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omgreally · 3 years

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The Apprentice Read on AO3

Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader Rating: E for Explicit, Of Course Wordcount: 5k+ Summary: Peli Motto took you off the streets of Tatooine to become one of the best apprentices she's ever had - but honestly, the DUM droids are setting the bar pretty low. Still, you work out well for the first few months until an armored Mandalorian stranger lands with a busted-up ship and a strange magic baby and, well, you're intrigued. Even though you know you shouldn't be. Peli's always teling you to keep away from anything hot but sometimes, to fix something, you have to stick your hand straight into the fire.

Chapter One - The Arrival

“Hey, Peli! We got some hunk o’ junk requesting to land. Want me to tell him where to shove his rusty old comm signal?”

The older woman cranes over your shoulder as you swivel in the rickety chair in front of the array of control and communication panels. You’ve been working at Hangar Three-Five for a few months now, and you know it takes all sorts of ‘customers’ to keep a place like this running - but honestly. You’re surprised the wreck requesting the bay can even fly.

You’re even more surprised when Peli takes one look at the screen and shoves you out of the chair, hastily pressing the transmit button.

“Clearin’ you to land, Razor Crest,” she says hurriedly. “Sorry for the delay.” She takes her hand off the button and straightens to glare at you. “Never assume like that again, Girl,” she says, using your least favourite nickname for you. “That hunk o’ junk just might be my favorite customer.”

You gape at her as you brush off your coveralls. “You serious, Peli? I mean - are you sure, ma’am? I couldn’t even see a transponder code from that...vessel.” You choose your words a bit more carefully now, reminded that while Peli has a heart of gold, she has the temper of a Tusken.

“I’ve been workin’ in this hangar since you were a babe sucklin’ at your momma, Girl,” Peli says, pointing a wrench at you. “You’d do well to listen to me more’n you do.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” you sigh, looking down at the ground.

“Now, go on to the market, why don’tcha, and pick us up somethin’ for dinner. You may have a head thick as bantha hide, Girl, but at least you’re better at negotiating than the Dums.” You wince. You know you’re just an apprentice, but damn if it doesn’t sting whenever Peli compares you to the droids.

It’s not that you don’t like them. They just...creep you out a little. Soulless little machines, scuttling around as if they’re alive when they’re just - not. Whoever invented droids was one sick carosi pup.

Peli hands you a pouch of credits - the amount of which is dwindling daily. You wonder if the engineer’s eagerness to house this beaten-up old scupper doesn’t have something to do with their lack of funds. You consider offering to forego your wages until things are better - Peli has shown you incredible kindness, taking you in off the street when your next best bet was working as a dancing girl in one of Mos Eisley’s less reputable cantinas. Who knew where you woul’dve ended up after that. You prefer this, even though it’s hard, physical work, and you’re often up to your elbows in engine grease and covered head to toe in grime and oil.

Who knew starships were so dirty.They make sense, though, and you quickly proved that you had an aptitude for it. For pulling things apart and putting them back together again, but working. You’ve fixed busted motivators and blown capacitors that even left Peli scratching her head. You suppose that, rather than sentimentality, is why she keeps you around.

Either way, your life is pretty comfortable, now. Boring, but comfortable. You hope the credits situation isn’t going to change that.

How little you know.

---

You wander through the market, credits pouch too light in your pocket as you peruse the food stalls. You really don’t feel like dried krayt jerky a hundredth night in a row, so you’re glad Peli sent you out, but you are struggling to find something that is a) appealing and perhaps more importantly, b) affordable.

You end up in a heated argument - no, discussion - with a Toydarian over some deep-fried gorg before you give up, your temper and your impatience too piqued to settle on a decent price. You calm yourself with a trip past a stall selling all manner of imported cloth and fabrics: beautiful, delicate things, things you are not. A scarf made of deep blue silk that shimmers iridescent in the harsh sunlight catches your eye. You pause, running your fingers over it, your dirty, chipped nails a contrast to the smooth, satiny surface.

“It would suit you, pretty girl,” says a deep, male voice. You look up into the eyes of the stallholder. He’s a surprisingly handsome man, tall, with dark skin and hair and muscles bulging from a vest that seems tactically selected to show off as much of his bare chest as possible. For someone selling fabric, he’s certainly not wearing a lot of it.

“Sorry,” you say, taking your hand back. “I haven’t got enough credits for something like that.” The ‘pretty girl’ rankled you. You’re aware, tangentially, that underneath the layers of grease and oil you have features that some might consider comely, even attractive, and your body was good enough to catch the attention of some of the seedier businessmen when you were on the street. But it is the assumption itself that you are nothing more than your face and your body that bothers you.

“Suit yourself, gorgeous,” he calls after you as you walk away, back towards the smell of roasting meat. “I’ll be here if you change your mind!”

You grab a few deep-fried gorg from the Toydarian after all, a bottle of blue milk, and head back to the hangar in a thoughtful mood.

---

The ship has already landed by the time you get back.

It looks like it’s falling apart at the seams. In fact, you can spot several missing panels from the ground. Up close, you’re even more astonished that it managed to fly.

The ramp is stuck half-down, and you stand on your tiptoes to peer inside. It doesn’t look much better in there than on the outside. Dingy durasteel, crates all over the place, pathetic excuse for a hold, really. How can this be Peli’s ‘favourite customer’? It looks like it needs a complete teardown. Not even a rebuild, just...tear it down. It’s not even worthy to be a garbage hauler, it’s only suitable to be the garbage getting hauled. It-

“Like what you see?”

You almost drop the bags of food and produce and manage to avoid most of it flying everywhere, save for a single pale blue pika fruit that escapes and rolls across the ground to land against the stranger’s boot. You scuttle forward to grab it, and your hand is intercepted by a gloved one, yellow fingers closing around the fruit and lifting it from your view.

You straighten and look up, up, up into the Beskar helm of a Mandalorian.

“Oh,” you say in a very small voice. Now you understand.

You’ve heard and seen tales of Mandalorians - quite a legendary one lived here for a time, not that long ago - and some of those tales were from Peli herself. She’d never mentioned that she knew one, though.

This one is about the same as you imagine a Mandalorian to be. Armored from head to toe, no part of him visible, his eyes shielded by the inscrutable blackness of the T-shaped visor in his helm.

He can probably see everything, though, from your heartbeat down to the anxious flush in your skin as he steps toward you and says “Here.” He slips the pika fruit back into your bag and you nod, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat.

“Thanks.”

You stand there awkwardly for a moment while he just stares at you, as if he’s a droid himself, scanning you up and down through that damn visor. You clear your throat and cock your hip, placing your hand on it and raising your eyebrows.

“Is this your ship”?” You tap your knuckles against the hull behind you, miraculously not making another panel or part fall off. “What did you do to it?

“What?” His stance changes a little; he stands up a little straighter, his shoulders set, his hands hanging down by his sides with a little more purpose than before. Posturing, you think, that’s all it is, although you’re now a little nervous as you answer.

Because he is broad. Broad and well-built, if the fit of the armor is anything to go by. He could crush your head like a pika fruit without even trying.

Still, it has to be said, for a ship like that...“It looks like it’s about to fall apart,” you say, trying for diplomatic, but by tempering your vehemence it just sounds like you’re complaining.

The Mandalorian shrugs. “That’s why I brought it here.”

“Well, Peli is the best mechanic on Mos Eisley,” you capitulate, and you relax a little, enough to walk past him towards the control room. “I’m just surprised she’s not so picky with her clientele.”

“From what I hear, she can’t afford to be.” That stops you in your tracks. The Mandalorian has followed you, of course, and he’s right behind you as you enter the building and head to the kitchenette to put away dinner.

“You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear, Mandalorian,” you say as you unpack the bag of measly meat, fruit and vegetables you managed to get. It goes all in the cooler for a later barbeque. That is one of the things you enjoy most about being here - sitting with Peli in front of a makeshift campfire, cooking and talking. Not about anything in particular, just...talking.

“Well, if I’m wrong, I can just take my ships and my credits elsewhere,” the Mandalorian says with a shrug. It’s then you notice that he has a pouch he’s holding up, and it hangs heavy and clinks promisingly when it moves. You lick your lips nervously, hoping you’re not about to fuck up some big deal Peli has struck with this bounty hunter warrior.

Hoping you’re not about to be shot by this bounty hunter warrior.

“For example, I know the upkeep costs around here have risen recently,” he says, letting the pouch sway back and forth, and your eyes follow it like hypnosis. “Thanks to Peli taking on an apprentice…”

You sigh. “How much?”

“Five thousand.”

You do some quick maths in your head. “Might not cover any major components that need replacing, but it’s a start. You’ll have a vacuum seal again at least.”

“Good.” The Mandalorian tosses you the pouch and you catch it with both hands. It feels heavier than five thousand, but you’ll give it to Peli first. Speaking of - where the hell is Peli?

“There, how does that feel? Look at you, who’s a handsome li’l womp rat? You are!”

You have never heard Peli talk to anyone like that. You and the Mandalorian follow the sound of her voice out into the control room, and you find her cradling what looks like a small, wrinkled green baby, a creature with the face of a frog and ears of a bat, slightly damp and wrapped in what looks like-

“Is that - my shirt?” you ask, horrified. The creature blinks and coos at you.

“Had to give Grogu here a bath and I didn’t have any clean towels. So I borrowed your shirt. Look how cute he looks in it!” Peli tries to hand you the creature but you step out of the way. This is not how you saw your day going.

“Look, the Mandalorian here wants us to fix his ship,” you say. “He’s giving us five thousand.” You set the pouch down on the control panel. “I’m pretty sure it can be done, but if there are any busted capacitors or modulators that need fixing, that bill’s gonna go way up.”

“It’ll do,” Peli nods. “Meantime, I’ll look after this little guy. You even give him a bath last time I saw you? Don’t answer that, Mando.” Mando. So that’s what they call him. He doesn’t even have a name, just a shortening of his title.

“Guess I’ll get to work on the ship,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back out into the hot Tattooine suns. Boring but comfortable. Yeah, right.

---

If this generates some interest I may continue to post chapters here! Otherwise, go ahead and read on AO3.

#the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin/reader #din djarin x female reader #mando x you #the apprentice

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shiningstages · 3 years

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❪ ˙˖ ♡ . 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬.

Muse Chosen: Barawa

1. 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚?

Multiple different smokes - Gunpowder from a recent scuffle, the tobacco of his pipe that smells like cherry wood, and the smoked roast he and his dog had for dinner. Sweat and any grime he gets into are bound to cling to him, yet it’s surprising how well he can clean it off, and if it wasn’t for his smoking he could always smell like fresh linen. Occasionally there’s a earthy, woody musk that wafts off of him, but only if he’s about to go anywhere he deems needing such a scent.

2. 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚?

Large hands that could crush your own in a handshake (and sometimes does, though it’s purely an accident through his excitement, he swears). You can practically feel every fiber of muscle with every movement, yet such in-depth feeling is somewhat blocked by rough skin that has never had proper care until a recent assistant had started to fuss. Little scars are here and there, mostly from his first years in the military and learning how to properly take care of his weapons years before that. On particularly rough working days, you could probably scratch patches of dead skin off with your nails, or notice Barawa doing it himself without noticing, but the former would make him quite embarrassed.

3. 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙮?

Whatever’s on the menu for breakfast (aka whatever he can scrounge up), with maybe a few pitstops here and there for a snack throughout the workday, before having whatever meat dish available to him for dinner to share between Buddy and Sarya, and alcohol in equal quantity. If money’s tight or business has got him down (either too busy or too stumped to eat), all meals are forgone and only drinks can satisfy his weary heart, until either Sarya or his stomach tell him otherwise, at which point he makes sure both Sarya and Buddy are good first before he sulks off somewhere for a meal at some bar or a certain cafe...

4. 𝘿𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚?

Well his seiyuu has the vocals; makes my heart swoon for real y’all. (Multiple videos for your listening pleasure; also fun tidbit but he also played Japanese Olaf, so have these for some fun. And also this from the 2019 Disney live; I take anything I can get in Shunsuke Takeuchi content and will push out his content whenever possible.)

*Coughs* So, um, yeah I’d say Barawa’s an okay singer. He’ll probably sing songs he learned back in his military days, and probably won’t sing unless really jovial or really drunk on sake, and his singing voice is more on the gruff and raw side, but it’d still warm your heart and make you smile hearing it.

5. 𝘿𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙨?

Like I had said further up, if his hands are really rough or dry, he’ll scratch or peel off the dry skin without even noticing he’s doing it. He will also start speaking louder when nervous (yeah, you didn’t think this guy could get any louder, huh?), though it’s more of embarrassed-nervous than anxious-nervous; he doesn’t actually get the latter feeling too often. What he does often get is frustrated, either by logic puzzles he makes / is made for him to solve and he can’t actually solve anything logical (which has at least resulted in busted down doors and literally ripping apart a guillotine), or by the logic of basic things around him that he forgets time and time again (buying captain alcohol even though at the time they were underaged for starters).

6. 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 / 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙧?

Detective-type clothes! Though I’ve also considered his fashion a little steampunk as well, though maybe I just get that from his very brown color scheme or his waistcoat. But his usual style is brown/beige designed waistcoat, white button up with sleeves rolled up and shirt never buttoned up all the way (he’s a draph; I can understand his concern if he did try that), long brown pants and brown combat boots (or sometimes the stylish shoes from his light sr), his leather garterbelts on his legs/hip and around his arms (I don’t know what they’re actually called, help) probably to hold very important things, and his ascot.........Because why not an ascot? I like his red one better, so let’s say that’s his usual one. He also wears a hat (fedora-esque and brown) with steampunk-like goggles attached. Occasionally he either pairs it with a regular brown coat, or the fancy brown coat from his light sr. His color palette (minus the red ascot) is really muted or earthy. This is the fashion he wears literally everywhere; he can’t afford other clothes, nor does he desire to buy anymore clothes.

7. 𝙄𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙤?

Depends on his state and the person he’s giving the affection to. If it’s anyone younger than him, oh you can bet that they’ll get the headpat or hair ruffle at some point, whether on accident or on purpose, but only if he likes them or trusts them well enough (or, if they’re an actual kid, if they just look like they need it). He’ll also be the type to give you a good slap on the back if you’ve done a good job or he thinks you need some pep in your step, regardless of age. Only if he’s very drunk, very concerned over you / deduce that you need affection immediately, or if he is very comfortable with you as a romantic partner or best friend, will he then go for hugs or cuddles (though for the latter he is always big spoon, no matter what).

8. 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙞𝙣?

He’s the type that can sleep practically anywhere and in any position except standing up. In talking about a regular bed, though, it’s usually on his back with either his arms crossed over his chest like he’s mad, or his arms by his side but looking like he could reach for something at any moment. But he’s probably both the heaviest and the lightest sleeper among the crew, depending on what’s happening around them, and can either wake up in an instant or take half the day.

9. 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢?

Oh, absolutely. Not matter where you are in that hallway, you will hear this man muttering/talking up a storm and stomping around, no matter what.

Tagged by: @aethxria

Tagging: youuuuuuuuu!!!

#;prompts #;no more thinking! ( barawa )#( thank you again hun!! )

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technicallydeliciouspainter · 3 years

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How we got duped into cooking with gas

Gas stove actually unleash indoor air pollutants like soot, formaldehyde, carbon monoxide, and nitrogen dioxide. Beyond that, greenhouse gas emissions from fossil fuels like natural gas drive climate change. That’s why there’s a push now to electrify homes; electric stoves can run on clean energy.

The history of how “cooking with gas” campaigns have made a source of fossil fuel combustion in our homes seem completely innocuous gets pretty ridiculous. Leber dug up a rap video from 1988 that spends an entire four minutes hyping up gas stoves in rhyme. “Gas is so hot, it’s not on when it’s off / it’s the only way to cook, that’s what I was taught,” the rap starts off.

Fast forward to about two minutes into the video, however, and there’s a disclaimer in the lyrics that my colleague Sean O’Kane noticed: “Safe cooking begins with range location / avoid main traffic paths and also isolation.”

Today, gas groups pay social media influencers to advertise the supposed benefits of cooking with the fossil fuel, Leber reports. A public relations representative even posed as a resident in a neighborhood to stir up backlash against building codes that would discourage natural gas hookups in new construction, she writes.

You have to read the truly bizarre and alarming history of gas that Leber traces in her article. With many of us spending more time working and hanging out at home during the pandemic, it’s more important than ever to be aware of what we’re exposed to inside the place that’s supposed to be our refuge.

How to Deep Clean Your Gas Stove Burners Using Natural Cleaners

No library of kitchen cleaning tips would be complete without an article on deep cleaning gas and electric burners! Dirty, greasy gas burner grates and drip pans not only age the appliance, but they also can affect your cooking and present a fire hazard. Cleaning stove burners is simple when you use these tips from the pros. Read on to see how you can get your stove sparkling clean with gas stove cleaner made from natural ingredients.

How Often To Clean Gas Stove Burners

Tempered glass gas stove is easy to maintain. However, when the flow of gas gets blocked, the burner heads can’t burn efficiently. Check the gas burners for irregular flame patterns and yellow flames. These are the best indicators that it’s time to grab your gas stove cleaner and get to work. Other than that, cleaning your gas stove monthly should keep it working at its best.

Here’s what you’ll need to get your gas burners clean:

Dishwashing detergent

Baking soda

Non-abrasive scrub pad

Cleaning cloths

Old toothbrush

Paper clip

Cleaning Gas Stove Burners and Caps

If you have a cooktop with a pilot light, you’ll need to shut off the gas valve first. Gas burners have a removable ceramic cap that diffuses the flames. Beneath the caps, the burner head sits atop the gas tube. Remove the caps and the burner heads by carefully lifting them straight up. Avoid damaging the ignition electrode if you have one.

Soak the burner heads and caps in soap and warm water for 30 minutes. Scrub buildup from the burner heads and caps using a non-abrasive scrub pad and an old toothbrush. If the port openings are clogged, use a paper clip to clear them. Be careful not to damage the metal.

How To Clean Electric Stove Burners

Here’s what you’ll need to get your burner stand clean:

Dishwashing detergent

Baking soda

Non-abrasive scrub pad

Microfiber towel

Cleaning cloths

If your coils and drip pans have caked-on grime, turn the burners on for a few minutes to burn off residue. After they cool, wash the drip pans with warm soapy water and cover them completely with a mixture of 2 parts baking soda and 1 part water. Let the drip pans sit for 15 minutes.

While the drip pans are soaking, wipe down the stove coils with a damp cloth to remove stains and residue. Scrub the drip pans and rinse the baking soda mixture. Use fresh soapy water to wash off the residue, then rinse and dry. Buff them to a nice shiny finish with a microfiber towel. Now, on to your stovetop.

How to Clean Your Stovetop

For gas stovetops, use caution and avoid getting the electric starter wet. Degrease the stovetop by wiping it down with a damp cloth to loosen up the top layer of residue. Use a sponge and soapy water to cut through the grease and wipe down your stovetop with a damp cloth to remove the cleaning solution.

For tough buildup, turn to your homemade baking soda mixture. Spread your cleaning paste over the entire stovetop and let it sit for at least 15 minutes. Scrub the stovetop and wipe off the baking soda cleaner with a clean, damp cloth.

If you are intimidated by cleaning your gas or electric stove, or any other place in your kitchen, don’t fret. Call The Maids for a free estimate and get that good-as-new, clean home feeling you love.

Gas stove tops offer quick temperature control and are more affordable to use than electric stove tops.

The best material for a gas stove is one that can conduct and distribute heat evenly, and respond quickly to temperature changes.

For the best cookware for gas stoves, look for ones that are made of stainless steel with aluminum or copper layers.

