil in a fryer or heavy based saucepan, it should come to about halfway up the sides. Heat it to 180C. When the oil is heated and steady at that temperature, carefully slide in the dough balls, a few at a time. Fry for around 2 minutes on each side. Remove from the fryer and place them onto kitchen paper to drain. Carefully repeat the process until all of the dough has been used, then toss the doughnuts in sugar. Leave them to cool fully. Chop the chocolate into small pieces. In a large saucepan, heat the milk, vanilla, and milk powder on a medium-low heat. When it is steaming remove from the heat and add the chocolate. Leave it for a while to melt then use a whisk to stir it around. Put it back on the heat to warm through and thicken up, about 5 minutes. Leave to cool fully and thicken. To make the custard, heat the milk and vanilla in a saucepan on a medium heat until it comes to a gentle boil. Remove from the heat. Lightly whisk the egg yolks and sugar together, then sift in the flour and cocoa and mix well. Whisk some of the hot milk into the egg mixture and mix it all in, then slowly add more and more while whisking until it all comes together. Add the chocolate and stir together to melt it a bit. Put this all back on the heat and whisk until thick, about 5 minutes. If you feel the need you can pass it through a sieve to ensure there's no lumps but I've never bothered. Put it into a bowl or onto a lined tray and press the top with clingfilm to stop a skin forming and leave to cool fully. Whip the cream it to soft peaks and fold this through the custard and chill again to set it. When ready, fill a piping bag with the custard and pipe into the doughnuts by putting a small hole into the the pale ring round the centre. Pipe until the doughnuts feel full and provide resistance against the bag. Repeat with the remaining doughnuts and serve. These are best eaten on the day they are made, although if you wanted to keep them put the custard  in the fridge and keep the doughnuts in an airtight container, then fill them as you want to eat them.

Next time on Baking The Detectives...

'I've never done gardening. I don't know, what is gardening?' Braving some herring for Knut Angstrom. Use the social sharing buttons below to send this to the Detectives in your life.

[ashnadir]

nuadxa:

They’d make him blackberries, milk and rice one day in the future. It was curious that he remembered his mother rescuing him but not what came afterwards – or maybe it wasn’t. Memory was hardly as set as people liked to think and no one remembered events perfectly. Had Iann wanted, he probably could have convinced himself that he had beaten off those men, taken care of his blackberry bush and hadn’t required the assistance of his mother, but he hadn’t. Even more interesting for Nuadia was the way a story ended.

Sticking their tongue out at him when he put the idea that their dust was a unique quirk to them, they said, “so my unique quirk is that I give off dead dust? What’s Freddie’s unique quirk? Is it that he’s wickedly handsome? Or that he can keep Ollie from getting his little paws dirty? If I have a unique quirk, all fairies have to have one.” In this, they wanted things to be fair. Ian couldn’t say unique quirk and leave it at that. Quirks were what got things thrown in the trash. Unique quirk meant they were one step away from being the blanket in the brave little toaster – no longer wanted or useful. Not things that Iann needed to know; all he needed was the touch of aggrieved annoyance at the thought that any part of themselves was a quirk. 

Like the idea of unicorns, Iann combated the idea that he’d be something supernaturals would want, and now - they liked bringing it up when they could, just to see how he did when they referenced it. Would he fight it? Take it in stride? Consider? For then, he caught up with them. 

Iann didn’t seem to find that they didn’t feel the same close bond with his partner as they had found in others, and the awkward tension that they had felt faded a little. It wouldn’t abate, as there was still the worry hiding in the furrow of their brows that maybe it wasn’t all right, or that they had been too honest, but they had been honest about everything else. “I still like him but I don’t…” they sucked the air in between their teeth. “I like his coffee, and he’s nice,” they said, leaving it at their basic impression of Tuah. He made good coffee. They had very little to fault him for. He was genial. Detached. “He’s a bit like other old vampires though. Or maybe it’s because Bella’s my favorite vampire and the first one I’ve ever met so all the other ones are just …like very pretty wallpaper that was the height of fashion at its time, but is now turning yellow and peeling from the walls, showing a bit of old chipped paint underneath. Bella is – young, and she’s engaged - good or bad, and she’s still connected - like she’s got all these anchors in the world, good and bad, and there hasn’t been time for her yet to free herself, so she’s still here,” they tapped their temple, “and here,” they touched their heart, “and she isn’t made of marble or set up somewhere elevated. She’s cold to the touch but she’s warm in bearing and she’s got that bit of worry - do you see it? When she looks at a crowd - like she’s wondering if she’s going to be allowed to join or if she will be welcome if she is? Her hesitance, her vibrant, still-there humanity as it fights against stagnation - she hasn’t lost that yet.” 

