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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years

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Summer Nights

Day 16, Story#1 is by @zurisenchantedquill

Title: Summer Nights

Author/Artist: zurimadison

Pairing: n/a

Prompt: Slice of life

Rating: General Audience

Trigger Warning(s) (if any): n/a

Shout out to @accio-broom for beta-ing!

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Summer nights at the Burrow, dear Reader, were a peaceful, happy affair.

Our story takes place on one such evening, when even the chill of the air couldn’t dampen the spirits of the young rapscallions who had taken to sneaking out of their beds, despite their mother’s best intentions.

It was a particular tradition of the Weasley children to enjoy evenings during the summer on the back porch of their abode. The Burrow was a colorful, at times chaotic affair, but it held a special magic after the sun sank beneath the horizon, for it was only at night, when they had no proper supervision at all, that the children of the house endeavored to get along.

The first to arrive on the evening of our story was the second eldest, by the name of Charlie. He was dressed for the cool summer weather, and popped the collar of his denim jacket as he relaxed in the porch swing. The rusty chains released gentle creaks while Charlie rocked, watching the last vestiges of the sun disappear beyond the rolling hills of their country home.

He was joined in short order by the eldest Weasley sibling, Bill, whose hair fell into his eyes, despite being pulled into a short ponytail at his neck.

“Want some?” He asked, brandishing a bottle of dark liquor.

Charlie accepted the subject in question with greedy resolution and took a swig, though he followed it with a grimace and a cough. Bill chortled, and re-took the bottle, drinking as he installed himself in the open seat of the porch swing.

“Wicked,” a newcomer said, disturbing the brotherly silence. This sibling was the fourth eldest of the brood, though by a mere matter of several minutes. His twin shared his eager grin as the two boys shut the back door quietly. Fred and George assumed seats, as though they’d been assigned to them, side by side on cut logs that served as stools near the stairs of the porch.

“Give us some, then,” George demanded, but Bill shook his head with a stern expression.

“Absolutely not. You’re only ten.”

Fred assumed an impression of a fish that had been pulled out of their family pond and left for too long on the wood of the dock. “You let Charlie have a bit!”

“Yeah, well,” the second eldest Weasley smirked. “I’m older, aren’t I?”

“You haven’t even started at Hogwarts,” Bill cut in, holding up a hand to quell his younger siblings’ indignation. “It’s not happening.”

“That's a whole year from now!” Fred exclaimed, and the voice of another newcomer interjected in the conversation.

“It's a disgusting drink. You’re not missing out on anything.” The appearance of the third eldest Weasley elicited mixed results from the four who were already assembled on the porch. While Bill smiled, gesturing for Percy to take his usual post on the wrought iron chair beside the porch swing, the other three exchanged eye-rolling glances.

“Wait,” George said, suspicious of a great injustice. “Does that mean you’ve tried it?”

“Well, of course,” Percy replied, pushing up his glasses and jutting out his jaw with pomp and circumstance. “To be frank, I didn’t care for it.”

This last opinion was ignored, however, as the twins stared at their eldest brother with looks indicative of ultimate betrayal. “He’s only two years older than us,” Fred hissed, jaw clenched.

“It was a quick sip.” Bill flapped a hand, waving away his brothers’ ire. “Just to taste. Come off it.”

“It’s alright, little bro,” Charlie said, ruffling George’s hair with affection. “Maybe next year.”

“I can’t believe this is your last summer at home, Bill,” Percy exclaimed, in a brazen attempt to change the subject and abate his younger brothers’ displeasure.

Bill drank a little more of the liquor as his eyes lit with mirth. “Getting all sappy on me, now?”

“Reckon it won’t be the same anymore,” Charlie mused, fiddling with one of the chain links near his hand. “Summer nights like these.”

Bill was saved the need to address such a sentiment by the appearance of the youngest Weasley brother. The child let the screen door slam with rather more force than his brothers would have preferred, and rubbed his bleary eyes. “What’re you all doing out here?”

“Hi Ronnie,” Bill said in a bright voice, and he hastened to stash his bottle of liquor behind the potted plant which grew beside his seat. “Why are you awake?”

“I heard voices,” Ron said, eyeing his brothers one by one. “I thought Mum said it was bedtime.”

“Oh, ickle Ronniekins,” Fred cooed, igniting his twin to snigger. “Only wittle babies have bedtimes as early as you.”

Ron clenched his small fists and stomped his foot with all the sincerity of a child scorned. “I am not a baby!”

“Oh yeah?” George asked, his expression one of such innocence that it immediately set his older siblings on high alert. “Prove it then; go jump in the pond.”

“George!” Percy admonished, adopting a tone of eerie similarity to his mother. “It’s too cold to swim at night, you know that.”

“Bill is of age,” Fred fired back, as though this solved their every problem. “He can dry him with magic.” He turned his mischievous attention back to the youngest brother. “What do you say, Ronnie? Are you a baby or not?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Charlie said sagely. “Unless he jumps in the pond first, you have nothing to prove.”

Bill, sensing the danger, hastened to add, “even if he does, jumping in freezing ponds proves nothing about age.” He eyed the twins' impish grins. “C’mere, Ronnie, you can hang with us for a while, if you want.”

Ron skirted around his most naughty brothers and settled onto the porch swing between Bill and Charlie, a delighted grin plastered upon his young face.

A slight disturbance beneath their feet alerted the brothers to the presence of another, and their imaginations raced to images ranging from small, home-dwelling critters to large, eight-legged monsters. The movements of the siblings ceased in one collective breath, all frozen so that they might listen with greater intensity. Charlie planted his feet so that the gentle creaking of the swing ceased, and they watched with mingled interest and tension as the bushes beside the porch steps began to rustle.

Thus it was that the subjects of our story were confronted with the most astonishing event so far in our tale. A small redheaded girl, all knees and elbows, burst out of the hedge with surprising speed and sprinted towards the pond at full tilt.

“LAST ONE IN THE WATER IS THE BIGGEST BABY OF THEM ALL!”

Six Weasley brothers looked around at each other for a fraction of a moment as six Weasley hearts jumped into six respective Weasley throats.

“Can she swim?” Bill asked, aghast at the idea even as he leapt to his feet.

Charlie was already bounding down the steps of the porch, kicking up dust on the path at the bottom. “I have no idea.”

“Let’s not find out,” Percy exclaimed, tripping over a stool in his great rush. “Ginny!”

The brothers were able to capture their sister in the end, and the siblings amused themselves with thrilling tales of long-lost memories as they passed away the remainder of the night, crowded together on the back porch of their home.

Days and months and years passed, both sluggish and lively, filled with events ranging from tragedy to jubilation to everything in between. It is pleasing to report, dear Reader, that no matter the time nor the distance apart, when the siblings were together, they were always able, in one way or another, to rekindle the magic of summer nights at the Burrow.

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #canon fest platonic #submission #weasley family #the weasleys

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blackswandancing · 3 years

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Snow Day Serenity

Summary: A rest day on a snowy planet gives you the opportunity to share a fun afternoon sledding with Din and Grogu as you try to figure out where your relationship with Din stands.

Pairing: Din Djarin (the Mandalorian) x gn!reader

Warnings: fluff (like sheer, shameless, I’m grinning-like-an-idiot-writing-this fluff), pining

Rating: T

Word count: 2.6K

After a few days of nearly non-stop travel, you and Din decide it’s time for a proper rest day. The Mandalorian finds a sparsely populated planet which should be far below the Empire’s radar. The name is unfamiliar and you’re not sure what to expect, but at this point, you’re too stir-crazy to care.

“Brace yourself, we’re coming through atmo,” Din tells you from the pilot’s seat. You sit behind him, holding Grogu in your lap as the ship descends from the darkness of space into a clear blue sky. When you catch a glimpse of the white hills sparkling below, you gasp in delight.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” you say, craning your neck for a better look.

“It’ll be too cold to be out long,” Din says, his tone apologetic, “but it seemed like our best option.”

“We’ll be fine if we bundle up, right, kiddo?” you ask Grogu, who peers up at you with his bright brown eyes and coos as though in response to your brimming excitement as you think of all the fun you can introduce him to.

Din finds a field nestled at the bottom of a hill, a spot he must consider strategically safe. As soon as the Razor Crest touches down, you leap out of your seat to find wrappings for yourself and Grogu.

“I hope these are comfortable,” you tell the child as you seat him on a crate and fit his feet into small felt boots you’d found in a market after crash landing on Maldo Kreis. Granted, he hadn’t seemed too bothered by the planet’s cold, but you had still worried. “You’re going to love the snow, Grogu. You’ll have a lot more fun with it here than we did last time. No spiders, only powder to play in. You can do all sorts of things with it. You can roll it into a snowperson, or make snowballs, or - ”

A wonderful idea comes to you just as Din descends from the cockpit, his boots thumping as he clears the lowest rungs of the ladder and swings to the floor.

“Din!” you exclaim. “Do you have anything around here that could double as a sled?”

Din’s visor locks with your eyes. “A sled?”

“Yeah! There’s a hill right by the ship. I think Grogu would get a kick out of it. You know how he loves speed and thrills.”

Din shakes his head a bit, and you coax, “Oh, come on. You know he’ll love it.”

“No, I’m sure he will,” Din says, and the amusement in his voice, evident even through the modulator, makes you realize you misinterpreted his previous gesture. “It’s a great idea. What sort of item do you think would work?”

“Maybe a spare tray or container,” you suggest as you shrug a coat over your clothes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Din says, climbing back up the ladder to check the storage area by the generator room. You watch him go, a stab of wistful longing piercing your enthusiasm. For some time now you’ve been secretly harboring feelings for Din, but you’ve worked to conceal them. While you know that Din views you as a close companion, neither of you have openly expressed romantic feelings. Din has made a few gestures which kindled your hopes that he perhaps returned your affections, but you weren’t sure if you were just projecting meaning onto his actions.

You pull on a pair of gloves and, plucking Grogu from his seat, lower the side access ramp. You have to squint at the scene before you as the sun reflects off the snow, and you wonder if Din’s visor protects his eyes from the glare.

Din had declared the coast was clear when the ship landed, and though you trust his assessment, out of an abundance of caution you carefully survey the area before venturing from the cargo hold. Sure enough, there’s nothing but plains of unblemished, glittering snow and clusters of swaying pine trees kissing the hillside. Grogu babbles his interest, tilting his head as he takes in the sights. You hop off the ramp, your boots sinking deep into the snow. The child might have some trouble navigating the deep powder, but that’s what you’re there for.

You set Grogu down and he squeals, immediately thrusting his hands into the snow and throwing a tiny fistful into the air.

“Look at that, you made it snow!” you cheer him on. You scoop up a handful and sprinkle it between the pair of you, causing Grogu to grab at the falling flakes. “It’s pretty, huh?”

Grogu waddles through the snow with no apparent objective, simply absorbing the beauty around him. You follow him, giving him a hand when necessary and ooh-ing over the snow he picks up to show you.

Din’s voice, crackling as it carries over the snow, steals your attention away from Grogu as he calls your name and asks, “Will this work?

You look back at the Razor Crest, where Din holds up a large tray for your inspection. “That’s great!”