The average household gas stove looks like it can handle quite a bit. Its sizable build, durable fabrication, rugged cast iron grates, all signify a hard-wearing kitchen appliance.

Still, as with any appliance, especially one used practically every day to prepare food, it’s important to handle gas stoves with care. This means making sure the stove is well-maintained, properly cleaned, and used with the right cookware.

While technically any pot or pan can be used on a gas stove, there are certain materials that are better suited for its open-flame style of cooking. We recommend our own stainless steel cookware for gas stoves. In this article, we’ll share what those materials are, explain why they work so well, and round up some of the best cookware for gas stoves available today.

The Features of a Gas Stove

Iron gas stove may be older than electric stoves, but they’re still the preferred option for a number of reasons.

First and most important is how easy it is to adjust the heat of a gas stove. A burner can be turned on and off in an instant. And every twist of the control knob creates an immediate corresponding change in the burner’s flame level — a lightning quick heat response that’s crucial in cooking.

Many cooks also like how the flames provide a convenient visual cue about the stove’s current heat setting. This can be a bit trickier to gauge with the dark glass tops of electric or induction cooktops.

An added bonus of the open flame is that it lends itself well to quickly roasting a few small items, like corn tortillas, bell peppers, or marshmallows.

Cooking with gas is also comparatively cheaper than cooking with electricity. Gas stoves generally run on propane, butane, petroleum, or natural gas, all of which are quite affordable. This gives gas stoves an advantage, not only for the cost-conscious home cook, but for anyone who finds themselves in the middle of a power outage.

As for cookware, gas stovetops easily accommodate a wide range. They can be used with just about any type of cookware material and shape — from small skillets to tall stockpots. Woks in particular were designed to be used over an open flame.

Flames, however, don't naturally distribute heat in a uniform manner. Some parts of a pan will have more contact with stronger flames than other parts, and the heat can be very concentrated, especially on a low setting.

Add this to a gas stove’s ability to change temperatures in an instant, and it's easy to see why it's so important to use cookware that can ably withstand these variations.

Choosing the Best Portable Gas Stove

Portable gas stoves are crucial gear for the gourmet on the go. These stoves usually come with a burner and a cooking surface, and they let you boil, simmer, sauté, and fry. If you can do it on a stovetop at home, you can do it on a portable stove.

Folding gas stove is different than a portable gas grills. Portable grills are similar to the grills you use at home. If you want to grill up hot dogs, chicken, or vegetables, you’re good to go with a portable grill. But sometimes you want more than your standard backyard barbecue menu, and that’s where a portable gas stove comes in. These have burners more like a traditional stove. They often come with containers to cook in, but many can also be used with other types of pots, pans, and skillets like a regular stovetop.

What Kind of Portable Gas Stove Do You Need?

The adventures you have on the trail aren’t like anyone else’s. Your needs and your priorities are unique. That’s why there are stoves for every type of outdoor explorer, from long-distance backpackers to car campers.

As you think about your needs, there are some specific features you may want to think about:

Size – If you’re hiking, you’ll want to save as much space and weight in your pack as possible. If you’re getting to base camp and setting up quickly, you might be more willing to haul a little more gear in the name of having the perfect home away from home.

Fuel type – There are three main liquid fuels. Each have their own considerations and limitations. Then there’s our Jetpower fuel, which combines the benefits of both.

Propane is the most common camp stove fuel. It’s high-performance, and you can find it just about everywhere. Propane is what powers the Genesis base camp system, and Jetlink technology lets you build a high-efficiency network of burners from one propane tank.

Isobutane has a lower boiling point, and it’s lighter. That means it’s easier to carry, and it’s more efficient in colder environments. However, it’s also more expensive.

Butane is the cheapest fuel for a portable gas stove, but it’s also the least efficient and reliable. It has the highest boiling point and the lowest vapor pressure of the three gases.

Jetpower is Jetboil’s engineered blend of propane and isobutane. It’s a unique mix that combines the best aspects of both, and it’s what we trust to power most of our stoves. Jetpower delivers high vapor pressure in all four seasons.

Cost – Cost is certainly a factor in choosing a portable gas stove, and there are options at every price point. However, it’s worth noting that sometimes paying more up front can save money in the long run. A high-efficiency stove means you’ll spend less on fuel over time, and durable equipment means you won’t have to buy a replacement for a long time.

Durability – Most people want a stove that holds up outdoors as well as they do. Knowing that you’ve got a well-engineered stove means knowing you’ve got a reliable one.

Number of burners – How big is the group that you’re feeding? If you’re solo, or just out with a partner, you can probably get away with one. But if you’re feeding a group, you may want a setup like the Genesis, which starts with two burners and can expand as your group dose.

Utility – What are you cooking? Are you boiling soup? Are you making a three-course meal? The meals you plan to cook may be the biggest factor of all in choosing the stove that suits your needs.

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blissfulparker · 4 years

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Stuff that I started but never finished ♥︎

An actual compilation of my mess of a writing. This is stuff I never finish in 2019 because I lost motivation, ran out of ideas, fell asleep because it was just a 2am thought. It’s messy but here it is! Some of it is promises I could never even get around too, I’m sorry but I hope you enjoy!

Boxer!dad!tom x reader(I might finish this one for a writing challenge)

Summary: Tom comes home from a match, bruised and bloody. He hates the way he looks and never wants his daughter to see him like this, broken and in pain, but sometimes all his daughter wants to do is help.

Two clicks, two clicks was all you heard as Tom tried to stumble in quietly after a match. The door unlocked and swung open hitting the wall and you can hear Toms uneven breath begging for help. His body glisten in sweat and his hands held onto his stomach trying to cover up the large gauge that rested there.

“Tom?” You rubbed your eyes as you walked into the living room seeing him in the kitchen grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and chugging it as if it were his last bottle of water he were to ever drink. “Tom, come here.” You rush over to him and assist him with walking.

“I’ve got myself darling, you go back to—“ He starts and you look down at what he was holding. His hand covered in blood, that was no secret. The cut was oozing and it was stained purple and green around to show just how bad it was.

“Don’t tell me to go back to bed, you’re hurt.” You warned him as you helped him into the bathroom where you kept his emergency kit.

“Where is she?” He spoke mentioning your daughter who normally stayed up waiting for her father to tuck her in, even if that meant 1am.

“I put her to sleep hours ago.” You look at him and he breaks eye contact.

“Good, she doesn’t need to see me like this.” He sniffled. You knew that tom hated this, at least the day after Sophia was born. When his daughter was born he promised she’d never see her father broken, stumbling in and falling into pieces as her mother tried to fix him. Promised her she’d be safe and normal.

“Hey,” you tilt his chin up so he can look at you. “This doesn’t make you a bad parent.” You remind him and he nods. He feels the alcohol hit his skin and immediately hisses in pain.

“Daddy?” A small girl—

Peter Parker x reader

Summary: peters heater is broken so he substitutes his cuddles instead

Warm mug of tea meets your cold quivering lips.

Peters heater was broken, for the third time this month his heater was broken. He refused to get a new one, it was understandable since it was so expensive and peter was college student who could barely afford his own books. It also didn’t bother him, he had way more warmth for some odd reason and it didn’t bother his roommate ned either. But you swore If he didn’t get it fixed you would stop coming over.

“Peter,” you shiver and he looks up from his book. His face innocent and his body clean from goosebumps. “I’m cold.” You pout and he sees how you already have his flannel, his hoddie, his sweats, fuzzy socks, and you were ready to put on some gloves. There sat peter, short sleeves and sweats.

“Do you want a heating blanket? I think may packed some away somewhere.” He gets up to find something to help and you shake your head.

“Can we take a break and cuddle?” You asked. Peter loved cuddle breaks, more than any break in the world. Holding you in his arms and talking was just the start of something beautiful. Sometimes you’d fall asleep, sometimes you’d watch movies, others you’d simply just talk and then get up to do more work.

“C’mere.” He holds out his arms and you gladly fall into them. His skin warm and you’re still surprised that not a single goosebump messes with it. You curl into his chest as he holds you and you listen to the sound of his beating heart.

Ceo!dad!tom x singlemom!reader

From the series dine and dash I worte and loved over the summer. I wanted so badly to do an mini series but didn’t have enough ideas and people wanted black beauty more. So here is the start of something i never figured out

Dark roast coffee filled your nose on the early Tuesday morning.

Somehow, being six months pregnant, you got to sleep in. At first, the smell of coffee made you nauseous. Tom had Harrison bring him coffee since you didn’t like him making it at home. Now all you want is to have the taste of coffee and the feeling of caffeine run though your veins again.

“Daddy! I can’t find him! I don’t wanna go without him!” Cara whines as the Time was 8:15 and Cara didn’t have school so she was going to get dropped off at Toms mums house for the day.

“I don’t know Then princess, did mummy put him in the dryer?” He asked. It was pascal, the lizard from tangled she brought around everywhere.

Her feet pad down the hall as she nearly runs into you with a distraught look on her small face. You walked with her over to the dryer before handing her the doll.

“I found him!” She holds him up and then runs back to the couch.

“Can I have just a sip?” You joked. Tom always looked best in the morning, in your opinion. His hair gelled back and his suit still nice and crisp. His glasses sat pretty on his face just like the rest of his features.

“Very funny, hows He?” Tom asked. He was very excited, he would’ve loved a girl but there can only be one princess in charge, that was Cara.

“Wanting out, I can feel it.” You hold your swollen stomach. Everything hurt, it wasn’t as fun or cute as tom tried to make it.

Fwb!Tom x reader

Summary: too many weddings and too little people to fall in love with. You and tom both desperate for the love you deserve and what better place to realize it at your best friends wedding?

The dark blue dress hugged your body, it was tight, it felt so right against you skin. Parts of you wished you went with the gold but the dark navy blue was just as pretty too for the autumn wedding.

Your best friend was getting married, this would be the third wedding in the year span you’d be going to. First it was your sisters, then it was your cousins, now your best friends, and in a couple of months your other best friend would be getting married too in the nice London summer. You, you had this trouble finding love. You would have it in the palm of your hand and then it’d vanish. You tried everything, endless dates, one night stands, nobody stole your heart.

Now you had tom, Tom who was one of your friends who wasn’t getting married this year. You found him though Harrison, your best friends soon to be husband, after getting drunk at the engagement party a year ago you two started sleeping together. Swearing that even if you didn’t have lovers you’d have each other and a bed. It was just something so you two wouldn’t drown in your own sadness.

Soft fairy lights littered the ceiling and people danced. Tables with white tablecloths and a warm array of yellow and orange flowers, perfect for this season. You came alone, which you immediately regretted because everyone here had a date, everyone.

“I’m so glad you could make it to the after party!” Your best friend comes up to you and holds your hand. Her nails painted a beautiful pink and her dress now different than the one she wore this morning. She had the worlds biggest smile and the best diamond ring.

“Me too!” You smile and she looks behind you.

“Oh, thought you’d come with tom,” her smiles drops and your heart speeds up. She was probably the only one that knew about Tom, well, Harrison too since they were best friends.

“No, w-why would we come together?” You asked.

“He just...seemed disappointed this morning that you didn’t stay long after to talk with him. Thought maybe you two were trying to keep it low key but then you left and he got pouty and went back to his hotel too. I mean he came down for lunch and was better, thought maybe you two—“ she started to ramble but you shake your head tucking a hair behind your ear.

“No, I haven’t talked to him all day really.” You told her and she pouted again.

“Oh, well, he’s here...somewhere.” She smiles at you before kissing your cheek. “I’ve gotta go, Haz is gonna lose it without me!” She giggles as she runs off to her husband.

You walk around a bit, trying to find at least someone you knew who wasn’t occupied by a date. That’s when you found tom, all alone playing with the cherry in his drink as he scrolled through his phone.

“Hey stranger.” You walk up somewhat awkwardly and he smiles as he sits up a bit.

“Hey,” he sets his phone down and faces you. “Thought you might not show up.” He says and you look around.

“How could I not show up to my best friend's wedding.” You have him a warm smile. He nods as he looks around.

“I’m kinda over weddings.” He admits and you see some disappointment in his face. “My brother, Sam, he’s getting married soon. Well, engaged. He showed me the ring he got for her and it’s beautiful and I’m proud it’s just...I’m over seeing people get married.” He’s honest and you nod.

“My sister got married earlier this year, it was pretty but hell for me. It’s like we’re old now.” You take his drink from him and take a sip before making a sour face.

“It’s just a Shirley temple darling, not that hardcore.” He laughs a little and you shake your head.

“Still.” His arm moves around you and you lean your head on his shoulder. He’s your fuck buddy, you two sleep with each other and then leave. No hard feelings, no actual feelings, just fuck and leave.

“Do you wanna...dance?” You asked swallowing hard in the process.

#tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #imagine tom holland #tom holland au #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x you

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

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Such Thankless Toil

Tybalt stared at the simple wooden cross hanging on his wall. He warmed himself by the fire in his hut. The cold still seeped in through the cracks everywhere throughout the drafty place, and his hands still throbbed from the friction of the wood axe’s handle rubbing against his calluses, clashing with the biting cold of a winter come early to these lands.

Someone approached his humble abode. The sound of the frosted ground outside crunching alerted Tybalt to the person’s nearing, but he felt no need to react. Light steps—someone frail or small or both. Tybalt just continued to hold out his palms in front of the fire, savoring that thrum of the blood pumping through his veins, pushing out the feeling of pins and needles in his digits.

His visitor finally arrived and knocked on the door. Entered without waiting for a response, accompanied by the creak of old metal hinges. Tybalt reared his head to see who had found the courage to visit him here all alone.

A young lad. He froze in his tracks as his gaze wandered from object to object in the hut, but then snapped into place when he locked onto Tybalt’s face.

The boy gasped.

Tybalt grabbed the brown hood from the nearby table and slipped it over his own head. It was harder to see through the eyeholes cut out of its front, but it made it easier to converse with people. It made it easier for them, for it hid his hideous visage.

The young boy backed away a step and almost tripped over the threshold when Tybalt rose from his seat by the fireplace.

“What is it?” he asked the boy. Every baritone word crashed down like strikes of an axe against a log.

The boy swallowed, fighting to overcome his fear, but it visibly still paralyzed him before he mustered enough courage to reply. Tybalt waited patiently, standing still and finding pleasure in the warmth of flames in his back.

“L-Lord Gabriel de Rochefort s-summons you for another task, m-master,” stuttered the boy.

Tybalt tilted his head, pondering those words. He read the fear festering in the boy’s heart and understood his own subtle motions to be only fertilizing that growing dread. Tybalt started nodding, the intensity of it waxing as their exchange spurred him into action.

“You may go. I must sharpen my axe, then I will arrive shortly to do as he bids,” Tybalt replied, gruff and as voluminous as an earthquake.

The boy practically ran away. Barely eked out a word of farewell. The sounds of his fast pace betrayed just how panicked he really was over the sight of Tybalt’s appearance, gaining distance so quickly that he would be back in the village in no time whatsoever.

Tybalt could not blame him. His reaction to seeing his disfigured face was no different from anybody else’s. If anything, Tybalt resented the fool who had failed to mention it to the lad before sending him on his errand.

He kept his hood on, finding the warmth it shed preferable over exposure to the cold air, even in spite of the humidity quickly building with each breath. The large man used a bucket and ladle to splash some water onto his table, placed his whetstone onto it, and sat down there with a massive axe in hand.

Each precise and slow stroke of the blade along the stone’s surface gave him more time to think.

SHHHHINK.

How de Rochefort allowed him to keep the boots from the thief he finished last week. A rare thing to find such good cobbling fit to a size like his.

SHHHHHHHHINK.

How some of the peasants found that a wolf had torn through their livestock several days prior, and Tybalt was the one responsible for clearing out the carcasses from the nearby woods.

SHHHHINK.

How he handled all those diseased corpses in town last year, burning them on a pyre, which Tybalt carried out without posing a single question or uttering a word.

SHHHHINK.

How they all viewed him with derision, but always needed his help. Such thankless wretches. All but the good lord who had pardoned him all those years ago.

SHHHHHHHHINK.

Tybalt tested the blade’s edge against his thumb, careful not to cut himself. Such thankless toil.

One more.

One of these days, he would fail in his tasks, and be put to the axe himself. Subject to the fury of the thankless mob.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHINK.

Death could not be stayed forever. Not even for its chosen agents.

He sampled the blade’s sharpness again.

Good now.

Tybalt threw on a blanket to keep him warm on his march into town. He hoisted the heavy axe onto his shoulder and left the fire burning. With a bit of luck, this would be quick, and warmth still lingering in his hearth upon return.

The time it took to walk from his abode to the town always gave him ample space to fill with thinking. A pious pilgrim once said that too much idle time gave even the most honest men cause to lend the devil their ear, but Tybalt always found that it helped him come to terms with his many frustrations and lingering resentments. To sort them out, and bury them deep, keeping the surface of his mind clear and cleanly.

His wandering took him from the edge of the woods, down muddy paths seldom traveled.

A task always required his full focus. He envisioned the many necks he had severed, the many times he had separated heads from their connected bodies. The crunch of bone, the sprays of blood. No room to register the shock of a leering audience, some whose eyes displayed perverse lust at the spectacle of a public execution. Such impressions always sank in after the fact, for they would only distract him from his work, cost him tiny increments of much-needed precision, precision in which every tiniest fraction of an inch mattered.

Now, he walked along pastures where peasants worked the fields in desperate haste against the winter’s premature arrival. One of them shouted to the other, though far enough away that Tybalt could not decipher his admonishments, only feel the waves of hatred conveyed through incessant swearing.

De Rochefort’s land was a miserable one, filled with miserable people.

Tybalt had no room to consider things like the derangement he saw in the crowds while performing his handiwork. The master would dictate how many strokes he was afforded to end that life, and if he failed, then his head would be next on the chopping block.

Therefore, he had to find focus. To concentrate. To consider the way he bore that axe’s shaft. How to swing with maximum accuracy.

His life depended on it. And who else could take his place? Who would?

The blanket, the heat from his hearth trapped underneath it, and his long walk helped stave off the bitter cold as Tybalt passed through the open gate of the town’s outer wall. A commotion of sounds welcomed him, among others, the rhythmic sharp ringing from the farrier’s anvil some streets away. Many voices chattering away in houses, echoing through the streets. So alive, here, yet so foreign to him these days.

He pushed back every thought until his mind cleared entirely. Kept pressing on until he arrived on the town’s grand square, now devoid of market stands save for those wily enough to trade edible treats to wealthy snobs hailing and visiting from distant lands.

The scent of roasted pig and honey hung heavy in the air, wafting from those stands, though muted somewhat by the smell of frozen mud and wintry cold. Even through his mask, it all filled Tybalt’s nostrils.

Upon the executioner’s stand, Lord de Rochefort awaited, arms crossed. A large horde of town folk had already started to gather around the elevated wooden platform.

Tybalt could also feel their blood lust. Like a cold heat, emanating from the crowd.

Lord de Rochefort’s eyes flashed with recognition and relief when he noticed Tybalt’s arrival. He raised his chin to look down at the tall man while Tybalt ascended the narrow steps up onto the platform, but he gave him a deep nod in recognition and greeting.

“Bring forth that scoundrel, that filth,” commanded de Rochefort in an imperious tone, gesturing at one of his servants to do his bidding.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The lord clapped Tybalt on his shoulder once he arrived by his side on the platform, a living tower standing next to the master of the fiefdom.

“Thank you for your haste,” de Rochefort whispered to him.

Tybalt nodded to him, then surveyed the crowd. Shutting out the cascade of garish colors of their attire, their bodies huddled together in the creeping cold, flush with anticipation for the coming spectacle of carnage.

This was one of his least favorite parts. He knew others would think it odd if he ever shared such an account, but the act of butchering living men only paled in comparison to when all eyes were on him and the people he was tasked with ending. How disgusting it was how they wanted to watch a man die.