In the next breath, they said: “did you know that Otherworld fairies don’t like vampires? Not because they’re afraid of them but because – they’re unchanging relics? They don’t seem to adapt well, or they’re always yammering on about what they’d seen through the centuries and not nearly enough time living in the present or future. I think, maybe Bella will be the first vampire that I can introduce that they’ll like.” 

His objection on the grounds of knowing things gave them pause. They looked at him, eyes widened before they blinked owlishly. “Of course you do,” they said simply. “I meant it in the sense that Jae-won’s spirits don’t seem to be like any spirits I’ve met before. They’re not dead people or dead things or terrible horrible bouts of evil come to rend the soul for the sake of rending. They’re … alive. They exist. I can’t see them. I’ve no doubt that you’ve dealt with many things, Iann Cardero - a great deal more than I even have a name for but - there’s still more for the learning. And he can teach you, if you’re interested.” 

They snickered, finally catching on that they had misunderstood him. “Oh, you know - that makes more sense now.” They still didn’t like the house. Too much dark wood. Though seeing storms through the windows - that’d be something. They followed after Iann and into the living room, knowing that they’d get lost if they tried to wander this house like they wandered the Blue Circle. 

At first they stood in the doorway of the room Iann led them to before he revealed his treasure. They walked over, knelt down and pressed their hand against the glass. “Oh look at it,” they breathed out, hand moving over the legs as if they could touch them. “Aren’t you marvelous?” they wondered before looking up at Iann. “Hide it? I’d make the entire room have this one spot as the focus, decorate around it to highlight this. Does It do anything? Other than be gorgeous? Protect from stories? Filter negative energy?”

“True,” Iann proclaimed, trying to think about Freddie’s quirk.  “He is stupidly good-looking but that’s genetics, not fairyness.  And I know it’s not a glamour because I demanded he show me his true self and he did and I know he wasn’t lying.”  Iann didn’t know that, he was just talking flippant half-truths for the entertainment of himself and Nuadia’s determination to find fairy-quirks for all.  “Oh!  Wing-massages, especially at the base of his wings is a total turn-on. Erogenous zone thing.  Bet that’s not all fairies...?”  Iann looked at Nuadia for their confirmation. 

It was true that Iann enjoyed being teased about unicorns, because it just added to his conviction that they didn’t exist. Plus he got to stomp and holler irritably - a favourite pastime. 

Honestly, talk of Tuah pacified Iann greatly.  He didn’t really care if it was good or bad, he just enjoyed the topic, immensely.  It partly fed into his history with his wife.  She was a sweet and kind thing, but rarely got acquainted with others.  And Iann discovered he truly enjoyed talking about his partners; but since no one really knew his wife except him, it was mostly anecdotal: ‘the wife does this’ and ‘the wife thought that’.  

People in town knew Tuah.  It thrilled Iann therefore, to hear varying opinions on the vampire.  “He’s nice and he makes good coffee - “ Iann grinned at Nuadia.  “Honestly that’s exactly the impression he wants to give people, so you hit the mark, hm?  Frankly I think many people are satisfied with just knowing Tuah Arjuna, the nice vampire who makes good coffee.  But for people like you and me, it’s just not enough.  It’s boring,” Iann said with a laugh, shaking his head.  “He wants to be boring, it’s that centuries-old shell."  

What Nuadia said about older vampires did have a ring of truth.  “Yeah, older vampires aren’t raw.  They hide behind these fucking...veneers and masks of their own customized making, like.  Protection.  She’s young, but Bellamy has veneers of protection too.  Or she had.”  Sometimes physically, Iann thought, when Bellamy used to surround herself with the endless gaggles of werewolves that she’d kept in her building.  

“I think almost everyone does in some way - and age makes vampire veneers simultaneously more permanent but also - for people like you - more obvious.  Hm? It’s gotten sloppy, because they’ve gotten so used to it.  Look at Fane Savin - that guy’s mask’s is crooked, the glue is chipping, paint is faded...but it still works on some people, I guess.”  Then again, there was always the possibility that most people weren’t really invested, and that was understandable.  

“People who hide like that always hope someone will take the time and effort to see them,” he murmured then, with a bit more gentility to his tone.  “It’s...so aggravating. But I get it. But it’s annoying.  But I understand.”

He did know that about fairies and vampires, although Iann didn’t make the distinction of ‘Otherworld’ fairies specifically.  Bellamy in the Otherworld?  It had nothing to do with her vampireness, but Iann snorted and said,  “Good luck with that.”  Really, if anyone could accomplish it, it would be Nuadia.