You pick up Grogu as Din approaches and asks you, “Where do you want this?”

“Let’s take it to the top of the hill,” you say, taking a closer look at the tray and nodding in approval. “This should be perfect, it’s very sturdy. The bottom’s slick, too.”

The pair of you march up the hill. The sounds of snow crunching underfoot, Din’s armor clanking, and your breathing are the only disruptions to the serene silence blanketing the planet. It’s as though the galaxy has narrowed down to a contented little bubble with just the three of you. All the worries of everyday life slip away, leaving you to feel the full strength of your love for the man by your side and the child in your arms.

At the top of the hill, Din hands you the tray, and you set it in the snow. “Do you want to come with?” you ask Din, trying not to sound too hopeful as you situate yourself and Grogu on the tray. Sure enough, Din shakes his head.

“Looks like there’s not much room,” he says. You don’t argue, although privately you think he could squeeze on. You’re about to start scooching the tray down the hill when Din adds, “But I’ll give you two a push.”

Din lends down behind you, placing his hands low on your back and gently, but firmly, propels you and the tray forward with a few running steps. The tray zips away from Din and down the hill. Grogu begins squealing in delight, raising his tiny hands into the air. You lean back, trying to balance yourself as the tray whooshes along, and you find yourself completely lost in the nippy wind, glistening snow, and the child’s glee.

The tray holds up much longer than you’d expected and doesn’t lose steam until you’ve made it nearly to the bottom of the hill. “How was that, buddy?” you ask Grogu, who gives you a toothy grin, his wide eyes sparkling. You laugh and press a kiss to the top of his head before standing up.

As you begin to trek up the hill, Grogu in one arm and the tray tucked under the other, Din heads down toward you. You wonder if he thought you only wanted to sled down once, and you call to him, “Grogu loved that! We’re headed back up!”

“I know,” he calls back. “I’m just coming to help with the tray.”

You beam at that, although you assure him you’re having no problems managing both Grogu and the tray. However, that doesn’t stop him. He meets you down the hill and affectionately rubs Grogu on the head. “How’d you like that, you little womp rat?”

Grogu gives him the same toothy grin he gave you, and you hear Din’s smile as he asks, “And how’d you like it?”

“It was fantastic!” you exclaim as he takes the tray from you. “I haven’t been sledding since I was a kid, back on my home planet. My friends and I spent many happy days playing in the snow together.” You shake your head slightly, as though to ward off the nostalgia playing at your heart. “It was almost magical, really, how all of our cares disappeared once the snow started falling.”

“That sounds… very special,” Din says. His pace is slowed to match yours, and when you glance at him, the bright day reveals the outline of his jaw behind his tinted visor. “I’m glad you had that experience.”

“Did you ever go sledding as a child?” you ask. You used to worry about asking Din personal questions. He has always been so reticent, and you respect that. Yet you never want to deny him the option to share, especially when you care so much about his experiences. Over time, you learned both that Din would never share anything he didn’t want to and, for some reason, he opened up to you more than you would have expected.

“A few times,” Din replies. “It didn’t snow enough on the planet where I was born to sled, but it did on the first planet where I lived with the Mandalorians.” Din falls silent, and you’re about to reply when he continues. “I was excited about the snow. It was new, and I enjoyed playing with the other children. This was before the Great Purge, so the Tribe was more relaxed about letting its children wander in the open.”

The idea of a young Din playing with other foundlings warms your heart, and you want to know more. “Did you get up to any mischief when you played with them?”

Din cocks his helmet at you. “What makes you ask that?” The corners of your lips quirk up at the obviously-feigned innocence of his tone.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you say, pointing your finger at him. “I’m well acquainted with your understated, sassy quips, so I’m willing to bet you were a playful child.”

“That’s not a bad place to put your money.”

Once you get back to the top of the hill, Din tries to hand you the tray again, but you say, “If you’re just going to walk down after us, you might as well take the easy way down.”

Din hesitates, and you second-guess yourself, worried that you’ve made him uncomfortable. But Din surprises you when he shrugs and says, “We can give it a shot.” He lowers the sled and climbs onto it. He fits, but barely, his knees hiked way up as he adjusts his weapons. His visor doesn’t meet your gaze as he says, “You can - um, here, I’ll hold you in front of me, if that’s okay.”

You nod, your cheeks warm. You can’t tell if the butterflies in your stomach are fluttering from nerves or from joy. Probably a bit of both. You crouch beside him and, still carefully holding Grogu, clamber over one of Din’s legs. Din places a large, sturdy hand on your side for support as you sit between his bent knees.

“Hold on,” Din says, twisting around and pulling his cape over the front of his body. “The beskar’s pretty cold. This should help.”

“Thank you,” you say, your heart squeezing. You gingerly press yourself against the beskar, trying to make yourself as small as possible on the squished tray. Din passes Grogu to you and then adjusts his own position, wrapping a hand around your waist and pulling you closer to himself. It’s all you can do to resist the urge to completely melt into his embrace.

“Is that okay?” he asks, his helmet hovering just above your shoulder. You fail to fight off the shiver that runs down your spine, and hope that Din didn’t pick up on it, although you’re perfectly aware that he didn’t become the best bounty hunter in the galaxy for no reason.

“Yes.” Your voice is strained with the effort of concealing how the feeling of his broad chest snug against your back is making your heart dance wildly. Of course, that strain is revealing in itself, which only flusters you further. In an attempt to wave aside the implications of your bumbling behavior, you clear your throat and reach over one of Din’s thighs to push off in the snow, forcing yourself to cheer, “Let’s get this thing flying!”

You and Din paddle the tray along until it picks up momentum and glides down the hill. You whoop in excitement, readjusting your grip on Grogu as Din securely wraps his free arm around the both of you. The gesture nearly shocks you out of the moment, but Grogu’s uncontrollable giggling brings you back to your senses, prompting your own laughter - and Din’s. You’ve never heard him laugh before, and his modulated chuckles in your ear send your heart soaring faster than the speeding sled.

The ride comes to an abrupt halt as the sled hits a snag and jerks to the right. The three of you tumble off into a pile of tangled limbs, Din’s arm still locked around you and Grogu. His efforts aren’t enough to keep you from getting a faceful of snow, but this only causes you to laugh harder, even as your cheek numbs from the cold.

“Are you okay?” Din asks, effortlessly pulling you up with him as he gets to his feet.

“I’m fine,” you giggle. “I’m better than fine, actually. I think the same goes for Grogu.”

You managed to keep the kid out of the snow, and the ride’s rocky end only seems to have fueled his desire for another trip. Eager to indulge him, you bend down to retrieve the tray, scrubbing your face with your glove, although it’s already soaked and does nothing to dry your cheek. Din grasps your elbow, arresting your movement.

“Your face is going to freeze,” he says. “Would it be okay if I - uh - ” He grabs a handful of his cape, a part where the fabric is still dry. Caught off guard, you stammer some sort of affirmative, and Din steps close to you, dabbing the melted snowflakes from your cheek. You can feel the blood rushing to your face, the heat strong against your chilled skin, and you fear Din will notice. Yet, in a moment of boldness - in a moment of hope - you fix your gaze on Din’s visor as you savor his gentle touch guiding the rough material of his cape.

“There,” he says, dropping his hand - only for you to catch it.

“Thank you,” you say softly, giving his hand a squeeze. He wordlessly but earnestly returns the gesture, and your nerves dissolve.

His voice is uncharacteristically thick with emotion as he breathes, “Anything for you, cyar’ika.”

You haven’t heard the word before, although you assume it’s Mando’a. “What does that mean?”

“It means… I’ll always be here to care for you. If that’s what you want.”

Still clutching Din’s hand, you raise your own, untangling your fingers only to rest your glove against the metal cheek of his helmet. He places his hand over yours, completely covering it as your fingers stroke the beskar.

“There’s nothing I’d like more, Din.”

Grogu pats his father’s breastplate a few times, breaking the moment and causing the pair of you to look down at him. He chirps and looks at the top of the hill with longing.

“It looks like someone wants another ride,” you say fondly, rocking the child in your arm before looking at Din again. “What do you say?”

“Whatever you two want,” Din says, and, despite his earlier concerns about the cold beskar, he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself from leaning his forehead against yours in a feather-light touch. “I can’t resist either of you.”

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #fluff

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legolaslovely · 5 years

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Magic

A/N: Ahh, some nice fluffy/smutty Thorin for you, and there’s more where this came from that will be posted in the next few days. Don’t mind me, I’m going straight to hell. The attached picture, I found on Pinterest, from @ the-hobbit ‘s wonderful page.

Pairing: Thorin x Reader

Word Count: 2,098

Warnings: smutttttttt

Summary: Based on this imagine from thereandbackagainimagines, “Thorin teaches you to play the harp with your back pressed to his chest.”

The company trudged up the hill in twos, carrying their heavy packs on their shoulders. You were in the front with Thorin, Kili and Fili. You knew your leader took pity on you and kept you toward the front of the group so the musky, sweaty dwarf scents would follow and flow far behind you. You liked leading, you were always the first to see the action. You mostly kept your mouth shut though, Thorin wasn’t fond of lively conversation on the road.

As you rounded a turn, excitement bubbled in the group.

“Is that a pub?” Ori asked.

“Aye, that’s a pub if I ever saw one,” Bofur answered. “And it has an inn.”

“More like an inn that has a pub,” Balin said.

You glanced at Thorin and saw him roll his eyes. You chuckled. “We could stay the night. We won’t be going much further tonight anyway,” you said.

His answer was his usual, only a grunt.

“Imagine sleeping on a bed instead of on the ground,” Fili muttered behind you.

“After having our fill of ale,” Kili said. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

As you neared the inn, you saw through the fogged windows that though the pub was filled with patrons, there were very few lighted chambers in the inn above. “There should be enough rooms for all of us,” you said, quietly for only Thorin to hear.

He looked at you and sighed. “We’ll stay the night.” He continued, but you couldn’t hear him over the cheers of the company. “We leave at first light!” he yelled. The shouts of excitement didn’t dim and you saw a small smile beneath his thick beard.

Once the rooms and services were purchased, you rushed upstairs into your room to take the longest and most satisfying bath you had ever taken. It had been weeks since you washed in anything but a freezing stream and you reveled in the steaming water and the sweet scents of the soaps you were offered. You laid your head back over the side and dreamed of returning home after your duties to the company were fulfilled.

You chuckled to yourself as you heard the voices of the dwarfs mixed with those of strangers wafting up from the pub downstairs. They were thrilled to relax with some ale, and you thought it was well deserved. You could hear Fili and Kili having a drinking contest and from the sound of the cheers, Fili was winning. Future King indeed, you thought.

Your clothing was brought to you once it was fresh and cleaned. You tucked yourself into bed under thick, wool and fur blankets, but after your nap in the tub, you now found yourself wide awake. You lie there, staring at the low ceiling and listening to the voices in the pub die down and then become silent. After a while more, you heard soft music.

You slid off the bed and opened the door of your room just enough to peek your head out. All the lights in the corridor and stairwell had been snuffed out. The pub seemed to be closed for the night and everyone was supposed to be off sleeping in their beds. Who is playing music at this hour?