It was always these periods of time when he had to wait until all announcements were made, everything decreed. He cared not for their crimes, had no capacity to pity them left over in his heart. Wished not to know how much the common folk dreaded or enjoyed the organized slaughter of their fellow human beings, found no curiosity in seeking any deeper meaning.

He despised having to absorb any such speeches or impressions, because only one piece of proclamation mattered to him: how many swings was allowed.

That many chops into the neck, and no more. Or he would be next. He knew that the previous deathsman, Hadrian, had been lynched by the mob for failing at his final task. When they were riled up, there was little the lord could do to stop them. Little he would do, lest he endanger his own blessed and high-born life.

Such was the executioner’s way.

Noticing how he had lost focus in such thoughts, Tybalt pinched the bridge of his nose through the linen sack mask over his head.

Two men already dragged the criminal up the steps onto the platform with them. Tybalt had missed Lord de Rochefort’s declaration of offenses that had delivered this wretch to the here and now, to lose his head on this very day.

The criminal looked sickly. Black rings under his milky-white eyes, pallid skin. Like he was already dead and the world around him had yet to notice it. Unlike many others, this captive offered no struggle. Never protested, never rebelled against the grip of his captors.

The master held up a hand, all fingers splayed. A lop-sided grin marked his face, knowing these displays did in fact help placate the masses of his unwashed serfs.

“Five swings,” de Rochefort shouted to the crowd, rousing a clipped cheer from them, then shooting Tybalt a glance.

Tybalt nodded.

Five was a normal amount, but the criminal’s neck looked so thin and frail, leaving the seasoned executioner to wonder if he would not manage it in three for a change.

The two militiamen shoved the criminal onto his knees and pressed his head down against the chopping block. Tybalt studied the blood from the previous week still staining the coarse wooden surface where blades had repeatedly hacked into the wood once they cleaved through men’s necks.

Many in the crowd sharply inhaled. Even through his hood, Tybalt could perceive the pleasured anticipation, heavy in some of those intakes of air. He cringed, a sentiment concealed by the hood on his head.

De Rochefort cleared his throat and Tybalt took his position beside the chopping block. All whispers and murmuring in the crowd ceased, a blanket of dead silence draping itself over them.

That sickly wretch just knelt there, head resting sideways against the block, staring blankly past Tybalt’s legs. Like his soul had already escaped the confines of his body, and all that remained here on display was a husk of a human being.

Good, the executioner thought. If he did not fidget, this might be over fast.

Tybalt reared back and raised the axe.

He swung.

THWACK.

The crowd gasped, someone started screaming. As they always did.

The hood concealed Tybalt’s grimace.

Thin and frail and all sickly-looking, but still sturdy as a fresh tree in spring.

Tybalt tilted his head back and forth, observing the results of the first stroke. It had cut into flesh and arteries but barely chopped through the spine. Gurgling sounds erupted from the criminal’s throat, but this was a strange one. He neither tried to scream, nor escape. His body had no fight in it, showed no will to survive. Tybalt had never seen anything like it.

He shrugged that off and raised the axe again, then brought it crashing back down.

THWACK.

More screams. Someone in the crowd covered a child’s eyes.

Finally, the victim started squirming. Twitching. Not resisting—but wracked by wild and weird spasms. It made little sense to the executioner.

The spine was severed, but it felt like he had barely cut through half the neck, and getting all the way through sometimes still proved to be difficult at such a junction. Blood pumped out of the gaping wound which each additional swing would keep widening.

Tybalt’s heart raced. Each blow counted.

He reared back and focused. He did not care about living, but he did not want to die. It was this or death. He could sense the cold and hungry rage swelling in the mob. That twisted place between shock and pleasure, eager to see a man slaughtered but also fearful of the sights and sounds that it delivered.

Fury that should be directed elsewhere to the lord more deserving of it, standing nearby and watching closely as Tybalt ended some poor man’s life—but fury that would find a convenient target in the hideous-faced executioner.

He gritted his teeth. Adjusted his grip. Concentrated.

With all his might, he brought that axe, chopping down again.

THWACK.

Thump.

The head rolled and flopped on the platform’s roughshod boards, having torn itself loose from the final tendrils of flesh and muscles. Thick gobs of blood gushed all over the place.

Tybalt marveled at how little of the splatters he had gotten on himself this time.

Three swings, as he had predicted. He almost felt a little bit of pride swelling in his chest. But his revulsion eclipsed it within seconds, fueled by the overjoyed claps and cheers that erupted from the crowd. While his mind had grown as calloused as his hands from all the woodwork and beheadings, he never stopped finding these crowds repulsive.

Everybody went dead silent once again. Tybalt looked to his lord, who stared wide-eyed at the head he had removed. So did the crowd.

When he followed their gazes to study the face of death in that disembodied head, what he saw paralyzed him as much as it did everybody else. The incomprehensible sight curdled his blood, made his body turn cold—colder than the wintry air could ever render it.

Dozens of insect-like, spidery legs sprouted from the dead criminal’s mangled neck. A patch of blood-drenched greasy hair flapped wildly around as these long black spindly legs managed to get the head standing up straight and those uncountable number of tiny pointy feet found their bearing.

Once one person in the mob started screaming, other shrieks followed.

The head, carried by that gruesome array of legs, still gushing blood from the neck—it skittered off, leaping off the platform, and scooting away through the alleyways with unnaturally abrupt motions. People it passed by ended up scattering in every direction, running away from it in a panic, yelling at the top of their lungs, and crying for their mothers or their God.

The severed head on its tiny monstrous legs had long vanished into the darkness of the alleyways when Tybalt let his gaze sweep across the crowd.

A murderous glint twinkled in all their eyes. A rage that directed itself at him.

Lord de Rochefort took the stage, stepping in front of him.

“The devil took that man’s soul and possessed his body! You witnessed God’s work in our deathsman cleaving his neck in twain, good folk,” the noble shouted. His voice shook, quaking with the fear of a man who knew how dangerously close to getting lynched he himself now rode.

The mob hurled angry shouts and curses at him, but no objects yet. He raised his hands in hopes of quelling their fury, and their volume shrank into upset murmurs. Several people already peeled away from the crowd, seeking the safety of their own four walls. The devil’s many names escaped many sets of lips in baleful utterances.

“Fear not, for we will continue to do God’s work, as the Lord intended,” de Rochefort announced, shaking his hands, now balled into fists, at the end of every word.

Some people in the mob began to nod and vocalize their support. Others shouted for the demon to be slain. All the while, Tybalt’s heart still raced, pounding like a drum in his ears.

Lord de Rochefort turned to him and clapped his hand on his shoulder once more.

He always did that when he expected his loyal executioner’s aid. But this time, he followed that gesture by leaning in close to Tybalt. Unlike the mob, de Rochefort’s eyes were wide not with anger, but with terror alone.

Almost entirely drowned out by the rising ruckus from the excited crowd, the lord hissed a whisper to Tybalt, “You must seek out that foul creature—and slay it.”

Some of them had already returned with pitchforks. One with a lit torch.

Tybalt surveyed their lot and then looked back to the alleyway where the—

The thing, that awful thing—

Wherever that thing was, had skittered off to.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of pursuing it. What if he failed? What if it possessed him next?

He gave Lord de Rochefort a grim nod and turned to leave. He inspected the sharpness of his axe’s blade while he took slow, deliberate steps down the stairs from the platform.

Tybalt felt watched. Felt the many gazes from the crowd, transfixed on him. Burning. Oh, how his masked disfigured countenance drew more looks than the prettiest of faces. The huddled masses spilled away from him, giving him a wide berth as he walked.

He did his best to ignore them and wandered alone into the dim twilight of the alleyways. Where it reeked of feces and vomit. A fitting place for him to wander, to hunt such an abomination. A fitting place for such a foul creature to retreat to. The stench, permeating the air underneath his hood, it reminded him of why he hated his settlement. Resented all these people.

What if he just left the town and wandered into the depths of the woods where beasts dwelt, never to be seen again? Just up and left these wretched saps to their own fates?

Scampering sounds and something clicking, chirping, reached him from several steps away. Tybalt held his axe up high, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness devouring all the nooks and crannies around him. He took cautious steps, a pebble crunching underneath his boot as he swiveled in his search.

The thing was close. Hiding.

He inched forth and paused to the sound of flesh tearing and something meaty, wet, slapping against cobblestone and dirt. Tybalt adjusted the grip of his axe once more.

A thankless toil indeed.

—Submitted by Wratts

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lockdownuk · 3 years

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Lockdown Diary Part 10

A personal account during the lockdown in the UK due to the Covid-19 outbreak.

23/03/2020 8:30pm Boris Johnson, UK Prime Minister, gives a live address to the nation to, effectively, put the country on lockdown to stem the spread of the deadly coronavirus strain, Covid-19.

Many of us have been self-isolating for days but this latest development within the UK in reaction to the pandemic feels very serious and very scary. I decided to keep a simple diary and where better but online. Day 271: Work was dominated by Qfiniti again, including a meeting with Jon and staff from the States, where I found my self taking control to get the next steps in process (and then, Dave Stewart, the SCCM engineer fucked off and put an OOO message on Teams telling me he’s off until Tuesday (it’s Thursday)...and I am off on Monday!) But, I have to say this project does float my boat. Got a text message and then a call from PCH for another laser eye appt this coming Monday at 12.30pm. I mentioned to the lady that phoned that I will have to square it with work (I won’t, but she doesn’t know that) as I can’t afford to lose my job - it just seems the hospital, while under pressue with the admin and the clinic availability - I get it! - just aren’t seeing the issues for the patients. Plus, Peterborough has been declared a Tier 3 from Sunday under the new lockdown scheme, the highest tier. Great...I really want to travel to a highly infected area! managed to find an online booze shop that does Gordon’s and Famous Grouse and will deliver beforee Chrimbo, so I’ve placed the order for dad and Rita’s gift. I spoke with Dad today, he hasn’t heard about his vaccination yet which is a surprise (he’s in the first draft being over 80)

Day 272: Typing on day 273. Work was that manic shit at the end of the dya when I’ve got time off. I am only off on Moday but still had to tie up loose ends, complictaed further by Jon being off next week and Sueanne off this week and the Qfiniti project! In the evening I only mamaged three beers. I ate too much. Plus my sugars were all over the place and way too high! I ordered a torch a couple of days ago (£17), it arrived today. It takes rechargeable batteries or 3 AAAs. Apparently, to get the best performance (i.e. brightness) you need the rechargeable batteries in it, so i charged ‘em. Fucking hell, I’m glad I did - it’s brighter than the sun. It opens up my late walks in winter, for sure.

Day 273: While it was a very late (but sober) night yesterday (gone 4am before lights out) I was up before midday. Usual walking etc. plus gave the bathroom a clean (albeit with wipes, but I did mop the floor - and used the water to also mop the kitchen). Now I am about to stick a pizza in the oven, plus wedges (to have with microwaveable chip shop curry sauce) and watch This Is 40 which is coincidentally on telly tonight - the coincidence being clips of it are on TikTok a lot right now. I am on my second beer and am going to have a smoke right now as well. Lastly for this entry, I have been using my AudioPro speaker today, it pisses me off it’s not WiFi capable but, thru Bt, it does sound fucking good - revisiting James works very well to demonstrate the speaker’s prowess.

Day 274: I have another Paypal a/c. I have been getting emails to my standard gmail account from Paypal saying they are going to charge me £9 for an inactive account which I have been largely ignoring since my paypal a/c has a specific email address. Anyway, I tried to log in, after a password reset and, hey presto, I do have another one, with £35 in it, having just been fleeced of £9 for the aforementioned inactivity, fuckers. It’s registered with the old Market Place address and phone. When I try to transfer the £35 to my card, it wants to confim it’s me by calling the phone, which I can’t amend. Oh, and you can’t contact Paypal direct. Fuck knows what to do! Other than that, usual Sunday, a tad more relaxed since I have tomorrow off, but not that much now I have an eye appointment in Tier 4 Peterborough (it’s been up’d from tier 3)! Up at 1.30 pm (I watched This is 40 and The Guvners last night with lots of beer), feeling worse for wear but, stair climb and a 6 miler acheived!

Day 275: I was at the hospital for 3 hours. The laser clinic didn’t start until 1.30pm so, why my appointment was at 12.20, not even the consultant could understand. 15 minutes of lasering - horrible but I am used to it. It took so long it pretty much fucked my day off up completely. I got a Christmas card from Karen, in the actual post, so, a mail shot. It’s depressing.

Day 276: Back to work and it’s definitely in wind down mode. I’ve decided to compile a list of things I have done this year. It will be on the postive side, such as all the steps I’ve walked and getting an article published about my photography, but it will also include randon facts like getting bitten by a dig twice and not having a haircut. I’ll get it done so I can post in at new year, hopefully be a little inspiring, a little silly and a lot of showing off!

Day 277: Work, again, was quiet. It’s fucking pissing down now, as I type at 21:50, and has been all day. It’s causing havoc and there’s flooding everywhere. I could walk down St. Peter’s Road tonight ‘cos of it (had to go up New Road, Springfield Road, down Latham Road). Soaked a lunhtime and tonight! With a new variant of Coronavirus, France stopped frieght crossing the border. That’s now been resolved but tyeh back log has/is affecting certain food stocks in the shops, of which, fresh veg might affect me for Christams dinner (I plan to do a chicken breast with stuffing, pigs in blankets, yorkshire pud and shed loads of veg. I’ll nip to Co-Op tomorrow morning and see what’s vaialble. It’s a half day at work ‘cos of Christmas Eve, so I can nip out somewhere in the car if need be, as ong as the flooding has subsided. Or I could just get shitfaced and have burgers and pizza.

Day 278: Christmas Eve. Sueanne let me finish at 11.00am so, very shortly thereafter, off for a walk I went; it turned out to be a stop/start affair - flooding as the Nene had burst its banks, ended up doing more of a circuit round town. Bumped into Andy Smith (and his son) and, after that, Ash and Denise. Ended up doing just under 11.5km in 2 and a half hours.Knackered! As I type, I have a chilli on the stove, beer on the go, all the veg and chicken breast bought with no shortages, as feared, for tomorrow’s lunch and looking forward to eating. getting drunk, smoking, listening to music, watching telly....all over the next two/three days.

Day 279: I don’t even remember going to bed last night. As a direct result I got out of bed at 2.30pm. I couldn’t even be bothered with Christmas dinner, let alone anything else like exercise. I’m just about to have chilli for dinner (it’s 8.10pm). Watch some telly then try an go to sleep before midnight. No booze! I did talk to dad earlier. Day 280: Typing on day 281. A better, more productive day. Up @11.00am exercise and walk as usual, although the walk was a different route due to flooding. In the evening I could hear ‘storm Bella’ raging, so windy! I cooked a christmas dinner of sorts, chicken breast with Thyme, all the veg, roasted spuds and parsnip, stuffing (a first for me, albeit co-op stuffing mix), Yorkshie and pigs in blankets. It was smashing! A few beers and The Hitman’s Bodyguard, alays a fun watch. A better day, as I say, but I am feeling particular deflated this Christmas. Day 281: Typing on day 282. I realised, about mid afternoon, that Monday (tomorrow) is a bank holiday so no work. It was a great realisation but, also, worrying that it dawned on my like I’m an old person! Nevertheless, a nice long walk - bumped into Baz & Kate and had a nice long chat, then El & Camila, Aaron and Eva for another, shorter chat. I also saw Denise & Ash along the way. Fog video called later in the evening for a chat too (he told me how he fell asleep at the dinner table, fuck he makes me laugh - unwittingly - when I need it most!) A regular social fest! A repeat of last night’s dinner and a few beers - it was a good day albeit I am in a proper low ebb.

Day 282: Up at midday after a 4am-er. A very long walk (1.75 hours) and a hodge podge dinner (remaining chilli, roasted spuds and peppers, steamed cauliflower and runner beans, grated cheese) - it’s nearly ready, I’ll type the review tomorrow. I realise that this is the first time in 21 Christmases that I have at least talked to K. Is that connected to my mood slump? I reckon so. So, as that fact dawned on me, I then considered, should it be the case next Christmas, it will not be the first in along time and, as such, more manageable....fuck knows how I manage to accentuate any little positive but, thank goodness I do. Day 283: Work was a sedate affair today, fuck all to do really. Sueanne is now follwing me on Insta...I shall invetsigate on how to exclude posts to individuals, methinks. Tea, last night, was fucking lovely. More of the same tonight-ish - currently I am roasting spuds, peppers, garlic, chillies, tomatoes - it’ll all go with left over pigs-in-blankets (5) and a burger. I’ll have bisto beef with mustard on it. I can’t wait! Day 284: Typing on day 285. That meal was fucking lush! Checked on the car todfay and it would not start. Something is draining the battery so I will have to give it a run every day until I can get Julian to sort it. So, I WhatsApp’d Karen to borrow the portable starter. She dropped it off for me. We had the briefest of chats at the doorstep, first time we’ve spoken in weeks. She mentioned my hair! Day 285: NYE. I have just got back from walking to Cottersock and back. I would not have been able to do so without my new torch! I finished and published my double letter quiz on FB, including to the Virtual Pub group and the Oundle Chatter. It’s had some good feedback, I’m rather proud of it. I am going to make chicken casserole now (with dumplings - a first for me, I even bought some flour), have some beers and get a bit stoned. Before that, I am going to finish off my list of things I’ve done this year, including steps wlaked and hours listening on Spotify. I am quite proud of that list too.

Day 286: I fucked the dumplings up, added too much water, so that didn’t happen but the chicken casserole was good, just about to finish it for tea tonight. I also had pizza last night and went to bed at 5am. I have had a lot of good feedback on my list of 2020 achievements. I proud of it. K sent a happy new WhatsApp last night, around 00.30.

Day 287: No booze last night, so I was up before the alarm today (about 10.00am) Two walks, one on my own, another with Fog with a couple of beers. I fucking loved it! Watching datrts (World champs semi finals - been texting Dan while the first one has been on). Going to watch The Aviator later...I’ve not seen it before which surprises me. Why it surprises me I do not know, since I know I haven’t seen it. How the fuck can I be surprised by a fact I’m completely aware of? Day 288: I didn’t watch The Aviator ‘cos Logan Luck was on at 11:55pm on ITV4. Great fildm...I can’t believe that I very nearly paid for it (rent from Sky or Amazon). A late one last night and quite pissed. Thinking about it, having afew beers with Fog in the afternoon made it quite a long sesh for me! Up at just gone midday today, nice long walk (Cotterstock) which was mde long by a painful right ankle - I must have turned or twiested slightly sometime. Still, it survived. Back to work tomorrow - Chrimbo and New Year all done and dusted for the 55th time in my life!

Day 289: First day back at work of 2021. Boris announces another full lockdown in England (there’s a new strain of Covid19 which is seeing huge numbers of infections every day, over 50,000 per day).

Day 290: Something is up with my right foot, the little toe pad. It’s bloody sore. If it gets any worse it’ll affect my walking and exercise. I phoned Anne Bennison to talk about it, she just wants me to go and see her which i donlt want to do if poss, pandemic and all that.

Day 291: Wearing my sandals instead of the M&S slippers and my foot/toepad is already feeling bteer. However, I did inspect my Merrell boots, just in case, and the sole on te right is really worn down, in just three months. I have sent a WhatsApp to CotswoldOutdoors, where I got them from....let’s see what they say! It’s all kicking off i the US - pro Trump protestors have storm the Capitol Building, where congrees was being held. Only in ‘Merica.