“Ooohwoohooo, Jae-won’s spirits,” Iann flounced, knowing he was flouncing but still being childish.  Nuadia was 100% correct and Iann’s miffed was temporary (already gone) but he still kicked up a little fuss.  And when Nuadia mentioned Jae-won’s teachings, he broke out into a grin and his fuss was forgotten.  “He’s so willing to educate!  I’m amazed at that, it’s amazing.  Never mind the things he’s offering.  He said he’d take you and me to the world-besides, like.  To see the spirits that he sees!  With his circles and glyphs,” Iann gushed, excited.

Gazing down at the starfish, Iann nodded.  “Right? Like this would be the starfish’s official room, everything about her.  I think she’s built into the house’s foundations.  So when she detaches, sometimes this whole part of the house floats away unless it’s tethered to the part on stilts...But apparently even when it floats away, she fetches it and brings it back to the mooring.  Apparently when she has babies, they hang out all over the ocean-facing wall of the house, hm?  All of them different colours.  The home-owners are contracted to chase seagulls away.”

He waited until Nuadia had their fill of the starfish, before leading the way out (and neglecting to cover the starfish back up).  “Onto the next!”

home sweet home

[conflictandscotchblog]

Just Wrap Yourself In Plastic And Go

When you think of kids’ sleigh riding, you might picture a Currier & Ives print of children innocently navigating a hill of snow. When we sledded as kids it was down the middle of the street, any street with the biggest hill. But the real adventure would be begin as we neared the end of the ride — there would inevitably be a cross street to worry about. We were low to the ground, shooting out into traffic, trying very hard not to get killed by a car. We lived in the suburbs, not the country; our hills were covered in asphalt. Being young, we had to find places to sled that were within walking distance.

That all changed when we learned how to drive.

With a driver’s license we could now explore outside of our bubble and find the best place to sled. It was then that sledding became a contact sport — you hit the hill and the hill hit back. Our favorite spot was called Telegraph Hill which is behind what was once named the Garden State Arts Center and is now named the PNC Bank Arts Center. (Way to sell-out, New Jersey.)

It was a long way down from the top of that hill and you had to navigate through an army of spruce trees that tried their best to keep you from completing your run. I had seen many friends fly face first into the open arms of a waiting spruce only to appear on the other side with exposed skin scrapped raw and smelling like Christmas.

It was not an even run from top to bottom — the ground rose and fell beneath your body as you sped down the hillside. There were moments where you took flight, only to crash seconds later on the cold, unforgiving ground. That sudden impact with the earth often caused a conventional sled to shatter — there was a broken sled graveyard at the bottom of the hill. Fractured Flexible Flyers littered the ground, their shattered wooden planks, half buried in the snow, formed makeshift headstones for the dreams that died on that hill.

But sometimes more than just sleds were shattered.

With my brother Joe and his friend Tommy we braved the hill on a Toboggan. Sitting with our legs entwined, from front to back, we inched ourselves forward until the front of the Toboggan reached its tipping point, and we were off. With increasing speed we hit the first curve in the ice-packed snow and we were airborne. With amazing force we then hit the ground accompanied by a rousing thud and our own series of curse words as our backs and butts took the brunt of the attack. Within a few seconds this would be repeated, only faster and with louder sounds coming from our bodies and the ground. As we neared the bottom of the hill something horrible happened. With my brother in the front, and me in the back, we flew off the side of the Toboggan to our left. Tommy, unfortunately, with his legs entangled around Joe’s waist, flew off to the right. His knee was twisted, and quickly swelled up to twice its normal size.

With great difficulty we got Tommy to the car — seats down so he could extend his too-painful-to-bend leg — and took him to the hospital. It would be crutches for Tommy for the next few weeks.

The hill had changed the way that we could sled — it was either adapt or die.

For a time after I graduated high school I worked in the warehouse of a company that sold plastic resin and recycled plastic products. Nothing like loading trucks with dozens of boxes of severed baby doll heads and various disenfranchised body parts. What they also sold were rolls and rolls of plastic pool liner material. They were aqua green, navy blue, some with various patterns depicting waves on the ocean. When the winter came I “borrowed” a couple of those rows and headed to the hill.

With box cutter in hand I would shear off body size sheets of the thick, durable plastic and hand them out to my friends. We no longer needed a sled — we were the sled. Blackberry brandy provided both courage and warmth; we would just wrap ourselves up in plastic and go.

Suddenly the hillside was covered in odd, multi-colored oblong shapes that streaked above the snow. Periodically we would take flight, spin in mid-air, land on our backs, shoulders, heads, wherever the hill wanted us to go, we were helpless to object. I would start my run feet first and end up on my stomach, backwards, with my face in the snow. With no sled to protect me from the ground, I felt every rock and bump that the hill had to offer. But we would make it to the bottom with enough energy to run back up to the top and do it all over again.