You silently descended the steps and froze when you saw the pub completely empty except for Thorin. His coats and layers had been discarded long ago, sloppily hung over one of the chairs, and he was left in only his tunic and trousers. The light from a single candle sent him aglow behind a large harp. It was his music you had heard.

You sat on the bottom step, out of sight and listened to him play. The music flowed from the harp and to your ears like steady waves of water rolling onto the shore. His fingers caressed the strings with such speed and ease that you wouldn’t believe he was even playing if not for the beautiful music filling the room. You smiled to yourself, noticing his closed eyes and hearing his low, smooth voice humming his sweet song. For the first time since you had met him, Thorin actually looked at peace.

His fingers slowed to a stop and you heard his deep breath in the silence. “Hiding, are you?” he said, turning to you in the dark corner.

“No, not hiding. I didn’t want to disturb you.” You rose and made your way across the room to him, dodging the empty tables. “I didn’t know you could play so beautifully.”

He set the harp upright and leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. “I play some,” he said.

You shook your head, stepping up onto the small stage. “More than some. Your music is lovely.”

He hummed and watched your delicate fingers slide over the wooden arch of the large harp. “I’ve always wanted to play, but it seems such an impossible instrument to learn.”

“Not impossible. Come, I’ll show you.”

Your lashes fluttered wildly in surprise at his offer. “Oh, no, it’s alright. It’s far beyond my-”

“I’m not able to make you an expert in a night, but I can teach you some. Sit,” he said, scooting back on the bench, leaving a small place for you in front of him.

Your gaze fell to watch each step you took toward him. You sat lightly, barely touching your back to his chest. Then, his fingers brushed your hair from your shoulder, down your back and you forced yourself to suppress your shiver. His reached around you and pulled the harp to rest on your shoulder. “It looks much heavier than it is,” he said.

You nodded and watched his fingers pluck the strings and sound out a scale. “Start here,” he said. You tilted your head to see more clearly, but quickly returned straight when you felt your cheek brush against his. “Don’t go by sight. Go by feeling,” he said. His fingers laced in yours and led you to the strings.

His arms were tight at your side now and you felt his breath on your neck with each of his words. You willed your heart to calm down, sure he could feel it’s thrashing with how close he held you.

His fingers glided against yours, encouraging you to pluck the strings. “Go ahead,” he said. His voice was more tender than you had ever heard it before and it relaxed you. Both of your thumbs pulled at the strings, making them vibrate and sound. “Good. You’re a natural.”

You breathed out a laugh at Thorin’s praise.

He showed you more strings, scales, and chords, and you slowly learned to use three of your fingers to make the harp sound. Though you were proud of yourself, you wanted to hear more if his music. You turned in Thorin’s arms and asked, “Will you play more?”

He smiled. “If you wish.”

You started to leave your seat between his legs, but he held your waist in place. “Don’t leave.” He pulled you flush against him and again, wrapped his arms around you to reach the harp. His fingers brought lovely music from the instrument and he hummed his deep melody in your ear. You leaned back against his chest and closed your eyes, ready to listen to him play until morning.

His music ceased and he set the harp upright. You spun around to him on the bench and saw the peace in his face. “You are very talented.” You took his hand, mindlessly fiddling with it. “Your fingers can perform such magic.”

He lifted his hand from your grasp and gently gripped your chin. He leaned to you and kissed your lips with tenderness you didn’t know he possessed. When you parted, his fingers lingered on your cheek and slid down your neck. “My fingers can perform other kinds of magic as well.”

Something in his face had shifted. The gentle peace in his features was gone, replaced with adoration and desire.

You stood, placing a finger on his lips when he tried to protest. You turned to him fully and sank back down onto his lap, straddling him. “I want more than your fingers,” you whispered in his ear.

You blindly found the bottom of your tunic as you stared into his eyes, the contact only breaking when you lifted the fabric over your head. His hands gripped your waist, his skin hot against yours as he pulled you in for another kiss. His tongue tackled yours, completely silencing any arguments and you hummed in amusement, happy to feel him taking control over you.

You yanked his tunic away and tangled the tips of your fingers in the dark curls on his chest as his kisses claimed your jaw, neck and chest. He growled and bit at your breasts, soothing the nips with his hot tongue and clever lips. You leaned your head back and moaned as he reached around you and wrapped your hair in his fist.

He lifted you from his lap, standing you between his knees. As he pleasured your sweet, rosy nipples, he pulled at the laces in your trousers and soon made them disappear. The short bench was now working to your favor, giving him the perfect angle to pleasure you where you needed him most.

He lifted your knee and set your foot steady on his thigh as his cunning tongue slipped between your dripping folds. You heard him chuckle. “All this from learning to play the harp?”

“You knew what you were doing,” you said, sending him a playful glare.

He dove back into your thighs, nipping and licking the skin only inches away from your neediest places. “Thorin,” you growled, watching him grin wickedly against your skin.

His magic fingers plunged deep into you without warning. You gasped out and whined, bucking your hips toward his working tongue. He flicked and sucked at your clit deliciously and skillfully while the tips of his fingers found that perfect pleasure point deep inside your walls.

He held you as you whimpered and started to shake, groaning himself a few times at the sight of your reactions to his ministrations. You held your breath as your climax detonated, seeing stars in the black lids of your tightly closed eyes.

After you had ridden out your high, you collapsed onto his naked lap, cupping his jaw and kissing him deeply. You rocked your hips back and forth on him, coating his hardness with your slick. You felt his rough grip on your hips and bit his lip in warning, making him moan loudly.

“I need you now,” he growled.

“Are you really giving me an order right now?” you asked.

“Yes,” he said against your lips.

You reached between you and took him in your hands, feeling your own juices on his smooth skin. You squeezed and rubbed him, sliding your thumb over the velvet head and gently fingering his slit. His forehead fell to your shoulder and he let out a load groan. You kissed his cheek and said, “See? I have magic fingers too.”

“I want more than your fingers, my dear,” he said.

You laughed and pulled his lips to yours as you allowed him inside you. He moaned against you as you took all of him in one thrust of your hips. You rode him slowly until you could see his utter agony. Then you bounced on him, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing through the empty pub.

Your mixed moans now made the music. He worshiped you, kissed you, and caressed you as you brought both of you to your steep heights. You were sure he was close as his heavy breathing only grew faster and his mouth hung open in pure pleasure. You gave him one last kiss before pushing him down to lay on the bench and steadying yourself on his chest. His member hit a new fantastic angle within you, quickly bringing you to a second climax.

Your walls squeezed him tightly and it took all your strength to continue your hips’ movements, taking him in and out. In seconds, he tensed beneath you and moaned out your name with deep growls and grunts. He emptied himself inside you, lacing his fingers in yours and gripping them tightly.

You collapsed onto him once more, resting your head on his chest and his strong arms closed firmly around you. His fingertips drew patterns on your exposed skin. “You’re right,” he said, kissing your forehead.

“What?”

“You are the magic one.”

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fhimechan · 5 years

Text

Merman AU - April

This is the 12th chapter of my AU where Hannibal is a merman and Will is a human, started because of @brokenfannibal and @my-soul-and-perfume :) I’m also tentatively tagging @bonesandscales and @limonium-anemos, who are under no obligation to read :D

Tumblr is still formatting my posts as it wants so please forgive me if something’s amiss. Another warning is that I didn’t ask anyone to beta, and since this month is long, I didn’t check preposition by preposition as usual… Keep reading with kindness 😅

[Prologue] [June] [July] [August] [September] [October] [November] [December] [January] [February] [March]

Jenny comes to pick him up in his house in a small van with the shop’s logo. She waves cheerfully from the car, but when Will hops in she frowns. “What did he do now?”

Will was sure he had been able to dissimulate his emotions when he was a cop. But maybe, and he blinks at the realization, he didn’t have friends. And he’s about to put his friend in danger, involving her into his not-yet-planned rescue.

He sighs. Instead of answering, he says, “If you take me there, I’ll get you in trouble.

Jenny takes a hard, long look at his face. She nods. “I’ll do it. Anything you need to know?”

Will swallows around the lump in his throat. He will repay her, take the blame. Maybe pretend he forced her, if worst comes to worst.

“What are we carrying?”

She starts the engine, and adamantly refuses not to smile. “Some sort of fancy underwater recording device. Looks like a huge mic. George takes mermaids seriously.” She winks.

Will thinks. They’re bringing Hannibal a mic. Sounds promising.“Oh, a plan is coming, I see it in your eyes. Do I have a role in it?”

Will blinks. He should really try to hide his emotions better, but at the same time being read like that is weirdly reassuring.

“Would you pretend to faint in front of George?” The familiar name is weird on his tongue.

She considers it. “Okay. I suppose it must be bad enough that he has to carry me home, to my meds? Possibly I should cling to him so it doesn’t occur to him to send you?” Her expression is very incongruous with the seriousness of the situation. “What? Don’t you think I had an emergency strategy to get out of school early?”

Will snorts in spite of the worry.

The house is visible from the road, suspended at the top of the cliff in the twilight light. It’s dark and imposing, straight out of a fairytale, or a nightmare. It’s currently empty, a cursed home calling for his lost tenants.

Then, as they come closer, the lights lit, and Will is back to the here and now.

They must have already transferred Hannibal inside.

There’s only George’s car outside, which is good. The captors must have come by boat. George himself opens the door. When Will says “Jenny…”, worrying his shirt and breathing heavily, George is out and running to the car before Will could even finish his sentence. He knows he should feel ashamed at his act, but the guilt is nowhere to be found as George gives him vague indications about where to leave the equipment and speeds down the hill.

Will blocks the gate with the van, so that George, or anyone else, won’t have an easy access to the house, then heads inside with the box containing the microphone.

The house is completely silent apart from some distant voices. Will follows them to a room where three people are fussing with some sort of equipment. Will thinks he remembers two of them from the cruise.

Beside them there’s a stunning tank, which covers the entire wall of the room, dominating the assorted soft sofas and small tables currently covered in cables and assorted instruments. The tank is lit from inside, and the small spotlights shine over a number of colorful fishes.

In the furthest corner of the tank, there’s Hannibal. Will didn’t see him at first glance because he’s curled on himself, impassive. His rigid stance screams of fear.

Will realizes he has frozen in place and steps over the threshold, towards Hannibal, forcing himself not to fret or to look anything but surprised. Not angry, not nervous, not worried.

As soon as he enters the room, Hannibal’s eyes snaps to Will, and he straightens. Will ignores how the other people turn to him, because the burning red in Hannibal’s eyes is unfocused, and his emotions, usually hidden under the surface, are bare. Hannibal is burning with fury.

“Oh, the mic! Thank goodness!”

Someone takes the box from his hands, as Will’s anger builds. He has expected to find Hannibal drugged, because how else Hannibal would have ended up trapped? But even if rationally it makes sense, it’s still infuriating.

And they have him only because he saved me, Will thinks.

He fakes a charming smile. “Why! Was it real then? A merman?”

The three people start to talk at the same time, too excited to pay attention to what Will is doing. He advances towards the tank, giving his back to the rest of the room.

“After a month of searching, we found him during our surprise visit…”

“What a surprise, indeed!”

“Can’t believe our luck!”