Day 292: Busy at work with rolling out Qfiniti - all that project work was pretty much for fuck all since the SCCM package has to hand held. It’s feckin’ freezing today, below freezing, slippy af on my walks. I have been shopping tonight, £106 in Corby Tesco. That does include 8 cans of sapporo.

Day 293: The fracas at Capitol Hill on Wednesday left 5 dead, it looks like Trump will be impeached. He’s already said he’ll not attend Biden’s inauguration. In a fucking world gone mad, it’s another level of madness. It’s really cold -3℃ tonight, more of the same tomorrow. Makes for brisk walks. I’ve just had chicken balti pie and chips for tea. It was so nice that I burnt the roof of my fucking gob. I’m on the Sapporo and about to have a smoke then watch Jack Reacher. I’ve (kinda) earnt after the first 5 day week for a while.

Day 294: Well, last night saw another late one...5am by the time I :went to sleep. Up at 2pm today with no instention of any exercise or walking or housework or fuck all, really. But, I did my exercises and a 9 mile walk. While I walked I came across Banners, quick 15 min chat and listed to Stage by David Bowie. He’s all over the radio right now as it’s his death’s anniversary tomorrow and his birthday yesterday. It’s a fucking good live album. A few beers tonight, eating trash, watching FA Cup highlights then End of Watch later. Posh played today (first time in a while due to Covid infections) drew away to (shitty) Lincoln 1-1. Good point as Posh were down to ten men after 67 mins for a second yellow for handball in the area. Lincoln missed the pen. Fucking funny. Chorley, the non leaguers who knocked Posh out in round 2 of the FA Cup, beat Derby in round 3 today (albeit derby fielded an academy side of 11 first timers due to Covid ) - a great day for them!

Day 295: Up at 2pm swearing blind I’d not walk or exercise (again!) but, of course I did. I’ve done over 25 miles this w/e! End of Watch was brilliant last night. Well worth a rewatch, so emotional. I am making butter chicken as I type. I’ve added extra onion, garlic and, of course, chillies. It’s the spiciest butter chicken I have ever tasted!

Day 296: One of those frustrating days at work when no problem of request I try to resolve goes without a hitch. After a 7km walk in the evening, took the car for a spin and cleaned the bathroom. Fucking knackered. It’s 11:30pm and I’m in bed typing this on the iPad! despite getting up so late, I feel knackered. 11pm bedtime for me, I reckon.

Day 297: Fucking busy at work, the States rolled out a new Okta trust policy and it caused mayhem. Meant my evening walk didn’t start ‘til gone 6pm. When I got back, clened the hall and stairs, made chilli (which I am about to have for tea (gone 10.15pm!) and showered. I’m, again, fucking knackered! Posh played Portsmouth in the EFL Trophy 3rd round at home. Won 5-1. Nice.

Day 298: Had an electrician rouind for the EICR cetrt. He was here until 2pm and it was a pain in the arse, having to work upstairs plus, with having to cut the electricity, all the smart devices lost their settings. And it was freezing up there.

Day 299: Work was impossibly infuriating. Not one pc remote session went to plan! It was pissing down a lunchtime during my walk but, I have to say, the cheap TargetDry coat copes fine in heavy rain for short periods. Everywhere is flooding again even though the rain turned to sleet. By my evening walk, it was dry but bloody cold. Then, when I got in I cleaned the kitchen and mopped the floor and the bathroom’s as well. I fucking done in! Chatted to dad today - same as ever!

Day 300: What a fucking work at week! I am so glad it’s Friday. To celebrate, I ordered new walking boots: Scarpas £121!

#diary #Tumblr diary #lockdown #COVID19 #lockdownuk

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sweetwatersong · 4 years

Text

let the land come at you, love rating: pg characters: Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, cameos warnings: canon-typical injury and violence

summary: As a Cultivator Lan Wangji brings light into darkness, hope into towns filled with fear, and a bard along on the long road he walks. One of the three was entirely unintended.

author’s note: I got really excited about a Witcher/The Untamed fusion yesterday? So have an AU I am surprisingly mushy about. Title and lyrics from Not Yet / Love Run (Reprise) by The Amazing Devil.

O let the land come at you, love With all its sand and sin, a-singing A song you once knew well's begun

Love run, love run... Run to show that love’s worth running to!

Those that see his bright sword and white robes know him to be a Cultivator. Those that recognize the forehead ribbon, the guqin slung across his back, call him Hanguang-jun. In the wake of his passing they whisper that he vanquishes monsters, rescues the lost, seeks out chaos.

One night, tucked into an inn to eat after a long hunt, chaos finds him.

The bard that has been working the crowd is now circling through his audience, his black and red robes standing out as he manuevers towards Lan Wangji’s table with fascination sparking in his eyes. Used to only hearing pleas and prayers from those approaching him, expecting shock and a withdrawal, the Cultivator is taken aback when the bard blinks, smiles fit to light the room, and declares, “Hanguang-jun!”

He says it as if it’s a revelation, and true, Cultivators are rare enough that it’s not common to see one. But it’s also not the brilliant deduction the bard seems to think it is. Any number of clues give it away: the scrollwork on Bichen’s sheath. The pristine robes. The circle of silence and space everyone else has afforded him that this young human has deliberately breached. Ridiculous.

The bard, oblivious to Lan Wangji’s stony silence, throws himself into the seat opposite him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says delightedly. “It’s taken me three months just to feel that I was even in the right area. And the first tavern that I decide to stop at-” His expression turns serious. “Hanguang-jun, it must be fate.”

Lan Wangji, who has debated whether fate is impossible for almost a century, ignores him. Silence is the only answer he has to give this man.

Unexpectedly, though, the bard studies him for a moment before his lips quirk into a pout that can’t disguise his smile. “Ah, Hanguang-jun, don’t worry. I’ll show you why we were destined to meet. And the songs that I’ll sing of your glory!” He sighes, putting a hand to his heart. “Wei Wuxian, bard extraordinaire, and your grateful companion for the road ahead.”

Wei Wuxian does, in fact, invite himself along on Lan Wangji’s travel. That is to say that when Lan Wangji leaves the tavern, the whispered rumors of trouble steering his footsteps towards the south, the bard catches up to Apple’s heels and only avoids being kicked by virtue of a swift dodge. The cranky mare has little love for anyone other than Lan Wangji, and even then only on good days.

“Hanguang-jun,” he says accusingly, a laugh in his voice. “Were you trying to leave without me?”

Lan Wangji spares him a cutting glance. “Boring.”

Wei Wuxian staggers back for a moment, one hand going to his heart. “Boring? Me? Hanguang-jun, you wound me! I could never be boring.”

He proves his point, too, much to Lan Wangji’s irritation.

It is not the done thing in the Cultivator world to use spells on ordinary people. It is too easy to slide into disagreeable habits, to begin the cycle of fear that has set common folk against Cultivators more often than not in their long history. Still, Lan Wangji considers, if he is forced to continue listening to these ramblings, he is more likely to go mad than if he simply solves the issue with the use of a Silencing spell.

He is glad his reserved nature keeps him from smiling at Wei Wuxian’s face when the bard struggles to speak and realizes what has happened.

He is even more thankful when the spell wears off and Wei Wuxian launches into another story, seeming to understand that his best revenge was to continue talking. The man is irrepressible.

Five hours down the road, aware that they are nearly to the point he plans to camp at, Lan Wangji is ready to forcibly part ways with the bard when a snarl rumbles through the underbrush.

Another joins it, off to its left. Two more answer on the other side of the road.

Lan Wangji swings off of Apple, drawing his sword. He is grateful, in that moment, that Wei Wuxian has at last fallen silent of his own accord.

He meets the bard’s wide eyes for a split second before the jagged shapes launch out of the shadows, strands of white saliva dripping from their jaws.

“Hanguang-jun!”

It is simple if brutal work to dispatch two of the demonic beasts. Apple claims a third victim, her vicious temper putting paid to the notion that she might be easy prey, and when Lan Wangji spins to defend the helpless bard - irritating or not, he is still a victim here - he pauses.

A sword gleams in Wei Wuxian’s hand, black ichor coating its blade as its owner relaxes from his ready stance to look over at Lan Wangji, genuine concern in his eyes.

“They must have been rabid. Hanguang-jun, you’re not hurt are-”

A surge of movement, out of the corner of his eye. A streak of silver flying past him as Wei Wuxian’s sword finds its target in the mortally wounded beast’s heart.

A heartbeat where Lan Wangji stares at the shadow wolf’s slumped body, half-turned to defend himself.

“Were you cut?” Wei Wuxian asks worriedly as the bard stops an arm’s length away, scanning Lan Wangji for any sign of injury.

Lan Wangji slowly lowers Bichen and glances back at the wolf. At that Wei Wuxian seems to realize it’s the sword that has him distracted. He pulls it free and grimaces at the gore before looking back at Lan Wangji. “Ah, it’s important be to be able to defend yourself with whatever you have on hand. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to travel alone?” And then he beams with pride. “That’s why we should go together!”

Ringing with the sound of his mirth, despite the nearing dusk, the battle-torn road seems to brighten.

Lan Wangji is experienced, has fought more battles than the human can imagine. This was nothing except unexpected. But Wei Wuxian’s worry over his safety while they collect the heads of the pack is unexpected as well. Unlooked for. He complains about Lan Wangji’s pristine robes and laments his own splattered ones (”Black is good for hiding stains, and still! If only we all had your Cultivator secrets, Hanguang-jun.”), helps to pitch camp, keeps a tune flowing through the air as the grouse he snared roasts over the fire. And Lan Wangji’s silence or blunt remarks do not drive him away at all.

He is too old to pretend to storm away, to bristle at the bard or turn his icy exterior into a shield as his younger self might have. He has grown past the point that his pride and dignity can be bruised so easily. At this point it is simpler to wait. The next town is half a day’s ride and will see them part ways.

The next town sees Wei Wuxian remain by Lan Wangji’s side, effortlessly weaving himself into the routine questioning of the townsfolk. Perhaps it is their surprise at seeing someone accompanying a Cultivator; perhaps it is Wei Wuxian’s personality. Regardless, before Lan Wangji has time to give more than a curt glare and try to order Wei Wuxian to mind his own business, the bard has begun sweet talking the shop keepers and stall vendors into revealing the details of what had been rumors in other towns. Details spill forth like welcome rains, revealing that the rabid shadow wolves had not been the culprit - at least not for the crimes he was called for.

Somehow, as Wei Wuxian drags him all over the town in pursuit of the next lead, Lan Wangji realizes that the distance that everyone treats a Cultivator with has grown smaller. Those who would be uncertain about his reserved demeanor instead laugh and treat Wei Wuxian like an old friend. And after every conversation Wei Wuxian turns to him, expectant, and seems satisfied with a simple “Hn” in response.

Clues in hand, the job goes smoothly. So does the one after that, and the one after that.

They do not all go so easily.

The acrid scent of venom scorches the sand, forces tears into Lan Wangji’s eyes. It sizzles harmlessly against the enchantments sewn into his robes, each drop crackling as it falls away, but underneath the noise Lan Wangji can hear another sound too.

Wei Wuxian grips his sword arm, teeth clenched, Suibian steady. Smoke rises from the holes splattered into his dark robes.

The warped cobra rises again, swaying side to side as it prepares to strike, and it has two targets instead of one because a certain bard is too stubborn to understand when he is in mortal danger. Lan Wangji can see how the diamond-shaped head is angled towards Wei Wuxian, knows the scent of blood will draw its attention almost to the exclusion of everything else.

If he can use that, if he can take advantage of the distraction to find the right weak point -

Wei Wuxian looks to him and nods sharply, setting his stance. He opens his mouth to shout, to draw the creature’s attention, and Lan Wangji’s fingers fly.

It might be comical, in any other circumstance, how shocked Wei Wuxian is when Lan Wangji’s outer robe settles over him.

“Go!” Lan Wangji snaps, darting to the side to catch the cobra’s attention. He flings a flare taliman at its eyes and throws his arms up to protect his face when he is rewarded with a deadly spray of venom. The enchantments hold, as he knows they will, and he redoubles the flares the moment he can. The cobra shakes its head and lunges, head stretching out impossibly far, fangs half the length of his body; nearer, nearer. Then Wei Wuxian is in the cobra’s blindspot, white robe caught around his elbows, Suibian shining in the sun.

Afterward Wei Wuxian shakes his borrowed robe to slough the clinging blood off like water. “I knew your robes had to be magic somehow,” he tells Lan Wangji, shaking his head. “No wonder you look so put-together all of the time.”

He offers the outer robe back with thanks. Lan Wangji takes it. But when they sit down around the campfire that night and Wei Wuxian pulls out thread and needle with a grimace, Lan Wangji takes the battered black robe and patches the venom holes with small, neat stitches.

If he also sews four small protection characters into the robe’s hem, well. No one will ever notice, and no one without a golden core will be abe to replicate their effects. It only makes sense to give the bard one more small advantage, given the way he throws himself so recklessly into danger.

His blood is boiling in his veins. That’s the only thought that pierces the haze surrounding him, turning the forest into clinging white fog and all his senses into things far removed from his control. Heat continues flooding his chest, seeping in from the acid that lingers like a cloud in his lungs. Suspended in the fire Lan Wangji can feel his heart and every beat of its futile fight against the confines of his ribcage. More than that, more than anything else, his blood is boiling in his veins.

A touch on his shoulder. Bichen is in his hand, striking out at the danger, fighting even though he is nearly helpless -

A voice, muted and warped by the distance; words, distorted beyond recognition. But comforting. Known. Reassuring.

Lan Wangji loosens his grip on Bichen’s hilt, surrendering to the voice’s care, and focuses on breathing through the fire as he is lifted. Set on a surface that sways from side to side. Lowered onto solid ground. Laid down.

Inside the haze his golden core swirls and churns with energy, fighting the acid’s effects. Outside of the haze cool compresses cover his forehead, press against his neck.

When the fever breaks he opens his eyes to see Apple cropping grass in the distance, her tack stripped, her picket line tied to a sturdy root. He doesn’t understand for a moment how she has been taken care of. He has not done it, and her foul attitude won’t allow anyone else to do it. So -

A figure settles by his side, dipping a compress into a bowl. There is worry written in the lines on his brow, dark circles under his eyes. Wei Wuxian starts when he reaches to put on a new compress, realizing Lan Wangji is awake. “Hanguang-jun!”

He captures the wrist that pulls back, holds it in a butterfly grasp and marvels at the coolness of his skin.

“Lan Wangji,” he says hoarsely, voice scraping at his throat. “Lan Zhan.”

For a moment Wei Wuxian is still. Then he smiles, something broken but soft, and smooths the new compress over Lan Wangji’s forehead despite the hand still encircling his wrist.

“When you recover your senses,” he admonishes, “you don’t get to take that back.”

He calls him Lan Zhan from that moment forward, a gift, a gesture of thanks, and it echoes somewhere in the beat of Lan Wangji’s slow heart.

There is a point at which Lan Wangji realizes that he now spends as many evenings listening to Wei Wuxian regale townsfolk with songs and talk about the glory of Cultivators as he once did sitting alone, as far removed from this world as his spotless white robes were from his muddy and mundane surroundings.

It is a strangely comforting thought.

The night that Wei Wuxian first coaxes Lan Wangji into playing a duet together leaves the bard beaming so brightly that it seems the sun has emerged from the night sky, that the joy bubbling up through his laugther and song is a tangible thing.

Lan Wangji does not deny him such requests after that and Wei Wuxian nevers asks him to play when they are in public.

It is not uncommon for Wei Wuxian to receive letters. His contacts seem to scatter them like wishes to the wind, hoping that one or the other will intercept him at a tavern along the way, and for the most part it seems to work. But when Wei Wuxian’s excited grin falters and fades, when all color drains from his face, Lan Wangji sets his tea down and watches him closely.

“Lan Zhan,” the bard says, and the words shake and tremble in a way Lan Wangji has never heard before. “I need your help.”

Lan Wangji meets his eyes and nods. There is nothing more needed between them than that.

They ride double on Apple, maintaining the fine balance between her stamina and her strength, and travel west into the sun. Lan Wangji does not recognize the surroundings as they race towards their destination. To his eyes the forest and streams no different from a hundred thousand others he has passed by in years before. He knows when they are nearing the village, though, by the slow tightening of Wei Wuxian’s hands on his belt.

They fly past the neat farms arrayed on the outskirts, clatter through the streets that are more hard-packed dirt than paved stone. Cries follow them, even in their passage, of “Hanguang-jun!” and “A Cultivator!” and “Wei Wuxian!” There is hope in their voices, in the fear that saturates the air of this place, and Lan Wangji trusts Wei Wuxian to know their next move.

Apple senses it first. She tucks her hindquarters under herself and comes to a lathered halt as Wei Wuxian throws himself off, lands almost on the doorstep of a sun-helmed shop. He has barely had time to pound on the door before it opens. Two figures pour out, a slender woman, another young man, who greet the bard with open arms and cries of their own.

“A-Xian,” the woman says, “A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian chokes, and the young man answers, “It took him, A-Xian, we can’t find them anywhere-”

Lan Wangji dismounts slowly, stroking Apple’s foam-covered neck, and understands that he is watching a small family embrace. Wonders how much of Wei Wuxian’s life he does not know for all the bard’s openness.

It does not take long for the townspeople to settle Apple in a nearby stable and promise to make sure she does not founder. It takes even less time for the story to be laid out before him, a white-knuckled Wei Wuxian at his side.

A monster has taken children from the village. A monster has captured A-Yuan, Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s cousin, Wei Wuxian’s brother in all but name, and all the healer’s arts and all the young man’s archery cannot show them where it lairs.

“We’ll bring him back,” Wei Wuxian swears, his jaw tight. He looks to Lan Wangji then, not for reassurance but for confirmation. “Lan Zhan, we will.”

“We will find them,” Lan Wangji replies, and keeps any questions about the state that they will be in tucked behind his teeth. From the despair in Wen Qing’s fiery gaze she hears them anyway.

“Bring him home,” she tells Wei Wuxian when they prepare themselves, swords at their sides, talismans at the ready. Then her reddened gaze turns to Lan Wangji and he understands what she does not say. Bring Wei Wuxian home.

“Good luck,” Wen Ning says solemnly. “Good hunting.”

His words hold true. They track the monster, Lan Wangji’s keen eyes picking up the traces that few would recognize as such. They find its lair, holed into the mountainside, a narrow sliver the only entrance.

They find the children, held in a stasis that breaks and in doing so brings the monster.

In the midst of battle, talismans and thundering rocks flying, Lan Wangji fights as fiercely as he has ever fought before. For once the death of his enemy is far from his thoughts. Its armored exterior is impervious to blades, its natural energy gives it protection from his spells. No, it is the need to cover Wei Wuxian’s retreat that defines his tactics instead, the need to keep Suibian clean and the small knot of children safe.

It is the need to protect that lets him take in the cave’s shuddering ceiling, and the monster’s wild, deafening cries, and make a grim decision.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian calls, the cave echoing his desperation through the roar of crumbling rock. Lan Wangji spares him only a glance.

“Go!”

It is enough. The children crawl free; Wei Wuxian slips out of harm’s way; Bichen strikes true through a narrow eye that glints with malice and rage. The monster shrieks, its death throes slamming against the walls, and Lan Wangji, Hanguang-jun, knows that it is worth it, to have brought light into this last dark place.

The monster will not get them this day.

When he opens his eyes an inderminable amount of time later, focusing on wooden ceilings instead of tumbling rock, he realizes it has not gotten him either.

Wounds ache and sting across his body, broken bones a deep and underlying thrum, bandages lying tight across his scraped skin. There is the soft sound of breathing here too, loud in comparison to his own, and Lan Wangji turns his head to look across the room.

Wei Wuxian sits slumped against a nearby wall, his arms cradling a slumbering toddler, his hands bandaged a dozen times over.