We had adapted — and we had won.

In time our fascination with the hill faded and we moved on to other things. But every winter I think about sledding on Telegraph Hill with my friends and those disgustingly sweet, thick, sticky bottles of Blackberry Brandy. I know that if I ever tried this today I would end up at the bottom of that hill, alongside the buried Flexible Fliers, looking up at the triumphant hill that eventually beat me.

That’s why I’ll never go back — I’ll never give it that satisfaction.

[conflictandscotchblog]

Just Wrap Yourself In Plastic And Go

When you think of kids' sleigh riding, you might picture a Currier and Ives print of children innocently navigating a hill of snow. When we sledded as kids it was down the middle of the street, any street with the biggest hill. But the real adventure would be begin as we neared the end of the ride - there would inevitably be a cross street to worry about. We were low to the ground, shooting out into traffic, trying very hard not to get killed by a car. We lived in the suburbs, not the country; our hills were covered in asphalt. Being young, we had to find places to sled that were within walking distance.

That all changed when we learned how to drive.

With a driver's license we could now explore outside of our bubble and find the best place to sled. It was then that sledding became a contact sport - you hit the hill and the hill hit back. Our favorite spot was called Telegraph Hill which is behind what was once named the 'Garden State Arts Center' and is now named the 'PNC Bank Arts Center' (way to sell-out, New Jersey).

It was a long way down from the top of that hill and you had to navigate through an army of spruce trees that tried their best to keep you from completing your run. I had seen many friends fly face first into the open arms of a waiting spruce only to appear on the other side with exposed skin scrapped raw and smelling like Christmas.

It was not an even run from top to bottom - the ground rose and fell beneath your body as you sped down the hillside. There were moments where you took flight, only to crash seconds later on the cold, unforgiving ground. That sudden impact with the earth often caused a conventional sled to shatter - there was a broken sled graveyard at the bottom of the hill. Fractured Flexible Flyers littered the ground, their shattered wooden planks, half buried in the snow, formed makeshift headstones for the dreams that died on that hill.

But sometimes more than just sleds were shattered.

With my brother Joe and his friend Tommy we braved the hill on a Toboggan. Sitting with our legs entwined, from front to back, we inched ourselves forward until the front of the Toboggan reached its tipping point, and we were off. With increasing speed we hit the first curve in the ice-packed snow and we were airborne. With amazing force we then hit the ground accompanied by a rousing thud and our own series of curse words as our backs and butts took the brunt of the attack. Within a few seconds this would be repeated, only faster and with louder sounds coming from our bodies and the ground. As we neared the bottom of the hill something horrible happened. With my brother in the front, and me in the back, we flew off the side of the Toboggan to our left. Tommy, unfortunately, with his legs entangled around Joe's waist, flew off to the right. His knee was twisted, and quickly swelled up to twice its normal size.

With great difficulty we got Tommy to the car, seats down so he could extend his too-painful-to-bend leg, and we took him to the hospital. It would be crutches for Tommy for the next few weeks.

The hill had changed the way that we could sled - it was either adapt or die.

For a time after I graduated high school I worked in the warehouse of a company that sold plastic resin and recycled plastic products. Nothing like loading trucks with dozens of boxes of severed baby doll heads and various disenfranchised body parts. What they also sold were rolls and rolls of plastic pool liner material. They were aqua green, navy blue, some with various patterns depicting waves on the ocean. When the winter came I "borrowed" a couple of those rows and headed to the hill.

With box cutter in hand I would shear off body size sheets of the thick, durable plastic and hand them out to my friends. We no longer needed a sled - we were the sled. Blackberry brandy provided both courage and warmth; we would just wrap ourselves up in plastic and go.

Suddenly the hillside was covered in odd, multi-colored oblong shapes that streaked above the snow. Periodically we would take flight, spin in mid-air, land on our backs, shoulders, heads, wherever the hill wanted us to go, we were helpless to object. I would start my run feet first and ended up on my stomach, backwards, with my face in the snow. With no sled to protect me from the ground, I felt every rock and bump that the hill had to offer. But we would make it to the bottom with enough energy to run back up to the top and do it all over again.

We had adapted - and we had won.

In time our fascination with the hill faded and we moved on to other things. But every winter I think about sledding on Telegraph Hill with my friends and those disgustingly sweet, thick, sticky bottles of Blackberry Brandy. I know that if I ever tried this today I would end up at the bottom of that hill, alongside the buried Flexible Fliers, looking up at the triumphant hill that eventually beat me.

That's why I'll never go back - I'll never give it that satisfaction.