Will is tempted to smash the glass and let the water flood the room. Hannibal would attack them and they would pay for taking him away.

Hannibal smiles slowly at him, pleased, ready to lunge.

Instead, Will signs, “I’ll take you out.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow.

Apparently, the microphone is expensive enough to be assembled in record time, because one of the men, still chatting, pushes a ladder to Will’s left. He climbs to a small panel above the water, where he can enter the long arm of the mic into the tank.

“Finally we can discover if it’s sentient.”

Hannibal’s eyes widens when recognizes the device. Calculating. Cold. The drug isn’t slowing him down; if anything, it’s bringing out his instinct.

Hannibal is in the water. He could order them to do anything. He could tell the men to kill each other with the cutter they have used to open the box, or maybe with their bare hands. He could tell Will to kill them.

Will feels a thrill of anticipation at the though.

Plausible deniability. A kill outside of his control. The satisfaction, without the guilt.

Will could show the knife to Hannibal and let the events unfold, following his urge to kill whoever tried to separate them; or he could tell the man to stop, not to lower the mic, giving away his chance of breaking him free and stopping Hannibal’s murders forever.

What he does instead is a leap of faith. Because he wants Hannibal, and he doesn’t want to kill innocents, and he must at least try to have both. He signs at Hannibal. “Please. Don’t. I just want to stay with you.”

I don’t want to live with the guilt every day for the rest of my life.

The mic splashes into the water. Hannibal swims closer, looks at Will.

“Please.”

Hannibal’s eyes still burn, but part of it belongs to Will. He speaks.

“Will, if you may, cover your ears for a moment.”

Will does. Hannibal’s mouth moves, and the men blink, confused, then their eyes unfocus and they lie down on the floor, staring unmoving at the ceiling.

Will’s legs fold under him. He smiles.

“You…”

Hannibal looks annoyed. Yeah, well, he just didn’t kill three people, must be exhausting after a lifetime of violence. Will giggles. He suspects it’s a bit hysterical.

Hannibal frowns. “Stop being silly and let me out.”

His voice is warm and low, and Will loves how it comforts him. Will is still smiling as the orders kick in, and the smile widens when Hannibal flinches. The order was accidental. Oh, well, Hannibal’s drugged, he can’t be perfect.

Will has to stop moving, in spite of the order, because he doesn’t know what to do.

He giggles again. “How did you get in there?”

Hannibal growls in frustration, and it shouldn’t be that funny. “I don’t know. You’re the human, do something!”

The order kicks in again, and Will laughs aloud. “I’m doing something, Hannibal. Breathing.”

Before Hannibal loses his last shred of patience, Will looks around. After a small search, he finds it. Hidden under a wood panel, there’s a smaller tank which can be attached and detached from the main one through a watertight seal.

The seal is currently open, so Hannibal hops in, somewhat uncoordinated, and glares at Will, daring him to joke over it. Hannibal is out of the reach of the mic now.

Operating the controls of the seal isn’t difficult, but it isn’t easy either. Will sobers up, starting to worry. How much time has passed? Surely at least half an hour. How much time left do they have?

Hannibal is sitting on the bottom of his small tank, simply watching Will as he fumbles to get the container moving. The tank can move directly into the internal elevator and down the cliff, or at least it could if Will managed to pull the right lever.

Finally, the engine buzzes to life and the tank slips sideway, on its way to the elevator. Will smiles and turns to Hannibal.

He has less than a second to register how Hannibal’s eyes are wide and savage and how he is pressing his body against the glass, before two arms are choking him from behind.

Will kicks, enough to conquer a mouthful of air, but the arms strengthen around him.

“What did you do?”

George’s voice is almost unrecognizable for the rage. Will understands it. Discovering Jenny is lying, walking into his house, his friends on the floor, Will stealing his his prize. He knows how he looks like. George is strong, and Will’s arms grow more and more uncoordinated, as his blows don’t seem to obtain any result. He wants to apologize to Hannibal.

Something crashes, loud enough that Will hears it over the pounding of his ears. The seam of his trouser is splashed and pierced by small shreds of glass, and he can breath.

He falls to the floor, coughing, clutching his throat, and sees Hannibal. He’s lying in a puddle in the floor, wrestling with George on the ground, teeth bared, about to rip George’s throat off.

Will doesn’t think, and lunges.

He rolls with Hannibal in a mess of wet carpet and splinters, narrowly avoiding to impale his eye in a bigger shred of glass, Hannibal’s sharp teeth scratching his shoulder. He is remotely aware of some steps fading away, when Hannibal bites deeper and the skin breaks. Will stops struggling. He tilts his chin down and sideways to look at Hannibal.

Red splattered on his face, unfocused red on his eyes. Dangerous. Free. Alive.

Will feels alive, too.

Will smiles down at him, and says, “Thank you.”

Hannibal blinks and stares.

Then his teeth retracts, and at first Will thinks it’s Hannibal moving away, but immediately after Hannibal coughts, and his whole body trembles, and suddenly Will, scared out of his mind, is sitting with Hannibal on his lap, watching him twitch without the faintest idea of what to do. Hannibal’s tale splits into two legs, his skin loses the green undertone. Will doesn’t care, focusing on Hannibal’s ragged breathing, willing him to be okay. He holds Hannibal as he changes, until his breath are regular and there’s a man in Will’s lap.

A man, Hannibal, who doesn’t leave Will any time to process the event before flinging himself outside of the door, as if called by a distant voice.

Will can only raise and run after him.

Outside, the sea is screaming in the otherwise quiet night. The moon lits the angry waves, letting Will see the outline of each single drop, even if between him and the water there’s a fucking long dive.

Hannibal stands at the edge of the cliff, staring at a single boat who’s running away in the distance. His whole body is tense, ready to jump.

The pendulum swings, and Will sees Hannibal as a kid, centuries before, on that same cliff, watching his sister’s killers escape, summoning the power to chase them. The past and the present overlaps perfectly.

Will’s heart breaks. Hannibal’s going to leave him, picking once again revenge over humanity.

Will reaches out. “Hannibal…”

Hannibal turns, his eyes dart from the ship to Will and back to the ship again. George is running away and soon he’ll be out of sight. There’s only a tiny, small shred of doubt in Hannibal, and Will doesn’t know how to reach him. He wants to say that George won’t be believed, not without a merman. Not without witnesses. He won’t be believed when the police will discover his friends are alive and passed out on the floor.

That won’t get through Hannibal’s unfocused eyes.

So Will extends his hand, a silent plea, like he did the first time Hannibal came to him. Will knows that this is the moment. If Hannibal reaches back for him now, they’ll be together forever. If he doesn’t… It hurts to even think about it.

The first time Hannibal has reached out, he has been curious. Will can only hope now he’s committed.

Hannibal stares at the hand without blinking, and his eyes clear.

Then, a step forward, away from the edge. And another. And another.

Their hands touch again, and Hannibal is still cold as the ocean, inevitably breaking through Will’s barriers to his core.

Will doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he grips the hands harder, then he clings.

Hannibal whispers into his ear. “Yes, I’m taking you home.”

——

[Epilogue]

This is the end of the main story, next month there’ll be an epilogue… and then it’ll be done! Thank you for reading! ♥

#merman au #fanfic #my fic #hannibal #criticism welcome

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babyboy-bts · 5 years

Text

Little BTS: Winter Activities

Jin: You pulled the freshly baked cookies out of the oven, setting them on top of the stove to cool.

“Are they ready to decorate?” Jin asked, standing from his spot at the table and coming toward you.

“Not quite, Sweetie. They have to cool first, or else the icing will melt off,” you explained.

“Oh okay. I’ll help them,” Jin stated, before he began blowing on the cookies himself.

“Cutie,” you grinned, kissing his cheek, “how about we make the icing while we wait for them to cool”

“Okay, Mommy,” he replied, following you towards where the stand mixer was. Retrieving powder sugar, milk, and the other ingredients from around the kitchen, you set them all on the counter before looking back at the recipe. You measure out a cup of powder sugar before handing it to the little to pour in. Continuing, you move onto the milk, repeating the same process of you measuring and Jin pouring until all the ingredients are in the bowl. You then turned on the mixer, Jin peeking into the bowl as the icing gradually began to form. Once the mixture was a smooth texture, you separated the icing into several different bowls and allow Jin to choose which food coloring to go into which. Soon, all the colors were created, and you and Jin brought the bowls to the kitchen table, where an assortment of sprinkles had already been laid out. While Jin situated himself in his chair, planning which cookie he was going to decorate first, you picked up the now cooled cookie sheets from the stove and placed them on the table. Immediately, the little picked up a gingerbread man and started adding black icing at the top of his head. After he had added a face along with blue pants and a green sweater, he began on a gingerbread lady. He added icing features that reassembled you. Once he was finished, he placed them side by side and tugged on your sweater.

“It’s me and you,” he pointed, smiling up at you.

“Wow, Sweetie, those are so good. Mommy is so proud of her baby boy,” you replied, running a hand through his hair.

“Silly Mommy, I’m a big boy,” Jin giggled, picking up a Christmas tree to decorate next.

Yoongi: When Yoongi woke up to find that it was snowing, a squeal left his mouth, waking you up. You watched as he crawled out of bed, steadying himself, before waddling over to the large window in your bedroom. He pressed his face against the glass, watching as the snowflakes fell onto the ground. Assuming he wanted to go play in the snow, you changed him out of his onesie into a blue snowsuit covered in dinosaurs and mittens and dressed yourself in a pair a pair of fleece leggings, a sweater, a coat, and a pair of boots. Once you both were all bundled up, you carried him downstairs, deciding to have breakfast once you returned, and opened the front door. Yoongi scrunched his nose in disapproval when the cold wind hit his face, but he remained silent, fascinated by the falling flakes. Unfortunately, as soon as you placed him on the ground in order to play with the snow, he let out a whine from the feeling of the cold on his bum and the wetness coming through his mittens.

“Up,” he whimpered, reaching his hands out to you. You quickly picked the little up, and he buried his frozen nose into your neck. “Inside,” he requested. You carried him inside where you both changed back into pajamas. Walking into the living room, you placed Yoongi on the couch where he could watch the snow while you fixed breakfast. For breakfast, you decided to fix snowman shaped pancakes. Once they were finished, you went to retrieve Yoongi, who was still leaning against the back of the couch, watching the snow fall.

“Breakfast is ready, Sweetie,” you informed, but the little remained in place. In the end, you had to bring the pancakes into the living room and feed him while he continued to watch the snow.

Hoseok: A few weeks ago, you had found an ugly Christmas sweater kit online and decided to order one for each yourself and Hoseok to do. Thus, when the package arrived the day that Hoseok had off, you decided it would be the perfect activity to keep the little entertained. Currently, you both a sitting on the floor of the living room, newspaper spread out on the ground to prevent the wood from getting covered in glue. Hoseok was tugging with all his might at the tape keeping the box shut, but he eventually gave up and handed it to you, who used a pair of scissors to slice the tape.

“Thank you, Mommy,” the little replied, removing all of the pieces from his kit. Picking up a piece of white felt, he folded the material into eights before picking up his pair of child scissors and cutting out a snowflake. He proceeded to do this again, but this one, he handed to you. “So, me and Mommy can match,” he explained smiling.