A swordsman’s life is in his hands, a musicmaker’s as well. Wen Qing tells him the truth after Wei Wuxian brushes his concern off with laughter and comments about Lan Wangji’s own state. Wei Wuxian dug through the rubble with his bare hands, his bard’s hands, to find him.

They stay in the village longer than Lan Wangji has stayed anywhere in his long memory. Wei Wuxian’s flagrant avoidance of his Cultivator title rubs off to the point that the villagers begin to respectfully call him by his courtesy name. No one dares to use his birth name, of course; no one but the fearless, reckless man who tries coaching the little ones into playing melodies he can sing along to, just to stay in practice while he heals. The brilliant, bold bard who stills when Lan Wangji unwraps his guqin and plays the requested melody note-perfect, hands light on the strings.

He sings, when he recovers from the surprise and startled warmth that shines in his eyes, and their duets drift through the village with blessings of peace and prosperity.

Wen Qing doesn’t make threats of violence against Lan Wangji when they prepare to leave; given her sharp, unmistakable expression, she doesn’t have to. But her hands are gentle as she gifts him new medicines, for the inevitable time when one of them is so foolish as to get wounded, and her embrace is kind.

Clutching onto first Wei Wuxian’s leg, then Lan Wangji’s, A-Yuan begs them to stay. When all else fails he promises to learn how to play the guqin by the time that they return, asking them to make it soon, swearing they will be proud of him.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian laughs as they ride away, the shine of tears in his eyes. “I think you have a son!”

Lan Wangji says nothing, of course, but more from the odd sensation in his throat than from his long-standing practice of silence.

They travel, side by side, through rain and darkness. They meet Lan Xichen, the renowned Zewu-jun, who looks at Wei Wuxian with delight and Lan Wangji with understanding. They pass through Yunmeng where Wei Wuxian’s flippant tongue turns to awkward expressions in the court that Lan Wangji’s aid has been requested at, and where the heirs flanking the lord’s seat look at Wei Wuxian with displeasure or compassion according to their nature.

Lan Wangji declines the Jiang Clan’s request before Wei Wuxian grabs his wrist, eyes wide and startled, to ask what he is doing.

“We do not have to stay where you are not welcome,” Lan Wangji tells him. The gratified surprise that crosses his face stirs something in Lan Wangji’s chest.

“They need our help,” the bard says after a moment, ease settling back into the shape of his shoulders, and his discomfort does not return even when the whole court reflects the irritation of the lord’s wife, crackling like lightning over the scene.

This could have been Wei Wuxian’s family, Lan Wangji learns. He could have been trapped within these walls, had his mother not set off on her own course. He would have been bound to servitude under the weight of centuries of tradition.

Lan Wangji thinks of the bard, of his easy comraderie and boundless love, and of a road that might never have joined with his.

He does not with the Jiang Clan ill. He does, however, offer his gratitude for the journey that Wei Wuxian’s steps were set upon, all those years ago. Fate may not be real but if it is, it has granted him Wei Wuxian. That is enough.

They travel, side by side, through sunshine and snow. Their songs rise to the distant stars, their blades keep danger far from the innocent, and their travels are never lonely.

The Song of Clarity hums through the small glade, resonant and rich, and under the guqin’s voice a flute follows the melody easily, effortlessly. Lan Wangji pauses, lets Wei Wuxian sing out the ending in Chenqing’s sweet voice.

In the calm stillness that follows Lan Wangji listens with his ears, his shoulders, his hands. Under the dance of the fireflies, surrounding the stems of grass crushed under their feet, a faint trace of spiritual power drifts through the night air and over his skin.

Music is a strange thing. It is in beyond comprehension in ways that he has come to appreciate during his long life. If being taught the songs of a Cultivator defies tradition, if playing songs of power draws forth energy though the player has no core, if learning to speak the heartbeat of the world leads to the impossible - he cannot deny the truth.

He has put no power of his own into playing this night, and still Clarity has come.

He carries hope on his tongue, fragile and cautious, and draws Wei Wuxian into a kiss to share it.

Wei Wuxian studies him curiously when they draw apart, unaware of his thoughts. “What was that for?”

“Every day,” Lan Zhan tells him quietly. Every day. Their mantra that each one could be their last, that a Cultivator and a human might not out-live each other when the dangers they face come from magic and monsters and men.

Every day, each day, worth it because it’s one they’ve shared together.

The laugh lines on Wei Wuxian’s face, visible now in the golden firelight, crinkle as he smiles. “Every day,” he replies. Then he puts Chenqing in his lap to lean back on his hands, looking up at the night sky. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I’m so glad I found you in that tavern.”

“As am I, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji replies, and looks down at his guqin, begins to pluck the notes of a song that has no power but what it speaks to between them.

Forgetting envies, and every day, and I love you.

These are the words that Wei Wuxian does not put in the songs that he sings of their travels, but they find their way into the stories in due time. And they, all of them, are true.

#wangxian #the untamed #mdzs #the witcher #lan wangji #wei wuxian #guys I have FEELINGS about this #help #my writing

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coleisunderrated · 4 years

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Wish Upon a Shooting Star Going to Heaven

Okay everyone! I’m not gonna leave you hanging on that shitty prologue! Get ready to cringe at my first real story here to go with the holiday season! I’m sure it’s a story you’ll all enjoy!

Twas the night before Christmas when two souls had a fateful meeting.

The weather was extremely cold but with all the Christmas cheer and joy that blessed the village of Terra, everyone was able to withstand the harshness of winter. Cole was no exception on his way back to his family’s home, looking forward to the presents, decorations, feast, and above all, cake. His mouth watered just thinking about the deliciousness of the delicate sponge cake, fluffy cream, rich chocolate, and tangy fruits -

“OOF!”

Thanks to his sturdy build, Cole hardly lost his balance but the person he bumped into wasn’t so lucky. The skinny figure landed on their bottom and matches scattered everywhere. The person frantically picked them up and feeling bad for causing them trouble, Cole helped them.

“I’m so sorry about that. Let me get those for you.” He apologized.

“No. It was my fault for being an annoyance.” A voice that would’ve been silky smooth if it weren’t so frail spoke.

Once all the matches were gathered, Cole got a good look at the person and was saddened by his appearance.

The tall young man who appeared close to his age looked like death itself. Skin as pale as the snow falling around them, thin lips shaking from the cold, cheeks sunken in from lack of food, and tangled fair hair proved to be hard to look at. Cole pointed his earthy green eyes downward and found his voice in the worst way possible.

“Your feet...!” He cried out in an almost insulting tone.

While he was clad in baggy rags, the poor guy’s feet must’ve been exposed for a long period of time as the flesh had darkened and his toes were shriveled.

“Oh, I’m sorry for frightening you,” The freezing stranger apologized again, “I lost my shoes when I jumped away from the path of a carriage but my shoes slipped out and got trampled.”

Cole was flabbergasted at how this poor young man kept apologizing for things that were out of his control. All he could think about was taking him to his home, get him clean and warm, and share the holiday feast with him.

“Would you like to buy a match?” The stranger interrupted, offering the tiny stick.

“Are you trying to sell matches?” Cole raised a bushy eyebrow at the tiny item. No one would want to buy such a minuscule thing at a time like this.

“Yes. As per my guardian’s orders. I must sell all of them before I’m allowed back home.”

“Why does it matter if you sell them all or not?” A hint of fear revealed itself in the stranger’s eyes.

“He will... punish me if I fail... And I was strictly informed to not come back until I sell them all.”

Cole was far from stupid. The boy’s vulnerable appearance and anxious aura when talking about his guardian can imply only one thing.

"You don’t have to go back.” Cole said rather abruptly.

“What...?” The match seller was taken aback.

“Come with me. My family is rich. We can give you food and a place to sleep.”

“I would like that but I must fulfill my duty... and I don’t want to be a burden.”

“It’s not like this guardian or whatever will find out. Just throw out the matches and tell him you sold them.”

“But what about the money?”

“Don’t worry. My family is rich so I can just give you the money. How much are the matches?”

“One is for ten gold coins.”

“Really? That much for just one?” Cole couldn’t believe the ridiculous price for just one tiny piece of wood and didn’t hide his disgust.

“I’m sorry. My guardian chose the price.”

“Stop apologizing. If it makes you feel better, I have just enough for one match.” Cole offered what little money he had and the seller handed over the tiny stick. Still, he wasn’t satisfied until the match seller was safe. The pale boy turned to leave but Cole wasn’t having it.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Cole grabbed the seller’s arm and noticed his thumb met the tips of his fingers. The poor guy was even skinnier than he looked.

“I can only give one match to one person each. It’s also my guardian’s rule.”

“Why should it matter as long as you got the money? Like I said, my family is rich. I can take you home and give you all the coins they’re worth.”

“But I must obey my guardian.”

“You’re really not gonna give up are you?”

“I have accepted my task and I must see it through to the end, no matter what.”

Cole had a feeling arguing with him will be futile but he wasn’t going to let him be forgotten during one of the most joyous times of the year.

“Fine, but listen to me. No matter what happens, we’ll meet right here on Christmas morning, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“And I’ll also bring you some cake. I promise.”

“I really appreciate that. Until we meet again, farewell.”

The match seller walked off before Cole could respond. With nowhere else to go, the wealthy lad resumed his once forgotten journey home. He held on to the match like his life depended on it. He can’t imagine what the impoverished seller was going through. Once they meet up, he’ll find a way to free him from that so-called guardian. He made sure to remember it, even when he reached his large house in the wealthiest neighborhood in the village.

“Cole, where have you been? The party is about to begin!” Lou pulled his son inside so he can take part in the celebrations. Cole tried to tell his father of the poor young man he met but Lou wasn’t having it. Christmas is supposed to be about spending time as a family and he won’t let his son miss out on that.

Even as he received presents from his relatives he hadn’t seen in years and had his fill of roasted meats and warm home-cooked dishes, not even while eating slice after slice of his favorite cakes, Cole never forgot about the poor match seller. He kept his eyes on the match for most of the night until he looked out the window at the stroke of midnight just before going to bed and saw a shooting star flying across the dark sky. He normally doesn’t believe in it but he made a wish upon that shining star. He wanted to keep his promise to the match seller. He wanted to make his Christmas just a little bit brighter with his company and a big piece of cake and give him the life he deserves.

And perhaps find out his name.

Zane spent many hours into the night trying to sell matches but the crowds soon dwindled and even the carolers have gone home. He remained because he was obligated to fulfill his task. It was the least he can do for Vex for taking him in when he had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. But in a way, it made his life more difficult than it has ever been. He can count the times he slept on a content stomach with one hand as Vex ate most of what little food they can afford as well as the times he actually slept on a bed inside the house as he had often failed to complete the tasks Vex set out for him and just as often punished for it. He can’t fail him now, even when he was the only person remaining outside. Even then, he can’t go back until he sold every match.

The only sources of light to guide him were the moon and stars and the lights shining from within the warm houses of the village. Zane’s curiosity occasionally took control, leaving him frequently pausing to gaze at the windows of some of the homes. The lights provided by the nearby candles or a distant fireplace left him longing for warmth and the lingering scents of homemade meals ached his empty stomach. Zane endured, remembering the promise the rich boy made. He’ll get to eat Christmas cake for the first time in years and while that was just enough motivation to press on, his whole body has its limits unlike his will.

Spotting a little corner in the street, Zane took shelter, huddling against the wall and relying on what little warmth his thin rags had to offer. He still shivered, the echoes of his clattering teeth bouncing to and fro in his ears and each breath he took strengthened the swirling white fog surrounding him. Zane glanced at the matches and felt temptation growing inside his heart. If he lit one, he may find warmth but he knew he mustn’t and tried to hold out. It was so terribly cold and the thought of obtaining even the slightest bit of comfort quickly became too great to resist.

‘Maybe just one will be fine...’

Completely forgetting about any punishments Vex will inflict, Zane swiped one match against the wall. The heat and light emitted from the tiny flame gave him just a tiny piece of comfort but the poor seller couldn’t be more grateful. For some reason, he felt... happy. Staring at the tiny light awoken memories of a time where there was no pain, nothing to worry about, and knowing what true happiness felt like. It’s been so long ago he almost forgot and he only remembered just now because of his interaction with the wealthy young man who bought one of his matches. He wondered what he’s going through right now. He’s probably at home opening heartfelt presents, eating a lavish feast, or warming himself before a cozy fireplace... just like the one in front of him.

‘...What...?’

Zane knew it can’t be possible but it felt all too real. He can count each log burning in the hearth made of bricks. Above the flames, he can see woven stockings packed with trinkets. It’s all too good to be true yet no matter how many times he blinked, the wonderful scene remained before his pale eyes. The visage lingered for a time before slowly fading away. Zane almost cried out for the fireplace itself to stay but it quickly vanished, leaving a searing hot pain in his fingers to pour salt on the wound. The match seller flinched and a blackened match landed in the snow before him.

‘Was that vision coming from the match?’ Zane wondered to himself, staring at the burned out stick, ‘If I light another match, will I see anything like it again?’

Zane knew he’s already in big trouble for using a match for himself. Temptation quickly proved to be much harder to fight than the most seasoned warrior.

Nothing mattered to Zane anymore besides seeing these visions. Without hesitation, he swiftly lit another match. This time, he saw the most luxurious feast he had ever laid eyes on. The table was already large to allow room for all the delicious things to display themselves before him. There was roast chicken and beef, tall glasses of sparkling drinks, adorable decorated cookies, and a big, beautiful cake in the center. Zane felt his once dry mouth become drenched in saliva and reached out for the tantalizing food before him. Just like the fireplace, the gorgeous table disappeared once the match burned out.

Zane didn’t let a second go by before lighting a third match. He was greeted by the heartwarming sight of a cozy house decorated for the holidays. All the windows were framed with brilliant lights and hanging on the door was a wreath adorned with a big red ribbon twirling around the greenery and topped with big sprigs of holly and tinkling bells. The most beautiful of all was the large Christmas tree in the center, decked in a dazzling array of lights, ornaments, and tinsel. The tree was so tall Zane craned his neck up to see the large Christmas star that sparkled and reflected the various lights, illuminating the whole room. And just like the previous two visions, it all disappeared when the third match went out. Yet Zane continued gazing up at the starlit sky.

At the stroke of midnight, he saw a shooting star riding across the heavens. Seeing it suddenly reminded him of his father, his true parent who was the only person who treated him with love and kindness until his passing. He remembered when he was very little, his real father told him that when a shooting star appears in the sky, that is actually someone going to heaven. He wondered who it was that had to die on Christmas. He silently prayed that the poor soul will find happiness wherever they’re going.

And then Zane lit a fourth match and what he saw was something more precious to him than any glamorous decorations, extravagant feasts, or even a comfortable fireplace.

“Father...!” His feeble voice escaped his lungs and echoed in the night.

Standing before him was his father who was supposed to be dead. A tender smile graced his elderly face yet there was a hint of sorrow in his old and worn grey eyes. Zane now wished more than ever that the visions created from the matches were real. He wanted to believe his dearly departed father really was standing before him, giving him the love he never felt again since his death. He didn’t say or do anything but Zane was still overcome with joy by his presence he wanted to cry yet he can’t. He simply can’t produce any tears no matter how much he wanted to, almost like his body was too weak to do such a simple task. Just like everything else before him, the old man slowly started to fade when the match’s light began to waver.

“Father, no! Please! Don’t leave me!” Zane cried out, desperate to feel love and happiness again, desperate to not lose anyone or anything dear anymore.

Before the match could go out, Zane lit another so his father can stay with him. Much to his relief, his father was still there. As long as the matches were lit, he won’t leave. Zane lit each match one by one until none were left. The fire of the combined matches gave off a glow akin to the sun and his father looked even more radiant within its light. With both a loving smile and sad eyes, his father extended his hand to him.

“Zane, it’s time to go.” His father spoke in the same gentle voice he had and it was just as Zane remembered it.

“Go? Go where?” Zane asked, apparently confused.

“We can finally spend Christmas together as a family. There is nothing for you to worry about anymore.” The old man stepped back so his son can see the beauty surrounding them.

Zane looked around to see he was now in the same house with the same fireplace, feast, and Christmas tree that appeared earlier. He took in every sight in awe until his eyes fell on the cake. He recalled a promise to have Christmas cake in the morning and that’s when the memories flooded back. He did manage to sell one match to a wealthy young man whose face resurfaced in his psyche as well as the promise they made.

“But what about the young man I met earlier? We promised to meet each other in the morning.” Zane hesitated, not wanting to break his vow.

“The morning where you two reunite will come to pass.” His father spoke with the same wisdom he possessed in life.

Zane had a feeling his father was right. He too began to sense they will reunite in the future. For now, he can be with his beloved father again and finally have their first Christmas together since they parted.

Zane accepted his father’s hand and sank into his warm embrace, not wanting to let go of this love and happiness he knew will never leave.

At that moment, Zane knew he was finally home.

And then the morning came.

Cole wished he hadn’t seen the sad sight before him.

The poor match seller laid dead in the corner, covered in a thin layer of snow and surrounded by his matches that have been burned black as soot. He apparently died from the cold and futilely attempted to warm himself.

“The poor thing must’ve froze to death...” The villagers wept at the sad sight.

While everyone else expressed pity and sympathy for the dead young man, only Cole noticed the tiny smile on his face. He looked so peaceful and he had a feeling he was finally happy wherever he was. If only he didn’t have to die.

“No... No...” Countless tears rolled down his dark cheeks before he realized he was crying for the dead match seller.

The cake that was once in his hands now lies forgotten in the snow. Cole clutched the frail, cold body and sobbed, not caring that everyone saw or what they thought of him holding this stranger in his arms. If only he were alive, he could’ve felt the warmth of his touch that had come too late. The match seller may be at peace but Cole wasn’t. Not when he failed to keep his promise to save him.

Cole looked at the frozen smile and thought about how happy he must be in the afterlife. Somehow, he was determined. Even through his tears and despair, he made a promise to the match seller again, one he knew will never be broken.

“One day, I will find you... I promise.”

#ninjago #my writing #it's getting late so might as well reveal some more #glaciershipping #angst #can't believe my first work with my otp ends up like this

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geekygoddesss · 5 years

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Vids and Tricks

Free days are the best days, everyone knows that. The reason what weekends are the best and why all of those days in between hard days of work were the best had a really simple explanation and it is simply because they are the best in the world, just like today. So far, today it’s perfect.

It is one of those days, if not the only day that I and the rest of the team have had some sort of free time in between all of the mess it’s been going on in this production. I work with my boyfriend, I have done it for a while and being his ‘stylist’ and assistant was not as easy as it sounds, not easy at all if you really think about it. As an actor, he had to be in so many places at a time and rarely had some sort of break in between productions but in the middle of all the projects he was currently working on, this one took the big crown for a lot of reasons and it’s been by far the biggest and most complicated one I have ever witnessed.

Funny thing, we thought we were over with the filming of this project almost a year ago, we call it a wrap and went back to London happier than ever for completing such a big thing, but little did we know, there were some major mistakes in post productions, scripts and everything in between, a series of unfortunate events that lead us all the way back to the middle of Canada, on a house with no cell service, bad internet but an amazing view, thing that we could barely enjoy since the hours of filming were crazy and our free time was mostly spent on crucial things like eating or sleeping or usually getting a lovable but that is another story.

We have been crazy busy these last months. Until today, the perfect day.

It was a hot summer day in Canada, a Sunday to be exact and for once, we were work free and had a full mansion to ourselves, again, it was the perfect day in all shapes and forms. Since the moment we woke up, we knew, this is the kind of day we have to prepare for, so we did; we spend all morning getting all the equipment: beers, some big stake to roast later, groceries of all kinds, floats and last but not least, sunscreen, because we decided, today it’s pool day and we will make the most of it.

The moment we finally got back to the mansion, the moment I changed into a good swimsuit and go out in the sun, I love summer and I would make sure to enjoy it at it’s best while I still can, make my best to get a good tan and relax, turn my phone off, forget the world, today is a day to relax.

So I changed my clothing, dragged one of the long chairs in front of the pool and laid in there, headphones on my ears, canceling the world and the ones around me. This is me moment.

I felt like I was in heaven, the warm sunlight against my skin, the freshness of the air around me and the beat coming from my headphones made me feel like I was in my zone, the perfect zone to be in and that is just how I laid, for hours and hours. I barely notice what goes around me, I am too in my head to even think about anything, but just when I am starting to catch some sleep and fall into some deep slumber that I was feeling the need of having for the past week, a splash of water hits my feet and my eyes are opening in big surprise. That really took me off guard.

“(Y/n)!” I hear my boyfriend’s voice yell from the other side of the pool with a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Yes?” I say in the exact same tone, as I slide myself up on the chair and sit up, lifting my sunglasses off my face and looking over at Tom, who had a sneaky smile on his face as he got himself out of the pool and walked to my direction.

“Are you listening at all?” He asks, shaking his head like a dog and splashing little drops of water all around.

“Sorry, I had my headphones on” I say, pulling the chord from them and leaving them on the little table right beside me along with my phone “what’s up?” I ask, looking up at him with a questioning look.

“I’m just about to make my biggest trick” he says, bragging, as he walks fast along the perimeter of the pool and reaching the diving platform and going up on it and walking straight to the edge.

His movements were too quick. I guess he’s been doing this for a while, it’d make sense, that would explain the splashing sounds going around and laughs everywhere, maybe I was missing out, but I didn’t care, I was having fun on my own.

“Which is?” I ask, raising my eyebrow as he happy bounces a little on the platform with the balls of his feet.

“So I jump from here, right?” he explains, pointing down at his feet and looking at me directly, making sure I was following.

“Ok” I nod

“But then Harrison throws the float and I go right through it, with… wait for it, a flip”

“Oh gosh” I shake my head, not believing or even picture how that would look like.

“Easy” he teases nodding at Harrison, who is already picking the float from the pool and walking out of the pool.

“No, not easy, you’re going to hit yourself or something” I say, Immediately objecting. Don’t get me wrong, he is a great gymnast in general, when he is on the ground but in the water it seemed a little dangerous, he looked too convinced, I knew how a good (bad) hit in the water feels like and I would hate for that to happen to him. “babe” I say, a little whiny tone in my voice.

“Babe, I’ll be fine, I’ll just hit the water at best, it’s alright” he says, chuckling. Again, too sure of this and waving this all off “just record everything, would you?” he asks. So just for the record, I do it.

“There’s no way you’ll make that jump” I say, grabbing my phone from the table and opening up the camera.

“I will!” he says, making it sound like he was defying me.

“Don’t break your back” I say as a full warning “We don’t want broken lead characters in here” I scoff as I get him in frame.

“I won’t, I promise” he chuckles, taking a deep breathe and preparing for his biggest trick.

Sometimes he didn’t believe me when I said I loved him doing tricks all around and perfecting his ability as a gymnast after such a long time of quitting training, he said I was too paranoid that he would get hurt and become something bigger when he assured me ‘he knew what he was doing’ and I got to admit, he is right, I was paranoid and I did not want my baby to get hurt, so naturally, when things went don't to him doing these kinds of tricks, they would end up either really good or really bad. We couldn’t afford another broken nose from jumping, so I got my fingers crossed that he will be fine now that he’s in the water.

He takes one big breath and backs up on the platform just enough. He and Harrison make one serious eye contact before going on with the trick, because he seems to give his friend one silent green light as he moves on, he takes a big impulse on the platform and jumps up high, Harrison throws the float with great accuracy and Tom does indeed go through it in the first try(ish). His body go straight to it at first, but when the float is around his torso he curls his body up, doing one big flip in the air and landing on the water in the perfect position.

It takes him a brief second to catch his breath and I take it as well, because my jaw drops at the he just did and I have to control my hand from dropping the phone, that jump was really amazing.

“WOAH” He yells in emotion “OH. MY. GOD” looking up at everyone as Harrison laughed and his mom shook his head in surprise.

“That was awesome!” Harrison’s mom says, laughing in happiness.

“Did you get that?!” Tom yells, pointing at me “Did you get it?!”

I stutter and struggle to find coherent words as I laugh “I did, I think I did” I said laughing as I stopped the video “I can’t believe it”

“Let me see” he says, sinking in the water and swimming to the edge. I move to the edge of the pool and sit on the slightly hot floor being careful to not be too close to the actual water. Tom emerges from the water and grabs on the edge of the pool as he pulls himself up and sits beside me on the floor. I put the video on the phone and show it to him as he cleans the bits of water left on his eyes and stares at the screen. He laughs at himself.

“That was awesome” He laughs, getting a little closer and leaning his chin on my shoulder this time. “I told you I would do it” he mumbles on my ear, kissing my cheek softly.

“I eat my words I guess” I chuckle, playing the video once again.

He finds it hilarious like we all did and before we can even notice, my phone is being passed around between the people around us, all of them playing the video a million times and checking out one more time, the incredible talent my boyfriend has.

I watch everyone’s reaction one by one and smile at their happiness. This was definitely being a good day for all of us. I think I was getting too much in my own thoughts like it has happened in the past, I yell in surprise when two familiar arms grab me and pull me out of my spot, throwing me in the pool along with him. There’s a cold current going around my body, all of it and I can’t help but yell in surprise once again and I emerge to the surface and find my boyfriend laughing and hugging me and I shake the excess of water off my face. That was not very nice.

“Ah! TOM” I exclaim loudly, splashing water on his face, totally with the intention of pushing him off just a little. “shit, it’s cold” I say, hugging my own body and shaking.

“Post that” He says, ignoring my words and pointing at Harrison as he swims towards me.

“Fine” he nods, making a thumbs up as he grabs my phone and sits on the same place he has been sitting for the entire afternoon.

I feel Tom wrap me in a hug, kiss on my forehead repeatedly and then presume “You defy me and I proved myself”

“I know I’m sorry” I chuckle, looking up at him “you can do cool tricks, I think I know that”

he proudly smiles “I will take that as an apology and I accept it” he says, kissing my lips shortly and hugging me closer “now are you going to stay and swim with me or are you going to be boring and sleep in the sun?” he asks, his faded eyebrows raising.

“I wasn’t sleeping, dummy” I say, pinching his tummy a little once and then twice.

“Ouch, ouch” he says, laughing, so I stop. He moves his hands to mine and wraps them around his torso as he asks once again “so?”

I consider it for a good five seconds. Yeah sure, laying under the sun with music on for the rest of the day did not seemed like a bad idea at all, but really thinking about it, I liked the idea of hanging out with Tom just a little more on his free day, I was a great time before, but I was sure that with him I would just make my day a lot better.

“I think I’ll stay like this” I say, hugging myself to him as he smiles and kisses my forehead “not everyday you get a free day so” I mumble kissing his cheek lightly “I’ll take some advantage”

“That’s the spirit” he chuckles, squeezing my sides and swirling us around.

We hear music being played on the background, which is just perfect because it sets the perfect scene, so I lay on him and let him lead us whatever he would like us to go. Suddenly the cold was being lifted off my body and his body heat was passing onto me, making me comfortable and making me stay between his arms longer.

“Don’t be gross on the Pool” he hears his friend call in the background.

We laugh.

“Fuck off man” Tom says laughing, lifting his middle finger in the air for a brief second as we kept walking in the pool and dragging me with him.

“Where are we going?” I ask him in a small mumble, looking up at him and that smile I love so much.

“Be gross on the pool” He mumbles back, looking down at me and pecking me on the lips.

That was how I noticed he was done doing all of his tricks for the day, because today it’s his free day and it will be all about relaxing, and if relaxing meant that I would get to stick all day to his side, then I would do it without question. Because this kind of days, along with him, made it seemed just like a dream.

#Tom holland minis #tom holland imagines #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction

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woildismyerster · 6 years

Note

you’re writing is so lit like wtf so can i get some soft boi jack kelly where no one dies (@thefandom)

Get, rekt, fandom

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” Jack said with a grin.

You snorted. “What are we, eight?”

“What are you, a chicken?”

You paused. “I mean, yeah. I don’t trust you with my mouth.”

Race, who sat on the school lawn a few feet away, snorted. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“I guess we really are eight,” you said dryly.

Jack was sitting crosslegged across from you. “I can’t believe this. After being friends for all this time, you don’t trust me?”

“With my life, yes. With my tastebuds, no. You probably have a handful of dirt or something.”

He put a wounded hand over his heart. “Rude.”

“It’s still true,” you said with a shrug.

He wheedled for you to give in, and it took all of your strength not to. It was difficult; instinctually you wanted to do whatever Jack asked of you. If Jack told you to jump off a cliff, it’s possible that you would do it before thinking it through.

Even so, though you wanted to open up just so he would smile at you, you refused. More likely than not, he had something gross.

When the lunch bell rang, the lot of you got up to go back to class. Most of your friend group took Senior English together, but Jack was in AP Art. When you reached the stretch of hallway where you and Jack would split up, you grabbed his arm. He looked at your hand, perplexed, but didn’t pull away.

“What were you going to give me?” The curiosity would kill you if he didn’t say.

He pulled a bag of Skittles out of his pocket.

“Oh,” you said. Those were totally harmless. You held out a hand. “Can I have some? If you didn’t do anything to them, that is.”

“Of course not,” he said smugly. “You didn’t trust me before. Why would I reward you now?”

“Because you love me?” You smiled sweetly.

“Not that much,” he said with the same sickly sweet tone. “Don’t expect the worst of me, Y/N. You’re the only person who might get the best.”

He walked away, leaving you confused and strangely happy.

It was too cold to go on a walk, but you and Jack would only be home for Christmas break for a few more days. You had to make the most of your time together before shipping off to your respective colleges.

“Why don’t we visit each other?” You only turned your head a little; just enough to peek at his face. The small movement let the winter wind sneak through a new gap in your hood and scarf. “You’re only an hour away from me.”

Jack’s breath created a cloud of steam when he sighed. “I dunno. It’s easier to not do something than it is to do it, I guess.”

“We were so close in high school,” you said wistfully. “I was so sure that we were going to keep everything going.”

“We text all the time.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.” When he dipped his head in acknowledgment, you brightened. “We always could, you know. It’s almost the new year, and I haven’t chosen a resolution yet.”

“That would be your resolution? Spend more time with Jack Kelly?” His grin was teasing, but it softened when you nodded. “Y/N, that isn’t necessary. We can just agree to try harder.”

“No way,” you snorted. “It’s a promise. I’ll swear it. You’re stuck with me, in person this time around.”

“Why?”

You looked at him fully this time, wincing when the cold brushed your face. “What do you mean, why? Because I miss you.”

“Are you going to promise the same things for the others? Some of them are closer,” he pointed out.

“It’s different with you,” you finally said. Because you had liked him in high school. Because nothing had changed since then. Because after all this time, you thought that maybe things could really happen between the two of you.

“How is it different?”

“I think you and I could make it work,” you said, irritated. Why was he fighting so hard? If he didn’t want to see you, he should come out and say it. “I think that we care about each other, so I think we could keep any promise we make.”

“‘We?’”

“Sure,” you said. “You wouldn’t talk to me so much if you didn’t care at all.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. His eyes were fixed on your face, his smile fading away. “Close your eyes, Y/N.”

Your brow furrowed. “Why?”

“For God’s sake,” he huffed. “Will you just shut your eyes?”

You did, raising your brows sarcastically. “Happy now?”

“Very.” As soon as the word faded from your ears, something warm was pressing against your lips. Your eyes shot open, revealing Jack’s face against yours. His eyes were closed, and he brought his gloved hands to hold onto your forearms.

He exhaled through his nose, and another burst of steam shot right into your eyes. You gave a snort of laughter, and Jack pulled away.

His cheeks were pink, but you couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or cold at the root of it. “Sorry, I misunderstood. When you said that you cared, I thought -”

You reached out to grab hold of him, to keep him from retreating too far. “No, I’m sorry. I was surprised. You understood perfectly. I want to see you more, and I want you to kiss me every time.”

“You’re asking for a lot,” he said with a crooked smile.

“You seem willing to give it,” you retorted.

“You aren’t wrong,” he said. He wrapped an arm around your waist when he started walking again, tugging you along. The arm made you feel warm from head to toe, though your coat was thick enough to keep you from really feeling the weight of him. “Fine - my New Year’s Resolution is to see you more. We can work out the rest later.”

You grinned, leaning into his side. It made walking kind of awkward, but you didn’t care. “Awesome. You know that you’re stuck with me now, for at least a year.”

“Ugh. I take it back.”

“Not allowed,” you said gleefully. “It’s a one year contract. You have to deal with me for a year.”

“Alright,” he sighed. He smiled and pressed a kiss into your hat. “If I have to.”

“Alright, Y/N, close your eyes.”

You did as Jack instructed, holding out your hand so he could lead you into his apartment. He had signed the lease in August, so you had a place to stay when you came to visit him for the weekend. It was your one year anniversary, so he wanted to do something special. In the words of Race, the two of you were hella broke, so you knew that Jack had been improvising.

“Here’s what I want you to picture,” he said. “There’s a picnic setup, with the checkered blanket and fancy basket and all that jazz. Quality booze, food that’s way too expensive to put in a basket, and candles on tacky candlesticks that don’t belong outside.”

“Classy,” you said with a smile.

“The lights are dim. There are roses all over. I mean all over, Y/N. The ground, the furniture, in a vase on the table. Probably in the toilet. Everywhere.”

“Big spender.”

“That’s kinda the problem,” he said. You heard him open the door, and he tugged gently on your hand to bring you inside. “Open up.”

You opened your eyes, and your grin broadened. His bed comforter was spread across the living room floor. A cardboard box sat on the edge of the blanket, holding a box of pizza inside. A bottle of cheap wine from Walmart sat in a bowl of ice, ready to fill up Jack’s Star Wars mugs. A few daisies were scattered on the floor, the rest in a vase on the table. Scented candles were resting on various, non-hazardous surfaces.

“I really tried,” he said.

“It’s perfect,” you said. “The epitome of romance.”

He sat on the blanket, patting the side of it as though you wouldn’t know where to sit. “Not gonna lie, I thought I would be able to afford to be a big spender by now.”

“Not gonna lie,” you echoed, “I thought we agreed to save money for the important things.”

“I could only afford a pizza.”

“And now we get to eat pizza,” you said reverently. You reached over and squeezed his hand. “Seriously, Jack, this is great. Anniversaries don’t have to be a big deal.”

“They should be.”

“There are candles. That’s pretty big,” you pointed out.

“I got stuff to make smores,” he admitted. “I thought we could roast marshmallows on toothpicks.”

You laughed. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said. He poured wine into the cups, raising his into a toast. “To the end of our year long contract. I’m free, at last.”

You clinked yours against his. “Believe me, I’m as relieved as you are. What’ll you do with the freedom?”

He put pizza on the plates, eyes twinkling. “Hang out with you all weekend. We’ll definitely make out.”

“Nice,” you said with an approving nod. “So, we’ll do the same stuff as always?”

“Sounds good to me.”

You clinked your glass against his again. “Great. Let’s eat.”

#Newsies #newsies fanfiction #newsies x reader #jack kelly x reader #Jack Kelly #ally writes

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90sgrungewriter · 7 years

Text

5. Untitled - Eddie Vedder

You woke the next morning with a small headache. You thanked god it wasn't too bad. You would just pop an advil before heading to work. You turned to see the clock read 10:26 AM.

FUCK! You were over two hours late! You flew out of bed and quickly noticed that Eddie was still sleeping on you couch, snoring softly. You took a moment to study his facial features, because you wouldn't get caught doing it if he was asleep.

Since when the fuck did you get so creepy?

His chest rose and fell, and for some reason made you feel very calm. It was quiet in your apartment, besides his light snores. His mouth was partially opened, and the crease between his eye brows was gone. He looked at peace, and for some reason, it also made you feel the same way. After a few minutes of mentally fighting with yourself, you thought, fuck it. You weren't even going to show up to your class today. Something you had never done yet, so not feeling as guilty as you probably should. You mentally high fived yourself for being such a good student.

"Dani?" You heard a small voice. That pulled you out of your thoughts to notice that you were still staring at Eddie, and he had woken up.

Great. Still caught in the act after all. Your silence and facial expression must've made it look like something was wrong. Eddie sprung up from his position to sit upright, blanket still half around his legs.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to leave? I ca-"

"No, uh..sorry I uh-" you didn't know what to say. You were just caught staring at some very sexy dude you barely know who spent the night sleeping on your couch. Thinking about it like that made it sound even more weird.

"I slept through my class. I'm two and a half hours late." you rocked back and forth gently on your feet.

Eddie's mouth formed a small O shape in realisation. He peaked at the clock hanging on your wall.

"Shit, are you gonna go now?" He questioned, removing the blanket from his legs to stand up. It was then you noticed he stood at least a foot taller than you. But that wasn't hard to do.

"No, nope. Fuck it, I say." You tore your eyes away from his and looked around your apartment. "I've never missed a class since I've started my courses. I think I can afford to miss a day."

He nodded, unsure of what to say or do at this point.

"Uh- I can make us some breakfast?" you questioned heading toward the kitchen.

"Oh, you don't have to..I don't want to trouble you. Thanks for letting me sleep on your futon." You locked eyes again as you turned to look at him as he spoke. You nodded.

"Anytime man. Don't feel like you have to rush off y'know...unless you want to go, then thats fine to-"

"Maybe we could just go out?"

Huh? Your look of confusion must have sent him a clue and he quickly spoke up.

"Breakfast! We could uh...just go out for breakfast." He tore his eyes away and glued them to the ground.

"Good idea. If you thought my cooking was bad, you're right. It is." No point in fibbing. You were always a shit cook. You didn't want Ed to go just yet...

He laughed lightly and nodded his head. It was quiet for a few moments when his eyes darted quickly from your eyes down, and up again. For a minute, you thought 'fuck yeah he totally checked me out!' but then you realized you were still in your pj's. They had little donuts with smiley faces on them and a black t shirt. Not to mention you weren't wearing a bra. You wanted to crawl away (n brush away loose grounds... lol sorry had to) and die. Yup.

"I'm obviously not gonna go like this, and DON'T tell Stone I have these, he'll never let me live it down." You would be mortified. He laughed and held his hands up in defense.

"Alright, I won't tell a soul." He promised.

You quickly ran back to your room to change quickly. You were pretty hungry, and you were sure he was too, so you didn't want to make him wait around long.

You changed into a pair of old high waisted jeans, and paired it with a cream colored sweater that you tucked inside your jeans. You ran your fingers through your short hair so you didn't look like you woke up from a very good night before...

You opened the door to find him waiting there patiently.

"Alright I'm good to go." You grabbed your purse from the living room table and laced up your boots at the same time as Eddie.

You two were out the door, but when you stepped outside, you realised you didn't know where you's would go.

"Any place in mind?"

"You act like I've been here for more than 3 weeks." He said jokingly. You mentally slapped yourself. Duh.

"Touche. Definitely hanging around Stone too much." You laughed bumping his arm with your shoulder.

"I'll give you that one." He looked around the not so busy street.

"I know a place. Not far from here, never been but Sean swears by there breakfast burritos." You explained.

"Breakfast burritos?" He quirked his brow. Damn, that was cute.

"Mhm. Come on, I'll lead the way!" you saluted.

When you guys entered the small diner, there wasn't too many people. Which was nice.