“Thank you, Sweetie,” you grinned back, beginning to spread glue onto the back of the snowflake before pressing it onto the front of your sweater. Next, Hoseok found the bag of assorted tinsel garland. Taking the green colored tinsel, he measured it along the length of the neckline and cut it to size. Once the little had finished decorating, his sweater was covered with everything pertaining to Christmas. There were little reindeer decals around the bottom, and a foam Christmas tree on his right sleeve, as well as an assortment of jingle bells he had requested that you sew on. For the rest of the day, Hoseok wore his ugly Christmas sweater, constantly bouncing up and down in order to make the jiggle bells ring.

Namjoon: Wearing his reindeer onesie and his matching bib, Namjoon was curled up in your lap. You had previously prepared him some hot chocolate in a bottle and set up the television to play Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Now, all that was left to do was hit play. As the opening music began playing, you placed the nipple of the bottle to the little’s lips, and he began sucking on it instinctively, contently sighing as the sweet, warm liquid entered his mouth. While he drank the hot chocolate, his eyes focused on the scene playing on the television.

“Look, Baby, it’s you,” you said, referring to how the little was dressed like the reindeer on screen. The little began giggling, and you removed the bottle from his mouth, wiping the dribble from his chin with his bib. After Namjoon had finished his fit of laughter, he reached out lightly for the the bottle, and you placed it back in his mouth. Soon enough, the bottle was empty. You placed Namjoon on your lap so that his head was over your shoulder and patted his back gently until he let out a small burp. Then, you turned him back around in order that he might watch the rest of the movie. Although he did not necessarily understand the storyline, he was still entertained by the movement of the characters. As he slumped in your lap, you lightly rubbed his tummy and rocked him gently. It was moments like this that always made you appreciate your sweet baby boy.

Jimin: You had bundled Jimin up in multiple layers of coats and jackets as well as hats, mittens, and boots. Tonight, you both had agreed to walk around your neighborhood to observe the Christmas lights. Jimin was talking excitedly about all the different decorations he was hoping to see and about how he really hoped someone had twinkle lights. Taking Jimin’s covered hand in yours, you led the little out the front door.

“Now, since it’s dark out, you need to hold Mommy’s hand at all times,” you reminded, leading him down the driveway toward the sidewalk. Luckily, there seemed to be very few people outside, probably due to the fact that it was below freezing. This meant that Jimin could squeal and fawn over the decorations as much as he wanted to without judgment. Walking up to the first house, Jimin’s eyes sparkled seeing the colorful lights and giant inflatables in the yard.

“I want a plushie that’s that big,” the little exclaimed, pointing at the huge polar bear inflatable.

“But then it would be too big to come inside and would have to stay outside where it’s cold,” you explained, brushing the little’s bangs out of his face.

“It’s a polar bear, and polar bears like the cold so it would be okay,” he reassured, smiling at you, “and if he does get cold, I’ll share my blanket with him.” Instead of responding, you just grinned and kissed his forehead. Maybe next year, you’ll get an inflatable for your own house to surprise Jimin. You both continued walking down the street, looking at all the decorated houses. In front of the especially beautiful ones, Jimin insisted that you take his photo with the decor. After about an hour, Jimin started to whine that he was getting tired.

“Can Mommy carry me home?” he asked, reaching his arms around your neck. Knowing that you couldn’t carry Jimin all that way, you decide to make a deal.

“If you can make it all the way back to our street, Mommy will carry you home and rub you a warm bath with lots of bubbles,” you wagered. Seeming like a fair deal, Jimin agreed and began on his journey back to the house.

Taehyung: The little ran up the hill behind your house, sled in hand. It had snowed almost a foot the night before, and when Taehyung became aware of this fact, he insisted on going outside and playing. He was currently wrapped in fleece lined pants, two thermals, a coat, and a pair of boots. Ear muffs were draped over his head, and a pair of fox mittens covered his hands. You followed behind him up the hill, dressed in similar attire, to make sure that he did not fall. Once he made it to the top, Tae set the sled on the edge of the bank and waited for you to reach him. Although the little loved the speed and thrill of sledding, he was scared to do it alone. You sat yourself down on the sled first, allowing Taehyung to settle on your lap before tipping the sled over the edge. As you sped down the hill, giggles erupted from the little’s mouth. His hands gripped the handles, and your hands were place on top of his. As you neared the end of the slope, Taehyung squealed as snow was flung up onto his lap.

“Again, again,” the little insisted, jumping up once the sled had come to a stop. Both of you scrambled up the hill again, sliding down once more. This process was repeated over and over, until Taehyung was out of energy. Taking the little back inside, you removed his now wet clothing before dressing him in his flannel 2-piece pajamas and placing him in bed. You read him “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” while he slowly drifted to sleep for his nap.

Jungkook: Running around your yard, Jungkook gathered up snow in his gloved hands, forming a ball. As he saw you peek out from behind the side of the house, he sprinted over before throwing the snowball at your chest.

“Got you,” he exclaimed, retreating to the snowfort he had built earlier. Gathering up your own snowball, you stealthily sneaked around to the other side of the house where you would be behind Jungkook’s wall. Once you had the little, who was facing the other way, in your sight, you threw the ball hitting him in the back. The little let out a surprised yelp before spinning around. “Not fair,” he whined before running after you, a pre-made snowball in his hand. As he rounded the corner, however, he slipped on a bit of ice on the sidewalk and fell on his bum. Immediately, the little broke out into cries, wailing loudly. Rushing over, you quickly scooped Jungkook into your lap and cuddled him close.

“Sh, Baby, it’s okay. Mommy’s right here,” you cooed. “You’re fine. You’re just a bit startled,” you continued, rubbing his back gently. You picked the still crying little into your arms and carried him back inside. Setting him in one of the dining room chairs, you began making hot chocolate and placing sugar cookies on a Mickey Mouse plate. When you returned with the snack, Jungkook had quieted down and was just sniffling.

“Is my baby boy hungry?” you asked, setting the plate and sippy cup on the table. Jungkook nodded, taking the sugar cookie in his hand and nibbling on the corner.

“Thank you, Mommy. Kookie loves you,” the little said, puckering his lips for a kiss.

“Mommy loves you too, Baby,” you smiled, lightly placing your lips on his.

#bts cgl #bts little space #bts reactions #baby boy namjoon #baby boy yoongi #baby boy taehyung #baby boy jungkook #baby boy hoseok #baby boy jin #baby boy jimin #park jimin #jungkook #hoseok #namjoon #jin #min yoongi #taehyung

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noodles-send-n00ds · 6 years

Text

fallen - jonah marais ft. zach herron

pairings: gender neutral!reader x jonah, gender neutral!reader x bestie!zach

warning: there’s a curse word at the bottom

requested by anon: can you do an imagine where zach and his best friend, who is abused, reunite and she ends up falling for jonah

summary: y/n goes to visit zach, their best friend, for a whole summer. y/n didn’t expect to fall for someone so quickly.

a/n: so i didn’t really want to include the abused part and i honestly don’t really have an explanation. but i hope you still enjoy it nonetheless.

not my gif

***

before zach became big and famous, you and zach were attached at the hip. growing up next to each other made it easy for you two to see other and practically spend almost every minute of the day together.

but since he moved away things changed.

you two still kept in contact, of course, but it was different without zach. you entered your junior year alone and with only a couple of friends. they were good friends of yours but nothing was the same without zach.

you two would talk all of lunch and laugh at some stupid things one person said that day or groan over your next big test. you would even manage to text each other from different classes, one of you almost always getting their phone taken away. zach would pass you funny pick up lines and you would always roll your eyes but make some up and send them back.

when he invited you to spend the summer in l.a with him and the boy’s, you were thrilled. you would get to see him for the first time in a little less than a year. you immediately started packing for the couple months you would spend there.

“whoa, why are you packing?” your younger sister asked you.

“i’m going to l.a to be with zach!” you practically screamed into her ear.

“jesus, shut up,” she walked away into her room, going on her phone.

you ignored her and continued to pack practically everything you owned, excitement pumping through your veins. you knew that your mom would be down for it since she loved the herron’s and knew zach would take great care of you l.a.

***

you landed in lax, speed walking to the front entrance to find zach. you just wanted to hug him and feel his warmth since it had been so long since the last time. you saw him standing there in jeans and a loose white t-shirt.

his face lit up when he saw you and you started running towards him. once you made contact, you embraced each other in a big hug. he lifted you off of the ground and spun you around before safely placing you down.

“i missed you so much, y/n,” zach told you as he pulled apart from the hug.

“i missed you too, zachary,” you smiled at him. he grabbed your hand and pulled you out the place where his car was.

“i can’t wait for you to meet the boys! they are going to be ecstatic! i talk about you all the time!” he told you, putting your luggage in the car and you laughed at him.

“i can’t wait either! they’re hot,” you admitted and he glared at you.

“no, nope, nada. you can’t date one,” he said, getting in the car.

“who said i was going to be dating one? it might just be a one night only thing,” you laughed and zach punched you in the arm.

“i hate you.”

“you wish.”

“anyways, what’s going on with becky? did she admit her lip injections yet? what about david? still an airheaded douchebag?” he questioned, asking you about people that attended your school back in texas.

***(another time skip lmao)

you made it to the house that your best friend and his best friends lived in. zach helped you carry in your luggage and you took your time to admire the place he resided in. it was big and beautiful. this was practically the dream home for anyone.

once you got inside, you were immediately welcomed by a group of four boys.

“y/n! we’ve heard so much about you!” one of them said. you assumed it was daniel, based on the pictures zach had shown you of all of them.

“this is jack, corbyn, daniel, and jonah,” zach pointed to all of them.

you weren’t going to lie to yourself; they were all way more attractive in person. they were stunning in the pictures but now that you got a good look at them, you were shocked. one tall boy caught your eye though.

“hi,” was all you could mutter out, instantly embarrassing yourself.

they all laughed and welcomed you into their home and moved out of the way so you could take your stuff up to your room. once you got there, you sat down on the bed and zach sat next to you.

“so what do you think?” he asked you, referring to the four boys downstairs.

“they are amazing,” you looked at him, proud he got so far in his career. “what’s the tall one’s name again?”

“jonah? no, don’t tell m-”

“he’s realllllllly attractive,” you smiled at him.

“y/n y/l/n. i won’t allow it. nope, not on my wa-”

“do you think you could set it up? oh my god, total best friend points to you if you could. wow, do you think it’s a stretch? he’s probably way out of my league,” you cut him off again, all the gears turning in your head.

“you don’t listen to me, do you?”

“nope, not at all.”

the two of you laughed and made your way downstairs to find daniel eating watermelon, the curly haired kid on his phone, corbyn (who you heard loads about because he always teased zach) laughing at someone on the phone, and jonah talking to daniel.

“let’s do something,” zach told them as you two entered the kitchen. jonah smiled at you when you enter the room. you smiled back, blushing a bit.

“like what?” jack asked, waving at you.

“we could go shopping?” daniel suggested. corbyn perked up and quickly wrapped up his conversation on the phone.

“did i hear shopping?” corbyn sang, entering the room.

“i’m brok-”

“shut up, i’ll pay,” zach retorted. you slapped, lightly, signifying that he shouldn’t pay for you.

“so we’re going shopping?” corbyn clarified.

“yes, corbs, we’re going shopping,” jonah told him, rolling his eyes playfully.

“yes!” he yelled running to put his shoes on.

you all laughed at him and quickly moved out the door to make sure corbyn wouldn’t get too impatient. you sat in the backseat next to jonah and zach while daniel drove with jack in the front seat. corbyn was in the very backseat by himself

arriving at the grove was amazing, you saw the people crowding around the fountain. there were pretty lights and gorgeous plants. it wasn’t like the typical indoor shopping centers in texas; it was breathtaking.

“you like it?” jonah asked you, coming up behind you and scaring you a bit.

“oh geez,” you laughed. “yeah, it’s awesome. how is this my first time being here?”

“you should come more often,” he winked at you and a blush made it’s way up to your cheeks.

jonah grabbed your hand and lead you to the different stores he’d thought you’d like, leaving the other boys behind. you two spent the majority of the day together and you enjoyed every second you got to spend with him. he made you so happy.

that’s pretty much how the first months went. you got closer to all the boys and they quickly became your bestest friends but with jonah, it was different. you knew it was more than just a friendship but you were scared to admit it to yourself. you knew you’d have to go home in less than a month and the thought of it made you heartbroken. you’d have to leave them, especially jonah.

so you made it your mission to spend the remaining time you had left with jonah (and the other boys of course), to make it the most memorable summer you’ve ever had.

on one lazy sunday, jonah decided to take you out somewhere. you both entered his car and he drove the two of you somewhere you had yet to know where. the entire drive there, he held your hand and you guys talked about what you’d do when you’d get home. it made sad to think about but you put a smile on your face for him.

you made it to a small hill in beverly hills and you guys climbed your way to the top. jonah had brought a blanket for you to sit on and wait until the sunset came.

“y/n, i have to tell you something,” jonah started, while the sun was slowly beginning to set in front of you. “i know this is horrible timing because you’re leaving in a week but i had to get this off my chest.”

“go on,” you gave him a smile and grabbed his hand, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to reassure him.

“when i first met you, i wasn’t expecting to see such a gorgeous person walk through my front door. i couldn’t stop looking at you and thinking you were the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen. but when we spent all day at the grove and i got to know you, it wasn’t about your looks. your bubbly, bright personality saw the best in everyone and everything. your heart is so big and you care for everyone. heck, you washed corbyn’s white shoes when he got a tiny dirt splotch on them. it took you two hours but you were so determined to help him even though he could easily buy a new pair. you make me a better person and oevr the past couple months, i’ve fallen head over heels for you.”

the sun had set and the beautiful reds, oranges, and pinks spread throughout the sky, creating a perfect backdrop for the two of you.

“shit, i can’t top that but i’ve fallen face first for you, jonah marais.”

“is this the part where we kiss?”

“yes, jonah, yes it is.”

the kiss you two shared was filled with passion and desire for one another. you had completely fallen for each other.

***

220 notes · View notes

buttsonthebeach · 6 years

Note

Prompt - how did Lucius feel when he heard Ashara might be dead? How did he feel about seeing her in the Fade?

ANON. ANON. You are my new best friend. Anyone who reads/asks about Reckoning is my friend. Thank you for this! I was so thrilled to get a prompt request for Lucius and for Reckoning.

Pairing: Past Lucius Talvas x Ashara Lavellan (OC x Solavellan child OC); current Lucius x Rhea (OC x OC)

Rating: Teen because Lucius swears once

Note: Contains spoilers for chapter five of Reckoning. And angst. And pining.The morning after he returned from his latest trip to Vyrantium, Lucius woke late, cursed himself for a lazy fool, and had to rush to clean his teeth and comb out his hair and rifle through his wardrobe for something clean to wear. He should not have scheduled the meeting with the dwarven emissaries from Kal-Sharok so close to his trip. Maevaris told him as much. But his suppliers in Vyrantium only had so much of the stone he needed for crafting runes, and he preferred to inspect it himself rather than trust someone else, and it was a chance to present his proposal to the guild of printers there, and it was a stroke of luck that the emissaries were willing to see him at all, given their busy schedules and imminent return to Kal-Sharok -

“And won’t you want to see Rhea right away when you return, anyway?”

His heart did lift, remembering Mae’s teasing words before he left. It was a feeling that was half nervousness and half anticipation. Rhea did seem sad when he said he would be away. He did think of her on his journey. They wrote to each other. He wrote to her the day before returned, asking if she would be able to meet him for dinner that evening. Surely there was a response waiting for him now.

His hair combed, his teeth cleaned, a fresh robe found folded (crumpled) in his wardrobe, he headed out. Sure enough, there was a note waiting in the box on his door.

Lucius -

If a busy man like you has time for me in his schedule, how can I refuse? I will meet you at the restaurant near the theatre, where we ate last time.

Yours,

Rhea

Again, the lift and flip in his chest. Nerves and anticipation. He thought of that meal, their first time dining alone, without Mae or her husband or Rhea’s brothers or any of their other acquaintances accompanying them. That was how they met after all - in that shifting tapestry of Minrathous society, those parties and dinners and dances. The restaurant was an extension of that - austere, refined, fashionable. Expensive. The men who waited on them were human, not elven. Of that Lucius was glad - even if the only reason they chose humans rather than elves was likely to show how expensive it was, so fine they could afford the finest help, and not because of any lofty beliefs. He avoided the restaurants where every server had pointed ears, and bruised arms.

On his long walk to the Magisterium, where he would meet the emissaries, he played back that dinner again, remembering the red of Rhea’s lips, the way she covered her mouth with her hand when she laughed. She was pale and light-haired like Mae - there was some distant family connection he could never remember - and the wine they drank brought a deep flush to her cheeks. She flushed again when he put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the restaurant. They’d walked along the well-paved and well-lit streets near the restaurant and talked about their experiences in their respective Circles - his in Vyrantium and then in Minrathous, hers in Qarinus - and then there was a lull, long enough that he started to flex his hands nervously, that he wondered if he ought to touch her, or suggest something else they should do.

“I should go,” she said finally. “I have an early appointment to go to the docks with my brother. There’s a new ship he wishes to purchase and he wants a second set of eyes.”

She’d tilted her face up to him and stood close enough that Lucius knew what she wanted - and even though his heart beat faster, he still hesitated. This was a first. His first kiss with Rhea. His first kiss in almost a year.

He did kiss her. And again, when he went out on the ship with her and her brothers and several of her acquaintances a week later. Each one was short and sweet. She stepped away from him when they were done, so their bodies no longer touched.

As Lucius mounted the hill towards the Magisterium he paused at a cart selling pastries and stood for a moment in its shade, looking up at the grand building, thinking of that day on the ship, of the restaurant, of the party where he met Rhea. He turned the other way and faced the spire of the Circle where, until two years ago, he’d lived. He thought of the boy he’d been there. So frightened and alone, so ill-prepared for the cutthroat competition of trying to gain a patron, trying to make a life for himself. It was all behind him. His life was moving forward in new and exciting ways. His theory that electric runes could be used to power various machinery, like printing presses, were gathering traction and support. He was having dinner with Rhea that evening.

It didn’t feel the way he thought it would. Having all the things he wanted when he lived in the dormitories at the base of that spire. He wasn’t elated. He was - content, he supposed. He tried not to prod the feeling too hard. He finished his pastry, and he turned and continued making his way up the hill.

When he reached the Magisterium, it was buzzing with activity - more so than the last few times he’d been there, and certainly far busier than it should have been first thing on a dreary morning. His neck prickled. The faces of the couriers and servants were harried, and the few magisters he saw had knit brows.

“We should have known,” one said. “This sort of thing is in the blood. What did they think would happen when they gave the rabbits a country of their own?”

“We may be able to spin this to our favor. Argue that this is why the Lucerni’s latest elven bill of rights is ludicrous.”

Lucius’s heart that had lifted so high twisted now. Enasan. They were talking about Enasan. What happened?

“Lucius?”

It was Claudia, her dark eyebrows high with shock. She was staring at him like she’d seen a ghost. Her arms were full of books and scrolls.

“Well met, Claudia. What’s going on here?”

Now her eyebrows fell, and her dark eyes, too.

“You haven’t heard. When I saw you there, I thought you must have. I was going to come find you this afternoon and tell you… and then I saw you and hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

Lucius thought of his trip from Vyrantium. The speed of the public coach. How tired he’d been, how he had not listened to the gossip or asked for news whenever they stopped and changed horses.

“What happened?” he asked, even though he felt the knowledge growing inside his stomach, heavy like a stone. Something happened with Enasan, and if Claudia had planned to go out of her way to find him and tell him about it…

“Come with me,” she said.

People parted for Claudia, even though she was almost comically short, and only a junior member of the Magisterium, really more of a clerk for Dorian Pavus than anything else. Still, Lucius felt like his much longer legs had to work hard to keep up with her brisk pace. Or maybe it was only that his heart was beating faster as the knowledge, the fear, grew and grew.

“Is it Ashara?” he asked the moment they reached the little antechamber that served as Claudia’s office.

Claudia put down her books and her scrolls. Carefully. Slowly. Neatly. Then she finally met his eyes and there was grief in hers.

“Yes.”

Then she told him of Clermont - Ashara and the immigrants her group was tasked with escorting, and the Orlesian guards who stopped them. The Orlesian guards who were burned alive by a spell powered by Ashara’s own blood.

And Ashara was nowhere to be found.

He felt sick.

He sat down.

Ashara was missing. Feared dead.

Ashara could be dead.

“When did this happen?” he asked.

“Two or three days ago. Word only just reached us. Orlais is calling it an act of aggression by Enasan.”

“That’s absurd. Ash wouldn’t - couldn’t -”

Claudia sat down in her own chair, on the other side of the desk from him. She straightened one of the scrolls. She slumped, a little. It was unlike her.

“Well, she could. You and I were both at the temple that day. At Skyhold when we saved Ellana. We both know what she’s capable of.”

Lucius winced as he always did at the memory. Ashara and her unearthly blue eyes and the two voices speaking as one from her mouth, and the cold fury with which she - no - the ancient elven spirit possessing her tried to kill them. How she was able to relive memories of blood magic rituals so vividly that she could explain how to perform them - even if her father was ultimately the one who did.

“That wasn’t her,” he said. “Whatever it was - it wasn’t her. And Solas fixed her.”

Claudia shrugged, and sat forward in her chair. She ran a hand through her short black hair.

“As far as we know. But do we really know what happened that day?”

Another memory, this time of the crunch of new snow under his feet, and Ashara at his side, nervous, and then elated, as she said that she wanted them to be together, no matter the distance that separated them. And the words she said before that - there are things I can’t tell you. Not because I don’t want to - because I want to keep you safe.

But still. Still. This was Ashara. Ashara. Her name rang in his mind again and again and again like the Chantry’s call to mass. It was the only word he could think now.

“Do you really think she did this?” he asked, his voice edged with disbelief.