You took a seat at a table, as a waitress came forth and gave you some menus.

"Drinks for anyone?" She asked, looking at you first.

"Just a coffee please." You thanked her.

"Make that two." Ed was observing the small diner. She nodded and left our table.

"So breakfast burritos?" He asked quizically.

"Breakfast burritos." You laughed. The waitress came back with our coffees and took our orders. She seemed nice, and was a pretty girl. It was cool that she had respect and wasn't hitting on Eddie either. Some faith in humanity was restored that day.

A few moments of silenced had passed, neither of you really knowing what to say. You cleared your throat, as he looked everywhere but at you.

Whenever you locked eyes, it was probably the funniest thing ever. Why? You weren't so sure. Maybe the moment, the situation. You were both so awkward with eachother that from an outsiders perspective, this was probably funny and cringy as fuck. Soon, the two of you were giggling like mad. He had such a whimsical laugh, and it made your heart beat so fast and made you terrified at the same time. You couldn't remember the last time you felt this way, or if you had even ever felt this way before. Whatever the hell he was doing to you, it could not happen. Not right now. He broke things off with his girlfriend like two days ago. Even though he tried to play it off cool, you knew that she had meant something to him. Seven years is a long fucking time to be with someone you didn't really care about. There was no way he was interested in you like that, not right now. But you couldn't deny the attraction being present in the air. You weren't sure if he felt it too.

You tried to stifle your laughter to speak. "Yeah, this is awkward isn't it?" You just decided to voice it now, because things probably couldn't get any more awkward. He nodded, our laughters dying down now.

"A bit." He shrugged his shoulders and looked down, tearing his eyes away from your own.

Within the next few moments, your waitress came back with your burritos. You thanked her, and looked at Eddie to find him staring down at the burritos. You giggled, and he looked up at you.

"The moment of truth!" You spoke as he grabbed the burrito in his hands. He took a bite, and the look on his face was priceless.

"Fuck." He said with a mouthful of food. Cute.

"Yeah, thats what I thought." You dug in to your own plate of food.

After that, things seemed to take a turn for the better. You talked about a lot of things, you rarely saw your mom as she moved to Cincinnati with her ex-boyfriend, (you knew that because she called you like, twice a year) which was fucking stupid and you wished she'd just fuck off and not call at all. The only thing she would do is talk about how things were going for her anyway. You told him how your father passed away when you were very young, and you talked to him about your art. He told you the story of his father, which was the inspiration of the song on the demo. You learned he loved to surf, and used to be in a Chili Peppers cover band. You laughed at that. He also told you about some of his friends from San Diego. The conversation was definitely flowing a lot better than it was and before you knew it, you were walking back to your apartment.

"So she looks to Jeff and just lets it rip man, I've never seen a guy get so roasted before. It was hilarious. I felt kinda bad but it was just funny at the time." Eddie was in fits of laughter over one of your high school party stories. Not that you had that many though. Stone and Jeff definitely went to more than you did.

"Wow, poor guy. She just walked in at the wrong time, huh." You nodded in agreement. The two of you turned up your street and you could see the infamous truck parked in front of your building. You wondered who it was. Maybe the guys thought Eddie got kidnapped last night or something. Or worse...they would tease you about getting laid or something. The poor guy was gonna be so red in the face by the time this confrontation was over, and you knew felt bad for him. Things would be pretty awful for you too though.

"Alright Ed, listen up." You pointed to truck and he nodded slowly.

"Thats Jeff's truck, right?"

"Yes it is. Now they're probably here looking for you. I mean, you didn't go home last night so...their feeble minds are probably going to assume we got laid or something" His expression became slightly worried, eyes darting down to your lips for half a second once again. You wished he would stop. It was making you feel things. "Just don't take anything they say personally. They know I wouldn't do that, and I'm sure they know that you wouldn't want to sleep with me anyway." You joked, laughing and punched his arm lightly. "They're just going to try to be funny. Don't worry about it." You reassured him.

"Yeah, I could see that happening. Alright, I'll be prepared." He smiled, his face turning a light shade of pink.

Things were definitely not as awkward and you could for sure say you knew him a lot better than before. He didn't seem to be as quiet or shy around you as much anymore, and there were less and less moments of silence.

The both of you made it up to your apartment. Opening the door you find Stone, Jeff and Mike sitting on your couch. Stone is the first to spring up from his seat as he heard the door being opened. Before you could even enter your apartment, he was already shouting.

"Dani! Eddie didn't come home last night and we think he might not be okay, like where would he have even spent -" Stone stopped mid sentence seeing Eddie trail behind me. His expression went from that of shock, to contorted in distaste.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." He sounded...mad? Thats not what you expected. You thought he was thinking you got lucky, congratulate you and tease you about it. You were pretty confused at this point.

Jeff stood and gently patted Stone on the back, but all he could do was stare at you. You were so fucking confused. You turned to look at Eddie whom had a confused look on his face too.

"How could you Dani? To me-to us? Why would you go sleep with hi-" You could NOT believe what you were hearing? What the fuck? You cut him off before he could finish.

"Stone, what the fuck are you talking about, us? What does that even mean? First of all, I did not sleep with Eddie." Eddie shook his head.

"Second of all, who are you to tell me who I can and cannot sleep with? Last I checked, you were my best fucking friend, Stone not my guardian." You were pissed. You could practically see fumes seeping out of his ears. Then, he fucking said it.

"Because I'm in fucking love with you! Can't you see that? Don't be so blind. I'm tired of pretending." He spat, and made his way over to the door. He swung it open and left your apartment.

Huh?

You didn't know what to say, or do. You just kinda stood there, trying to process this information. The guys were...right? Eddie was right... One of your best friends was in love with you, but you didn't feel the same way. How could you tell him that? It would surely hurt him, and thats not what you wanted to do. You wanted to make him happy but from the means of a friend. You were lost in conflict and started to feel a bit sick.

"I need to sit down." Your eyes fell to the ground and you slowly made your way over to your couch. You felt an arm slide around your shoulder to assist in leading you to the couch. It was Eddie. Once you sat down, he sat on the small coffee table across from you. Jeff sat to your left, and to his left, Mike. Jeff put a comforting hand on your knee and spoke up.

"So, what happend last night then?" He spoke, eyes darting between the both of you.

"Shouldn't one of us go after him? Make sure he's okay?" Your tone was filled with worry, completely dodging his question.

"Stone will be fine. He'd probably rather be alone for a little while." Mike stated, looking at you with concern.

"When I had got here Eddie left. I thought he was going home and I heard it start to pour rain outside, my window was open so I went close it. I seen Eddie standing at the old Mac's across the road. It didn't look like it was going to stop rainig anytime soon and it didn't." Eddie was nodded his head, confirming the events. "I didn't want him to get sick because you guys need him on that stage. So I asked him to sleep on the futon. Look, his fucking pillow and blanket is still there." You pointed over to it, as Jeff nodded his head slowly, understanding.

"I believe you. I was kinda hoping, y'know...but, whatever." He shrugged his shoulders, a playful smile on his lips. You punched his shoulder.

"What about Stone, you guys. How long have you known? What am I supposed to do? He's my best friend I dont want to hurt him. But I just...I don't...uh-" Miked interrupted you.

"Feel the same way?" You nodded. It was quiet for a few moments, until Jeff spoke up.

"He'll be okay. Just talk to him. It's gonna be hard at first but he'll come to terms and move on. Might take a while, but it'll happen. We've known for years." Years?!

"Stone will understand. As long as he still has you in his life, I think thats the most important thing to him." Mike encouraged.

"Thanks guys." You gave them a small smile.

"So where were you guys coming from? And hey, didn't you say you had a class today?" Mike asked.

"Yeah I skipped it. Woke up late." They looked at you like you had a second head.

"I know, I know. I never do that which is why I don't feel so guilty."

They laughed. "You always were a trooper." Jeff joked.

"So we were coming back from breakfast. I changed his world with breakfast burritos." You pointed to Ed and he smiled.

"Its true, those things were fucking delicious." He spoke truthfully. Everyone laughed.

“Well, we should probably get going. I gotta work in an hour.” Jeff stated as he looked at the clock.

“Alright, I’ll see you sometime soon, okay?” You stood and gave him a tight hug, and he rubbed your back comfortingly.

“Don’t think too much about this Stone thing, alright? He’ll be okay, just give him some time.” You nodded, letting go.

“I’ll go find him. I’ll call you later and let you know how he is, that sound good?” Mike said as he came to hug you too.

“Thanks, Mikey.” You were so happy to have these guys in your life.

“You two have fun now! But not too much fun...” Jeff winked and slammed the door shut before you could even scold him.

You snorted. “What a bunch of buffoons.” Ed laughed, standing up from his seat on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry you had to be here to witness that..”You apologized, not meeting his gaze.

“For what? You did nothing wrong.”

You debated what to say next. “I just...I don’t know. Stuff like this doesn’t usually happen to me and I don’t know what to do..” You trailed off. You sat back down on your couch, and covered your face with your hands. You sighed deeply. You felt the couch seep in beside you, signalling Eddie had taken a seat. It was quiet for a few moments.

“Maybe do something to occupy your mind?” He suggested. “Maybe try doing some of your art.”

You thought about it for a moment, it probably would make you feel better, but you didn’t want to be alone. That was for sure. Then, you thought of something.

“Paint with me?”

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in-the-name-of-the-holy-reborn · 6 years

Text

Christmas Blues - Tsuna

Arc 1 Secret Santa 2017 Participation @haplesshippo Merry Christmas my Dear, I hope this end of year was great and I wish you all the best for the new one !

Deep uneasy feeling began to fill Tsuna’s mind as he walked downward the corridors of Namimori High school, murmurs intensifying each time he turned a corner or passed by a bunch of students. He felt the warm on his cheeks and forehead, not the one invading you when you met your crush, no, the one which make your head spin while a strong nausea punch you in the guts. His collar seemed to tighten around his neck, a bead of sweat tickling him as it rolled from his hair to his nape, he then realized he wasn’t able to swallow anymore, mouth awfully dry. He tried, hard, not to think about them, the ones who laughed at him because he couldn’t even understand the most simple maths formula, the ones who pushed him with a hard shoulder when they passed by him. He licked his lips shacking his head, eyes cast down as he quicken his pace, clutching the books against his chest like a shield, he focused only on his final destination, what was it already ? Tsuna didn’t mind, his feet guided him god knows where while the barely audible whispers metamorphosed into terrific laughters, he came to a stop when one of the black shape around him shout; «Look, Sawada forgot to put a pants on before leaving his mommy, again.» Horrified by what he had just heard, his tremors intensified, No, No. It wasn’t possible, he wouldn’t do something like that, he remembered perfectly slipping in his jeans while eating a toast as he rushed toward the door because he was late, or was it yesterday, or the day before. He gulped, opening chestnut hues on his naked legs covered only with pink patched underpant, he tried to scream, but nothing came out, so he used the only defense he new, he ran. He ran as fast as he could between lines of mocking comments, Oh, he could have give anything to just vanish, even his collection of comics. He ran away, until his lungs ached, drowning into infinite corridors full of shadows, he only slowed down when he faced a wall in front of which Kyoko was standing, blinking candidly at his attire. Tsuna tried to retreat, stumbling on his own feet as he fell under the stare of the hooting public surrounded him, he fell, again and again but the floor never came, until the endless drop into the depth of the ground engulfed him totally. - The tenth Boss of the Vongola sat up on his bed, breathless and covered in sweat, it was still dark outside, the silent raven dome shining with stars assuring that he could have slept few more hours. Tsuna set the cover aside, sighing loudly as he got up toward the window, the fresh air of December slipped in the warm room as soon as he pushed it open, slithering on his bare chest helping his temperature to cool down a bit. He entered the adjoining bathroom of his hotel room, lightening the mirror as he passed some water on his face, he blinked at his reflection, sighing again at his tousled hair sticking to his forehead, memory of what just happened. His high-school tormented years were far away from the man he had become, still, nightmares kept haunted his nights from time to time, no matter what he accomplished in the past ten years, no matter how much he had changed and all the achievements done, he felt like this dull part of him was still there somewhere, threatening to ruin everything he had worked for. Tsuna let himself fall on his mattress, the alarm next to his head displaying red numbers way too early to do anything constructive, his eyes darted toward the white blanket covering the street throught the steamy window, Christmas was surely an opportunity to take some days off after the long trips of Mafia cases forcing him to travel all over the world. Not that he mind, but he had to admit that he missed cosy nights ‘home’ sometimes, far away from Namimori and his old habits. He grabbed the shirt landing haphazardly on the floor before browsing the folders resting on his nightstand. Nope, this year would be the same as the last, and he wouldn’t be allow to go back to Japan before, the New Year night, at the soonest. At least, his devoted right hand man would be there, they could afford a good restaurant for Christmas Eve before going back to their respective room after few drinks that will help them forget the loneliness. Few minutes passed and his mind wandered again toward his friends and family he missed so much, visit to Japan happened less and less and if he could see them five times a year, it was already a victorty. Squinting on the report, he put it aside, working in a time like this would be worthless and ineffective, the ghost of his nightmare forgotten, he closed his eyes, waiting for Morpheus once again with his head full of good memories. - The tip of his nose hidden behind his scarf, Tsuna crossed the street with a quick step, a cup of coffee in one of his gloved hand, the other one plunged in his black duffle-coat pocket. Defying the glacial cold and crowded dowtown was the last step before Tsuna could join his hotel, the signature of his opponants on the negotiation treaty, it was with a relieved smile that he walked down the road. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, putting his cup to his chapped lips as a reward, not paying attention as people rushed past him to be home early in order to work on the last preparations before the celebration. He enjoyed the warm sensation of coffee slipping on his tingling throat, remembering how he loved the smell with which he wake up every morning of his young life, well minus the sour taste. When he opened his eyes again, his hues paraded around the colored light garlands enlighting his surrounding, he always loved this period of the year, furthermore as Namimori made a point of honor to transform the entire city with Christmas decorations. All of merchants adorning their showcases with puppets and gifts perfectly wrapped, the smell of roasted chestnuts filling his nosestrill as he walked hand in hand with his smiling mother, the brighter light he could see. He took the decision to wandered around a little bit more, no matter the fresh air biting his toes, lashing the tiny bit of skin exposed, nor the milky dark sky menacing above his head, but the emptiness in his chest made him want stay out, refusing to acccept the evidence. Once he would be back in his fancy hotel room, no good bottle of wine or chocolate box would be able to fulfill the lack of his dearest people.

It’s only when the delicate snow flakes fell lazily on his shoulders that he decided to join Gokudera, the weight on his limbs still present as he tried to shrug it off and get out of this gloomy state. He pushed open the door of the dusky place, kicking off his shoes, unwinding the fabric around his neck still in the dark, shaking his jacket before placing it on the armchair. With a sluggish motion and a yawn, he extended his arm toward the light switch, dreaming of a hot shower before slipping into dry and comfortable clothes after this whole day outside.

The roof light flickered a second, before plunging the room in the dark again, as the painful thought of going down to the reception reached his mind, a sofr tune reached his ears and several stained bulb enlightened the whole place. Tsuna felt like he was a child again, Christmas decorations adorning each furniture, illuminated the whole scene unfolding before his amazed eyes, balls, figures and garlands has been spead everywhere. He blinked several time, a sweet ingenuous smile grazing his lips when his gaze sticked in front of him, most of his guardians and closest friend were present. In the middle of the crowd a radiant Nana extended her arms, faint wrinkles of joy in the corner of her eyes she coudln’t hold back the toothy smile at the sight of his big boy. When he came out of his daze, Tsuna chased away the pricking sensation of tear, walking to her, he burried his nose into her hair, drowning into this so familiar and reassuring scent. He adressed a thankful smile to his right hand man, tonight, he would not be the head of one of the most important mafia family, he wouldn’t be the business man or the occasionnal killer, he would be Tsunayoshi Sawada, the young man, who still put his shirt upside down from time to time.

#christmas #exchange #secret santa #tsuna #tsunayoshi #sawada #gifts #khr #reborn!#katekyo hitman reborn #hitman reborn!#boss #vongola #tyl #nana #family #story #fanfic #drabble

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silverhands-etcetera · 7 years

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Sweet Home.

I’m at Sea-Tac international airport. I got here early, but still just missed last call at the Seahawk-themed pre-packaged grill & bar here at the N gates. So I’m doing without liquid refreshment, a good half hour walking laps around the terminal, then I found myself a seat near the gate that leads to Chicago, sat down, & blushed as my MacBook gave its familiar muted tone to the hushed waiting crowd upon firing it up. My embarrassment was short-lived, however, when the phone of the woman nearest me erupted into Sweet Home Alabama. I thought it was gonna make it around into the verse, as she was having trouble retrieving the device from a zippered pocket of the coat she was sitting on. I’m in that limbo/no-man’s land that is an airport terminal gate. It's not Seattle anymore, not based on the inhabitants. Presumably this island is populated equally by the clueless, affluent, progressive stereotype of Seattleites and the unwoke, working, staid classification of Midwest country folk. I suppose I could put a claim on either side, or neither. I've lived in the city a lot of years now, I've been enriched by the ways in which a mind is not allowed to ferment in its own juices, for the near constant influence of a sight, sound, or concept that lives somewhere outside of your own wheelhouse. Some folks back home might call these elements a corrupting influence, and they may have a point, but sometimes it's your own notions that have the strongest hold over clarity or peace, and a little challenge is what brings you out of your own shadow, -or at the very least, keeps you from being afraid of it. So I sit with this gang of future airplane-dwellers at the gate here at sea-tac. Some people are all too happy to identify themselves as disciples of the major Chicago or Seattle professional sports franchises, while some are more vague. My closest neighbor, on the phone next to me has a style that would be equally at home in Sequim, Washington as it would outside of Freeport, Illinois. These are the people who intrigue me the most, wondering where their trips are starting & ending. Which direction are they going? Are they leaving home or are they finally coming back? How many have just said goodbye to someone who worries about them living in a place so far off & different? -- I spent three days on the very nose of eastern Iowa, where the McDermotts come from, before setting out for my latest itinerary. Flying into Chicago, and doing the three-hour de-urbanization drive straight to the Mississippi River, getting in my obtuse & incredibly impractical old Ford and trying, and failing, to blend in. Try as I might, I just can't pull off the I-actually-have-no-idea-what-I'm-wearing look. So when I sit at the bar at Manny's, I'm exposed as an outsider. -also perhaps because I'm the only one in the place who's excited that they stock Stella in bottles now- but it's ok. Everything changes. Shit- Manny's ain't exactly what it used to be either, you know... Three days & three nights in the stomping ground, pot roast and peculiar middle-American card games with Gramma, an evening of old, moldy LP records at Steve's cabin, and a night on the town with three irreplaceable residents of my soul- which produced a giant to-go box full of leftover Manny's Pizza that changed hands several times until it was abandoned on the kitchen counter upon my leaving to find the airport once again. But the need to blend in, to pass for a local, follows me everywhere except Seattle. I want people to know that I have roots here, perhaps because among the good-ol-boys, roots are the only form of credibility, and I know that. Seattle can't exist in this way because the locals are so greatly outnumbered now, and the city has been plotted with a hundred different pockets of individual cultures to begin with. Spain, not so much. Spain has unique and somewhat odd ways about itself, isolated from the rest of Europe for a period of centuries, and perhaps still. I can sneak through with the locals as long as I keep my mouth shut, but I definitely don't know the secret handshake, and their manner of dealing with me changes as soon as I am exposed. I don't know why this troubles me so. Keeping up appearances is exhausting, opening with your bad grammar & decent pronunciation, your Iberian countenance & American passport gets all the questions out of the way & tells the true story right from the start. In writing about tours & travels, I've always been a part of a larger unit, which you try to keep anonymous as much as you try to include their part in the tales we spin. And in writing, to keep things universal, I've always tended to keep all the other ties that bind as vague as possible. This is my first trip in a very long time as a singular person- a single person, to speak plainly- which is something I had never even considered as a possibility at any previous point in my adult life. But now even my taxes tell me this, so here we are. Table for one, please. Or, I'll take a seat at the bar... --- It was a 787 that took us over the Atlantic -that with the two aisles and the row of three seats down the center. There I was, dead-center of the dead-center. Having a tendency to sleep on one side or another, and unable to lean in either direction, I dozed not a wink. Some, I assume, did get some sleep, but nonetheless, the whole rumpled batch of us shuffled out into Heathrow after seven hours of containment, none looking altogether very bright in the eyes. If you need to change terminals at Heathrow, you best not be in a hurry. I guess I've done it quite few times now, and I had several hours of layover, so it was just "follow the purple signs" & keep on shuffling. The terminal, once you get there is basically a shopping mall, only bigger. At least a hundred ways to spend too much on shit you don't need. Your best bet is to wander the Duty-free store & try to make eye-contact with the young woman at the Glenmorangie booth, and acquire for yourself an offer of a free sample of one of their varieties. With just enough knowledge of Scotch whiskey jargon, one could offer the type of feedback on a particular sample which opens the door for a product pitch on another label which is similar, but also leaning toward those particular things you described. Glenmorangie is currently producing at least five different labels and price points, so this pattern could conceivably be kept in motion until you actually need to excuse yourself politely because you need to run to your gate now, as the flight is boarding, and you're about to miss it. Heathrow took me to Madrid-Barajas, for a six hour layover/reintroduction to the intense character of the Spanish populace. So many things I knew already come back to entertain me. There's a couple little bar-like nooks in the airport, where you can just sit by yourself with a small glass of light-almond-colored beer and take in the show. I'm sure I'll have plenty of observations in the days ahead, but the sheer density of personality crowded into that airport kept me wide awake & riveted. A window seat to Sevilla afforded me a bit of a nap & we were back on the ground in no time. I gathered my bag & found my way out to the taxis, and over the short drive to town, the taxi driver & I took part in a brutal battle of who smells the worst. He rolled down his window as we neared the boardinghouse that is my home for the night. I'm in a second floor room with just a bed & a sink, overlooking an alley, which produced echoed conversation and moped traffic- almost immediately imprinting its own reverb algorhithm into my brain so I am able to imagine just the same what horse's hooves or wagon wheels would sound like in this particular space. I checked in around 8, and considered heading out for some supper, but fell hard asleep instead. All the disembodied voices in the alley crept up to me as I was sleeping, until I was awoken by the sound of a couple singing in French, followed closely by another incongruous sound to my ears in this place -that of the sky opening up to rain on the stone streets, which was then followed quickly by the buzzing of a mosquito who took her invitation through my open windows. So here we are, the mosquito & I. I'm in the bed, eating the muffin that was given to me somewhere over the Atlantic. The Mosquito will have her supper later. It's 4AM and the house is just waking up, or just getting home. I'm ready for another nap.