Claudia sighed. “No. Not really. I believe that she killed them. I believe that she may have used blood magic to do it. But I don’t think it was unprovoked. Something is going on here. We spoke to Ellana through the crystal last night. She’s in Orlais now, trying to get to the bottom of it.” She gestured to her neatly stacked books and scrolls with another weary sigh. “I’m looking through some documents for Dorian now. This is a disaster for our newest bill to promote elven rights. I have so much support to salvage now -”

“Is that honestly what you care about right now? Ashara is out there. She could be dead. And you’re worried about some bill? Do you care so little for her?”

Lucius’s anger came on him sudden and hot the way it always did. He did not get angry often. He was disoriented. His whole body felt too light and too rigid all at once. His heart hammered, a counterpoint to the melody of her name in his mind.

Claudia sat up straight now, her usual impeccable posture. She put both her hands on the table, like she might stand at any moment.

“Where was all of this care and concern the last two times she was in Minrathous, Lucius? Because if I recall correctly, I am the one who has always made time to see her. I am the one who saw her the night before she left for that damned town.”

Lucius’s anger always went quickly, too. Claudia’s words pricked him right in the lungs. Deflated him entirely.

“And what would you have me do, anyway? It would take weeks to get to Orlais. Ellana is already there. Her father is no doubt combing the Fade for her every hour of every day. What can you or I do except pray to the Maker that she is safe?”

He thought of telling her how long he prayed to the Maker to make his brother breathe again, to bring his parents back. How hollow every prayer since then felt. He looked away instead.

“I care for her too. Maybe not quite the same way you do. But I may have lost one of my dearest friends, Lucius. I’ll be damned if I also lose the chance to improve the lives of thousands of her people.”

There was a raw note to Claudia’s voice now - one he had not heard before. She kept her emotions close. But when he looked at her, he could see her fear and heartache as plainly as he felt his own. On impulse, he reached out and put his hand on top of hers. She squeezed it, and offered him a small smile. He withdrew his hand.

“Why were you here, if you didn’t know?” she asked him after a pause.

For a moment, even he couldn’t remember. Then he did, and he did not even feel a jolt of anxiety at the thought that he was late. He was thinking of the last time he saw Ash. When had it been? How many months ago? What had their parting words to each other been?

“I have a meeting with emissaries from Kal-Sharok. I want to employ some of their enchanters in crafting my new runes. Perhaps they will be less expensive than the ones I spoke to from Orzammar, since they will not have to travel so far.”

“You should go, then. I am sure they are very busy.” They both rose, and Claudia walked him to the door. She paused in the entryway. “If I hear anything - you will be the first to know.”

“Likewise.”

The emissaries from Kal-Sharok were stoic, suspicious women. Lucius knew this. He also knew that he was not a charismatic man, that he was too shy and polite to draw others out of their own

shell. He’d been preparing himself mentally to be brighter, cheerier, more confident when he met with them. He even felt that process was easier than it had been in the past. He was more confident. He was Lucius Talvas, Laetan, yes, but a Laetan with his own flat and his own money, and a talented mage with his own theories and his own plans for the applications of electrified runes - and he was kind, and he cared for others, and he deserved the good things in his life.

Sitting there, across from the dwarves from Kal-Sharok, he couldn’t connect to that feeling again. He could only picture Ashara bloodied and dead on some field in Orlais.

He didn’t think his presentation went that badly. He didn’t think it went well, either. He didn’t care. He walked back out of the Magisterium and stood on its stone steps looking at the ancient, hazy sprawl of Minrathous and he still thought only of her.

He could not remember the last time he saw her. Not clearly. Claudia was right. He had avoided her the last two times she was in town. He could admit that now. Things with Rhea were new then. He didn’t know what to say to her about them. Even now the thought wrenched his heart. He wanted more than anything to turn a corner and see Ashara standing there, and yet if he did, he would not know how to tell her about Rhea. I have kissed someone else since the last time I kissed you.

But he had seen her before Rhea. Not even that long before they met. Why couldn’t he remember where or when? Had they gone to watch Claudia debate another junior member of the Magisterium? No, that was the year before. Was it that brief lunch on the outskirts of the city? How had they parted? He could not remember. He returned to his flat in a fog and stood there, listless, lost, staring about as if that would help him remember. Did he make it clear to her before she went that he would not have the life he had now if it had not been for her? That her belief in him - her warm, constant love - were the first seeds of that confidence that brought him here?

His eyes prickled. He wiped them. He went to his room.

His memory of the last time they saw each other might have been strangely vague, but there was one memory that would not dim. He stood there in his too-quiet flat and he could still picture her exactly as she was the morning after they made love for the last time - the moment their relationship was truly over. She was awake before him, of course. Sitting up on the bed, the covers around her waist, bare above them. Her back was to him. And for a moment in his bleary, half-awake state, he just looked at her. He did not move or make a sound. He just looked at her, and tried to memorize the exact curve of her back, and tried to tell himself that this was the last moment he would ever love her. That his love was something he could box up and put in a drawer in his bedside table.

If I never see her again - if I never see her again -

He couldn’t finish the thought. Not standing there remembering the cloud of her beautiful curls and her freckled shoulders like it was yesterday. Not while he could still picture the soft, sad smile she gave him when at last she turned and saw he was awake, and it was really over.

It was really over. It was.

The fog had lifted somewhat by the time he went and met Rhea at the restaurant. In its place was a biting anxiety, a tenseness in his shoulders, an uneasy buzz in the mana pooling in his body. The noise of the city - the Sopporati merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of horses, the whoosh and crackle of spells - grated on him. His heart did flutter at the sight of Rhea. Her gold and silver gown, which left her shoulders bare. The sheen of her hair by the magelights in front of the restaurant. Her smile. She was the accomplished daughter of an Altus family, and she smiled at him, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, the orphan Laetan with only modest prospects. He was lucky.

Was Ashara?

“You look tired,” she said. “Was your journey difficult?”

“Yes,” he said. He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Her perfume was soft and floral. She squeezed his arm and looked up at him, smiling again for no reason at all, while they waited to be seated. She was a quiet person, like him. Before his trip to Vyrantium he was beginning to feel the kind of comfortable silence settle in between them that he so cherished in his friendships. Now it felt oppressive. He wanted suddenly to go home - or to Claudia, who would understand what he felt. He had not told Rhea about Ashara. She was under no illusions that she was the first woman he’d been involved with, of course - but there had been no reason, no need for specifics. And to tell her now - his own heart aching with words he did not want to admit even to himself -

“I take it you hear what happened with Enasan? My mother was called into an emergency session of the Magisterium just for it.”

Void take him. He would not be able to escape it.

“Yes, I did.”

“It’s awful. I hope they get to the bottom of it soon.”

“Yes. It seems exactly like the sort of thing that Orlais would do.”

Rhea blinked, taken aback. “You assume the fault is Orlais’s?”

“You assume the fault is Enasan’s?”

The server brought them their first course - salads. Rhea immediately began picking at hers.“I don’t really assume anything now. Everything is so murky,” she said.“The fault must be Orlais’s. What does Enasan stand to gain from antagonizing one of the largest empires in Thedas?” Lucius was aware that his voice was perhaps too urgent, too heated. He could not stop himself. He hated that feeling. He felt sick looking at his salad now.Rhea’s hazel eyes were narrow with concern and confusion. “You feel very strongly about this.”“I feel strongly about any injustice. The elves have always been treated monstrously by our people. This is just another example.”“You’re not wrong.” She seemed nervous now. She twirled her fork in the mound of rich, dark greens. “The truth will come out, I am sure.”This was his moment to tell her. He was not only upset by the injustice but by the thought of blue eyes that might be closed forever. But how? How could he when there was a feeling he didn’t want to name in the back of his mind? Claudia was right. He didn’t care for Ashara the way she did. He thought again of her sitting in his bed that last morning. Then he looked at Rhea. Her shoulders were bare too. She was intelligent and worldly and she blushed whenever he complimented her. He was lucky. His hand tightened on his fork.“The mage involved. Ashara Lavellan. I know her. We were - are - close. We were lovers.”Rhea had a bite of salad halfway to her mouth. She paused, and put it down. She folded her hands carefully in her lap and sat still and straight. It was a trained posture. He wondered if they’d made her balance books on her head when she was a young girl.“I ended the relationship a year ago. We - wanted different things in life. But we have remained friends, and thinking of her out there - alone and frightened - or hurt -”Rhea’s stayed still and straight. Her eyebrows were lowered, and her lips were puckered, and she was a perfect picture of concern.“I see. I am sorry that you are so worried for your friend.”Looking at her, wondering if she was actually sorry, wondering what she was thinking now, if telling her was the right thing to do, he missed Ashara with a pain that blinded him. He missed how every thought, every feeling she had flitted across her face like clouds over the sun. He missed the way words tumbled from her mouth one after the other, how he could trace the workings of her mind in them, how she grew embarrassed that she was so easy to read, that she always said everything that was on her mind, and he missed the softness of her forehead under his lips when he kissed that embarrassment away.He missed Ashara.There was another word there, a shadow enveloping “missed.” One he did not even want to name in the privacy of his mind.

“Thank you,” Lucius said. “I worry that I won’t be good company tonight, as a result. I am sorry.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let us talk of something else, then. I want to hear about your trip to Vyrantium, and your meeting with the dwarves from Kal-Sharok. Do you think they will agree to help you manufacture the runes? And did the seneschal in Vyrantium agree to put your proposal for powering their printing presses with your runes before the guild of printers?”

Lucius did not want to talk. Long conversations in noisy places were draining on a good day, when he was full of energy and looking forward to them. His lungs were heavy now. He took a deep breath anyway, and began.

Rhea kissed him when he helped her into her carriage at the end of the night. It was a short, delicate kiss. It left no impression on his lips, or in his chest. He was distracted. Every other time he’d kissed her it had given him a little thrill. It was natural that he was preoccupied. That he felt helpless. If only there was something he could do from all the way in Minrathous - something to help Ashara, if she was out there, to assure her that she was not alone -

He could call to her.

Neither of them had the money for sending crystals like Magister Pavus had, but Ashara was a somniari, and she had taught him how to reach out to her in the Fade.

“It’s like music,” she told him once, lying next to him in bed. They’d pressed their palms together and were studying the difference between their hands. Her long, narrow fingers against his thicker, blockier ones. He would have made a bad printer, if his family had survived, and if he had not been a mage. “I can hear different songs when I’m in the Fade, and I can go to them. Tonight, I’ll teach you a song that will be just ours, and when I hear it, I’ll know you want to see me.”

“I always want to see you,” he’d said, and he’d kissed her, and they’d forgotten about songs for a while.

What she meant by a song was really more of a hum, or a vibration, at least to him, although she claimed to hear the melody. It reminded him of the way he could sift through different energies pouring across the Veil when he cast a spell, how he could tell fire from ice, except he couldn’t feel this energy in his body. It was only in his mind. If he became aware that he was dreaming, and willfully ignored everything the Fade tried to show him, and recalled the sound she’d taught him, eventually it would fill his whole mind, until there was nothing else. Just that constant, pulsing hum.

He focused on nothing but that hum for days.

He went to Dorian Pavus’s house several times, and to Claudia’s flat, hoping for news. They spent a sad, silent dinner together, the three of them, joined later by the Iron Bull.