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ciathyzareposts · 5 years

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Missed Classic: Curse of Crowley Manor – WON! and Final Rating

by Will Moczarski

Cursing Crowley Manor

This is an astonishing game. I know that it might seem as if I was easily satisfied by a few extra descriptions in a text adventure but for a game released in 1981 it does a lot of things right. So far, it’s not very challenging, and the story may be conventional but it’s still involving. Last time I was stuck with a limited gameworld and the brown growth who’d jump headfirst into the pantry and devour everything there, including myself. This time I remembered the words of wisdom from the fragmentary manual I had consulted before starting the game. It’s very sparse and does not provide a lot of backstory, however, it advises you to LOOK everywhere and also rely on your other senses. You can LISTEN and SMELL, too, so I tried to LOOK, SMELL and LISTEN in every room one more time and happened upon the solution rather quickly.

Next to the pantry there’s an exquisite dining room with a large oak table I can investigate. If I do that, I find some food there. Maybe it’s spoiled and will provide a trap for the hungry brown growth is what I think. That is not the case but still dropping the growth will solve the puzzle, prompting it to devour the food and “shoot” under the china cabinet, causing it to fall with a crash. Upon examination I find a letter opener and a hand axe. I know right away what both items are for and decide to backtrack to the rosewood chest to unfasten the screws there. Inside I find a golden crucifix and an old note with only a number on it: 5271. I take a new note and go back to the plywood wall. With the crucifix and the holy water in my hands, I almost expect to find a roast chicken behind it. It’s not all fun and games, however, as the parser doesn’t understand “hack” or “break”, only “chop”. After three or four useless turns there’s a hole in the wall and I can enter. Supposedly. Again, going N or GO HOLE does not work, only “CLIMB HOLE”.

The next part of the manor is like a hidden underground area. It’s a nice touch that I am delving deeper into the interiors of the building as I progress; it’s a sequence of rooms with an unfinished air about them, and a lot of secret passages. Looking and listening excessively also thickens the plot substantially. In a darkened room strewn with scientific instruments I encounter the demon yet again, his tremendous voice booms “You have not the power to face me yet be warned…” (sic!) The demon is not a fan of punctuation. Also, why are old adventure game voices always booming? Looking again I see that everything is filthy and smashed. Among the rubble, there is an ancient book lying open on a table. I can only make out one sentence: “Gafala alone can help.” Who is Gafala? Am I supposed to know? West of here, there is a musty room. On the only door there is an ancient numeral lock. This is pretty easy if you have discovered the old note (as I have): just dial 5271 and be done with it. I arrive at a damp brick walled room where there is a horrible stench. Smelling (or looking) results in my being slammed against a wall by a powerful force. If I listen (or look) once more, I am thrown flat on the floor, and a voice bellows “Soon youll be mine” (sic!). Yours? Er…eek?

But I thought you were just looking for someone to watch Dirty Dancing with?

After another turn, the demon is gone. The room cools although my golden crucifix remains red hot. Also, there is an evil smelling smoke everywhere which seems to be an indication of the demon having just left. This effectively leaves me with a dead-end. Behind another long hall, there is a stark room of red brick with nothing in it. Looking, listening and smelling leaves me without a clue, so maybe it’s time to try out something else – maybe Gafala is not a name but a magic word! And…it works, although it is a name: “A wall falls and a voice shouts…’I am here!’” Nice to see you, Gafala, whoever you may be – but there is no new exit, it seems. Once again, looking solves the puzzle: The west wall has collapsed exposing a stairway. Maybe I haven’t explained this yet, so here goes: if you find stairways the cardinal directions don’t work (except with the kitchen, strangely). Instead it’s necessary to “climb stairs.” Doing so leads me to a brilliant crystal room where there is a towering figure in white. It’s Gafala, of course, who turns out to be the evil demon’s good brother. Now this is getting a bit silly, especially because Gafala demands that I kill his brother: “Two paths lead from here N and S you must follow both in time” (sic!) Did you two skip the punctuation lessons together then?

However, heading south first takes me to a low ceilinged crypt full of dust and cobwebs. Examining the place rouses the demon once more. “Where is your weapon..maggot”, it screams. Where is your question mark..demon, I reply. Looking again is not a good idea, however, as it drops me back with poor Davonn. At least my throat has not been ripped out. I backtrack all the way and then try to advance from the crypt as I don’t appear to have a weapon yet. To the west there is a dim shimmering room with a ghost sitting at a piano. Two pianos? The Crowleys really know how to make a splash! Looking at the ghost tells me that it resembles the portraits back in the music room. Wait, I didn’t examine them, did I? Maybe the punishment of being thrown back to Davonn is really a short-cut? When talking to the ghost he demands the name of a composer. If I guess correctly, he will play. I don’t know the answer, so I decide to check out the elegant music room once more.

First, the portraits: They have fiendish, inhuman eyes. Then the piano: I still can’t interact with it. Now for the victrola: Turning the crank again, I can hear some music. This time I listen to it and…the music is Mozart! That must be it. Back to our friendly musical ghost. If I say “MOZART” he plays and a stairway appears out of nowhere. However, behind the stairway there’s only another large deserted room with nothing in view. Listening reveals a noise above my head, so I try to go up. That does not work but climbing does the trick: I am now in a damp musty passage with a rope underneath me. Looking reveals a gold shield, and naturally I pocket it. Do I have to equip it, too? Just kidding but gold has served me well against the demon already (remember the crucifix) so it’s probably a good sign. Looking again reveals a light to the east. Going there I discover a great silver room with a circular depression in the floor. I first check out all possible exits and then my inventory. The crystal ball is the most likely candidate. Dropping it indeed reveals a vision of a sword and a beautiful fountain. Looking again makes a magic sword appear. Wow, that was a really successful detour! I now have a weapon, demon – watch out! The demon has already fled the crypt in horror, though (at least that’s what I’d like to think). This time I only find a silver club lying on the ground. As I am carrying six items, I have to drop the hand axe to pick it up – it seems unlikely I will need it again now that I have a magic sword. Looking again lets me discover some half decayed corpses on the floor – boy, this game is really grisly! Examining the silver club lets me figure out that it’s heavy. Right.

Gafala has nothing new to tell me, so I venture north this time. I find a wide, dark, smelly pit with a stone stairway leading north. Also, a “low wailing moan permeates the darkness.” Listening to it allows me to make out some of the words: “He has the sword..but is it cleansed…….?” Oh, do I need to cleanse it, too? With the holy water, maybe? Thank you kindly for talking to yourself, evil demon! Despite this obvious hint, cleansing the sword does not work. I decide to move on for now before resorting to another round of guess-the-verb.

It’s game-over time anyway. Beyond the stone stairway there is a stone room strewn with bones. A huge, ugly rat attacks me after one turn, and attempting to kill it with the sword results in it ripping my throat out. It has been you all along, right, rat? Admit it! Gafala does not have a brother. It’s people. Dead people.

Enough with this silliness. I do it all over again. The game does not have a save feature but it drops you back at your office with most (all?) of your belongings in order to let you start over again without having to retread your every step. This always causes my version of the game to crash, and I had to drop my money anyway to pick up all of these weapons, so I presumably wouldn’ t be able to afford the cab this time. Back in the stone room, I club the rat. It still rips my throat out. I start cursing Crowley Manor but discover that the demon got there first.

On my third attempt, I use the revolver and the rat finally drops dead. There is nothing else of interest here but I can open the door now and continue to the west. I find another smelly pit with a dirt floor. Fungus grows on the walls and a stairway is blocked by wooden beams. Do I need the hand axe I just dropped? Yes, I do. After backtracking to the axe (and dropping the revolver this time) I can chop the beams to create a large hole opening up to a stairway. I find a very eerie chamber (as if that was still a distinction at this point!) with the walls painted black and strange symbols on the floor. The symbols are magic runes but I can’t read them. There is also a ghostlike appearance of Gafala floating around. Talking to him he admits that he can’t help me anymore and advises me to wait for the one correct moment to strike. Good advice, I hope? I also find a golden doorway to the north but check out the other exits first as I’ve gotten used to it.

Good thing I did that, too! Heading east lets me enter a brilliant green room with a beautiful fountain, and I can guess what this is for: cleansing the sword. This time it works: The sword gleams, I can feel the power surging within it, and the demon is moaning somewhere north. I take that to be a good sign.

Beyond the eerie room, there is a gigantic cavern stretching east and west. The odor is sickening. Going north again brings me to the gates of hell itself. That escalated quickly! When I look the demon turns up and slams me against the wall. I try to kill him with the sword but he helpfully advises me that I strike too soon and my magic is now gone, then proceeds to devour me. Another round? I can feel that we’re close, don’t you think?

By the way, I’ve figured out how Trizbort works!

This time I wait for another round, and the demon howls “Thank you for dropping in fool” [sic!]. Then he slams me into a small passage and laughs “Youve been duped..you cant kill me..” [sic!]. My body shakes with convulsions as the demon tries to crush me but I keep waiting, anxious that my attack may be premature again. Then he touches the sword and screams in pain – this seems like a good moment to slay the beast, right?

Will the unforgiving English teacher finally slay this abomination of punctuation errors?

Wrong. I strike too soon and break my magic. Once more with feeling. This time I will wait until the bitter end. After going all Darth Vader on me and offering to share his evil power, he helpfully tells me that I have missed my moment: “No hope now fool..” [sic!] I am eaten alive. “A horrible death”, says the game. I am tempted to call this “WON!” but I’ll give it another go. At least I get pretty good at speedrunning this game.

It’s a bit underwhelming but all I get is this message:

Talk about coitus interruptus. Time to compare the ports.

Ports Comparison: Curse of Crowley Manor

There are four ports from the original TRS-80 version of Curse of Crowley Manor. The Atari 400/800 version released in 1982 is largely the same game, only featuring coloured backgrounds. The inventory can be seen at all times; apart from that, the screen is separated into the visible items, the room description, the game’s title and the actual parser input, just like in the original version.

Atari: First Room

It’s a bit irritating that the background colour changes in (almost?) every room. Also, you cannot “GO CAB” to enter the taxi but have to “CLIMB CAB” which took me a wee minute to figure out. Some details are also changed, for example there’s a crystal chandelier in the dining room now. When something physical happens (e.g. the china cabinet falling over), the screen flickers for a short time. Most changes are changes of tone, however. Davonn now tells me that no man murdered his master and “now IT is loose.” The musty room is now a dingy room, the spirit (at the piano) now plays beautfiully. The rat now spins before dropping dead on the floor. The smelly pit is now a rancid pit. Interestingly, the game doesn’t let me drop the revolver after having disposed of the rat. “Not now”, it says, as if I still needed the weapon. The final message after the endgame is even starker than before: “You have won Crowley Manor.” Great! Can I keep it?

I wasn’t able to check out the port for the obscure NEC PC-6001. The TRS-80 CoCo version is the same game as the TRS-80 version, only uglier. I’ll spare you the horrible green background colour and the additional spelling mistakes and move on to the Apple ][ version. Now this one really made some changes. Sometime after the release of his first SaGa adventures, Scott Adams’s company also decided to give the OtherVentures a makeover. Norm(an) Sailer was hired in 1982 to add graphics to all the Jyym Pearson games, and this is the version that most people remember these days.

At first I notice the new instructions screen which is essentially an ad blurb. It also notifies me that I can toggle between text and hi-res mode by hitting the return key. Plus AI appears to have added the necessary save feature now. Maybe I should have played this version all along.

Now THAT’s what I call an office. (ahem)

Again, there are some changes in the descriptions. For example, the cab driver no longer informs you how much you have had to pay himself – it’s part of the narrator’s text now. Also, the old note is now an old yellowed note. The brown growth is not depicted but some of the corpses are. The difference between live Davonn and dead Davonn is now visible. My third playthrough makes me remember the door nailed shut in the kitchen. Could I have done something with it? I had all but forgotten about it. Thus I fiddle around with the hand axe for a bit but it doesn’t seem to work. CAPs for anyone who knows if it’s possible to achieve anything here. (Btw, what happens to the brown growth after I have vanquished the demon?! It would seem that an ever-growing creature is the even bigger threat!)

Inspector Strade! You’ll never solve this case by sleeping in cabinets!

All of the dark rooms are quite light but it was probably impossible to handle this in a different way. Only the large deserted room is virtually as sparse as it gets. Especially the ghost at the piano seems a bit silly. My overall impression is that the graphics don’t add to the atmosphere but rather detract from the well-written text. The original version is much better and it’s much easier to take it seriously as a horror adventure.

A cameo by Dizzy or the smokey remains of the demon?

Poking around at the later part of the game, I actually find a new exit from the crypt. I think this wasn’t there in the original version. It’s a rather silly location, too: “You are in the ‘dogfood bar & grill’ in El Paso, Texas….a truck driver has passed out with his face in a bowl of raunchy chili.” Looking reveals this to be an easter egg: “I think we have stumbled into the wrong adventure game.. we had better go back south.” Does anybody know which game this might be referring to?

The silliness prevails.

The glorious ending with the silver room, the brilliant green room, the ghostlike appearance of Gafala and the threatening rat is especially prone to silliness when graphics are added. Norman Sailer may have done a great job for the time but completely alters the atmosphere of Pearson’s original game. A dream team this is not.

My nemesis.

So that’s it – here are two more screenshots showing the demon and the final message. The endgame is actually separated into different pictures, one for each taunt the demon has to offer. This is a nice touch but the graphics are, again, rather silly. They even give you a hint at when you should attack it, as there is a point at which the graphics don’t change. It’s time to forget about these unworthy ports and give the original game a proper PISSED rating!

Sympathy for the demon

PISSED Rating

Puzzles & Solvability: Although this second OtherVenture was marketed towards “experienced adventurers”, I didn’t think it was particularly difficult. The absence of a save feature was irritating but not frustrating and LOOKing and LISTENing got me through most of the puzzles easily. The game is thus very short and a little bit easy even, and the puzzles are definitely not its strongest suit. However, I’m thankful for every early 1980’s game that doesn’t throw a calculator at me and refuses to let me out: 3.

Interface & Inventory: The natural point of comparison would be Scott Adams’s interface of around the same time and I have to say that I liked Pearson’s model better. The picture of the manor on the right is a nice if unnecessary touch but the separation between visible items and the room description makes a lot of sense in a game so dependent on its look and listen commands. The parser is very simple but Pearson strictly refuses to include any guesswork puzzles in spite of it which is highly commendable: 3.

Story & Setting: Yes, it’s very cliché but we’re talking about a 1981 work and an adventure game debut here. The descriptions are short but very evocative and I really liked the little “cutscenes” introducing the demon early, leaving lots of corpses in his wake. Of course this kind of plot tends to be a little illogical but that hardly matters if it’s done so comparably well. This game predates Deadline and does a better job than Mystery House. Joe gave that game three points in this department – I shall say 4, accordingly.

Sound & Graphics: No sound, no graphics. The Apple ][ version with graphics actually feels like a downgrade, though, so maybe that’s not a bad thing. One point for the cute picture of the manor: 1.

Environment & Atmosphere: Yes, it’s very cliché (see above) but it works surprisingly well! Jyym Pearson’s writing is never off and the frequent encounters with the demon really pull you in. The subplot concerning the good brother is a bit silly and doesn’t really tie in with the diary we find in the beginning but all things considered the game does a very good job here. If Mystery House earned 4 points in this category, this must be at least a 5.

Dialogue & Acting: Some minor dialogue, or rather monologue that adds substantial flavour to the game. Gafala’s lines are as silly as his backstory but Davonn, the musical ghost and the several books found around the manor definitely add to the story. I’d say that a modest 2 is in order here, again by comparison with the rating for Mystery House.

3 + 3 + 4 + 1 + 5 + 2 = 18 / 0.6 = 30 points. That seems very reasonable. As Curse of Crowley Manor is Jyym Pearson’s debut and a very innovative game for its time, I thought of adding a discretionary point, elevating it just slightly above Microworld. Also, only one point more than Mystery House (which I really dislike for a variety of reasons) just seems wrong. I’ll use the powers vested in me by the TAG board for the first time and use my discretionary point to elevate this to a final score of 31.

Next up will be Escape from Traam aka OtherVenture #3. I’m psyched to see how the Pearsons have handled the science-fiction setting!

Session time: 2.5 hrs Total time: 3 hrs

Med Systems Marathon Overview:

(a) 1980 Summary (b) Reality Ends (1980) (c) Rat’s Revenge / Deathmaze 5000 (1980) (d) Labyrinth (1980) (e) Asylum (1981) (f) Microworld (1981)

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/missed-classic-curse-of-crowley-manor-won-and-final-rating/

#retro games #dos games #retro #crpg #adventure #amiga #oldcomputers #8bit #16bit #blog #repost

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