“She’s fine,” Dorian kept blustering. “It’s impossible that she’s otherwise. She is a talented mage, and a smart girl, and the Maker would not do this to Ellana.”

“Andraste preserve her,” Claudia murmured at his side.

Lucius wished that he still believed in the Maker.

He chose to believe in the song instead.

Every night he focused and focused and focused and waited for that moment when the Fade would ripple and melt and change and she would be with him and everything would be suddenly, vividly real around her. But he was no somniari. It was hard work. He woke each day more tired than the last. The news coming from Orlais was not good. He had not heard from Kal-Sharok. He did not have the will or the energy to work on any of his projects. Rhea had gone out of town, back home to Qarinus, to present some of her own research on how Force magic could propel various vehicles. She wrote to him, and he wrote back.

He started to relax the hum in his mind when he slept. Ashara would not want him to run himself ragged. Not for her sake. It became a secondary focus as he dreamt, after avoiding the various temptations of the Fade, and of his own mind (wealth, power, bringing his parents and his brother back, desire demons that he turned from immediately before he could see their faces). It was Rage that finally got a foothold in him one night. He dreamt of the harbor, and the cart where he liked to get salted fish to snack on, and every time he tried to order it, the peddler would only give him flowers, and the lucid part of his mind knew that the peddlers was some hapless spirit of the Fade doing its best to play its part in a world it barely understood but fucking Void, he was sick of things that didn’t work and sick of a world that didn’t make sense and sick of feeling helpless and afraid and all the things he’d felt since he was a thirteen-year-old orphan who’d watched his only brother die and -

And Ashara was there.

Like a wave breaking on the shore.

The flowers were gone. The skewer of salted fish was in his hand. He could smell the salt of the sea. And she was there, standing in front of him, brown hair and freckled cheeks and soft, full lips.

“Ash,” he said. His name for her. The way she’d first introduced herself. The first teasing joke they shared. “It worked. I’ve tried every night since Claudia came and told me you were missing. I am so - so -”

He wanted to hold her.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her and not let go. She stood there, looking at him with pain in her eyes, and he would have given anything in the world to make that pain disappear. For a moment that feeling worried him - was she another trick of the Fade, a demon who would seduce him into giving himself up because he thought it might ease her suffering? But - no - each freckle was where it should have been, and the same curls fell loose from the ribbon that tied her hair back. She was as hasty in the Fade as she was in waking.

He loved her.

It was clear as glass there, in the Fade.

He loved her.

“I’m sorry I worried you. I - it was true about the blood magic. I had to. And it damaged my connection to the Fade until now.”

“I don’t care what you did to survive. I’m just happy you did.”

He meant every word, and he wondered if she sensed that. If she knew, too, what he was thinking. He loved her. It didn’t fill him with fear or regret. It was a simple statement of fact, like looking at a cloudy day and predicting it would rain. He loved her, and he could not change that, any more than he could change the color of his eyes, or bring his brother back from the dead.

They walked through the dreamy version of Minrathous she constructed, and he was in a daze of relief, and he did not even have to question or fear his love for her until she mentioned Rhea. And then he had to pause, reign in, consider. He’d ended things for a reason. He loved her, yes - but she was bright and talented and full of adventure and an endless desire to learn more about the world around her - and he could not follow where she wanted to go. He needed stability, a legacy - he had no family that would catch him if he failed, not like her.

But -

“Well, I’d love to meet her when I go back to Minrathous next. Though I suppose I don’t know when that will be.”

Lucius tried to imagine Ashara and Rhea meeting when she said that. How would Rhea react to Ashara, with all of her energy and her utter lack of well-bred poise? The next time Ashara was in Minrathous, would he and Rhea even be involved anymore? His every thought of her felt gray and thin in that dreamy yellow sun.

And if he and Rhea were not involved anymore - if, perhaps, Ashara had changed, or if he himself had -

These were thoughts he needed to examine when he was awake, under a colder sun.

And he needed her to be safe and whole and alive when he was done.

“I would be sad not to see you in Minrathous again,” he said. “But above all, Ash - stay safe. Please? If you have to stop working for Vir’anor - if you can’t travel through Orlais for a while - then don’t. Don’t push through just because you want to.”

She furrowed her brows. She was so fierce, so unafraid, even now, already prepared to argue. Then she looked away with something like shame in her eyes, and his heart ached. They were standing at the crest of a hill, looking out over the city. Well, she was. He was looking at her.

The rest of their conversation was fuzzy in his mind when he woke, but her presence was so real that he reached out his hand in the bed, half expecting to find her there. He sat there a while, bathing in the relief that she was alive, and turning the thought over and over again in his mind. He loved her. He loved her.

But he’d put that love in a box once before, and put it carefully aside, and that was what he would have to do know. She was hundreds of miles away, and she was on her own journey, processing what she had been through - what her country would likely soon go through. She did not need the added complication of his own feelings. He would be there for her, whenever she needed him - but as a friend. It was the right thing to do.

So he lay back in bed, and closed his eyes, and thought again of the profile of her face as she stood on the crest of that dream-hill. Her perfect nose and her angular jaw. He let himself love her a half hour longer. Then he got up to start his day.

#dragon age fanfic #reckoning #ashara lavellan #lucius talvas #ashara x lucius #beach writes

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bestfungames1 · 3 years

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New Post has been published on https://bestfungames.com/destruction-allstars-7/

Destruction AllStars #7

Destruction AllStars has solid driving, but its demolition derby-style car combat drags as much as it thrills.

By Mike Epstein on February 10, 2021 at 2:21PM PST

With its bright energy, colorful characters, and wacky-powered cars, Destruction AllStars takes many of the aesthetic and mechanical trends from the last five years of multiplayer-focused live games and applies them to the long-dormant car combat genre. Speeding around beautifully detailed and cartoonishly articulated demolition derby courses, looking for your chance to rev your engine and hit another player so hard their ride explodes.

When your own car inevitably gets busted up beyond recognition, you can hop out of your car and climb into another: A novel idea, but one that keeps you out of the action. Despite its striking visuals and solid driving fundamentals, Destruction AllStars’ demolition derby-style car smashing is inconsistent and unpredictable. Every multiplayer game has highs and lows, but Destruction AllStars’ best bits are few and fleeting.

You have one job to do in Destruction AllStars: Get into a car and crash it into other players. At the start of each match, 16 players start out on foot and race to grab one of a handful of empty cars, which come in many recognizable shapes like slick sports cars, burly SUVs, and tough trucks. Unlike in most car games, though, you are not tied to your car forever. You can eject from a vehicle at any time to trade for a new model or because the car’s health is low and you don’t want to wipe out.

Whether you crash or get crashed into, at least you’re going to look good doing it. Destruction AllStars’ large arenas are incredibly well-detailed and drenched in bright, colorful lights are a visual feast. The characters, from Fuego the masked-metal head to Ratu, a teal-haired boxer in an orange jumpsuit, are all drawn in a familiar Overwatch-esque style but have very specific looks that pop and draw you to them all the same. Even the little flourishes, like how a character jumps into an empty white car which instantaneously takes on their color scheme, look cool every time.

There are four multiplayer modes, but they all boil down to doing one thing. In Mayhem, the 16-player free-for-all and de facto standard, you earn points depending on how much damage you can do to another player’s car and/or character. In Carnado, an eight-on-eight team-based game, hitting them earns you gears, which only turn to points when you drive your car into a swirling purple vortex that tears it to shreds. There’s also a King of the Hill-style “last car standing” game and a second team-based game called Stockpile, where you have to get out of your car to stash points at three bank locations.

No matter how you keep score, though, you have to crash more cars than everyone else. Despite the attempts to add some variety, Mayhem is the simplest mode and the one that best complements the chaotic nature of the game. A fast and loose free-for-all with lots of ways to score, Mayhem is a casual, do-what-you-feel kind of mode that feels natural and reflects Destruction AllStars’ zany, madcap vibe.

Carnado, the best alternative, adds interesting tactical considerations to the game, but they’re difficult to act on. Since players need to lock in their gears before they become points, you can target weakened cars to prevent your opponents from cashing in, but defending a fixed position feels like wasted effort; you have to be in the right place at the right time to stop a car from scoring, and the time you spend playing defense is time you could have spent wrecking enemies and earning gears of your own.

In addition to the multiplayer, you have the ability to practice against AI bots or play the single-player “Challenge Series,” a character-specific set of minigames with a small, inconsequential bit of character development attached. While it’s interesting to see some cutscenes with the characters and some extra modes that wouldn’t work in a multiplayer context, the mode feels tacked-on. It’s a momentary detour at best.

There’s a single Challenge Series mission pack that’s available for free at launch. The rest will be released over time as paid DLC, which seems like a death sentence for the already anemic single-player side of the game. Relegating the single-player content to a drip-feed of DLC undercuts the single-player mode’s potential to grow into something more substantial.

Destruction AllStars’ arcade-style driving feels smooth and highly maneuverable. Turning is wide, but precise enough that you can take a pursuit angle and catch up to another player, assuming they don’t see you and take evasive action. Using a brake and a very aggressive e-brake that basically works like a quick 180-degree turn, you have all the tools you’ll need to chase opponents up the walls, around bottom pits, and through giant buzzsaws.

These hazards and superhuman tricks make the chases more eventful, but they aren’t exciting as you might hope. Often, a tight turn is a more effective trap than something that looks wild and deadly, even for skilled players.

Destruction AllStars (playstation.com)

Chasing is fine, but you need to cause crashes to win. You can obviously just steer toward another player and put the pedal to the metal, but there’s an art to winning crashes. You have the ability to boost forward or to the side at ramming speed by flicking the right analog stick, which both increases damage to their car and protects yours. Ramming ups your speed but decreases maneuverability, and it’s on a small cooldown, so your timing is crucial. While it makes sense that you can’t simply ram all the time, even the small limitations on your ability to blow things up can feel stifling, especially when you’re first starting out.

The rules of ramming and who “wins” a collision can also feel somewhat nebulous. The different cars you can drive, which range from sports cars to trucks to SUVs, have a different balance of weight, top speed, and maneuverability. When two cars crash head-on, the heavier, faster car pushes the lighter, slower one. Ramming can give you an edge, but it isn’t a guarantee. In less clear-cut scenarios with more than two cars bouncing against each other at less-than-ideal angles, it’s nearly impossible to predict how much damage a smash will do, or if you should even try.

On the plus side, though, success really is its own reward. In the heat of the moment, ramming your car into another player’s can be exhilarating. Everyone’s swerving and jockeying for position, so it’s often a game of bumps and fishtail-inducing partial hits, but eventually you will find an opportunity to fully smash your bumper and send them flying. Like when you get “good contact” swinging a baseball bat, you can feel the force and effect of landing a solid blow, and it is quite satisfying.

Opportunities for those kinds of hits aren’t as always abundant, though. Even with 16 players, you will spend a fair amount of time driving around an arena, jockeying for position. You’ll find yourself chasing a car, swerving to avoid enemy takedowns, and getting into minor fender benders, but killer blows can’t be forced. While I’m sure better players than I will tell you there are ways to increase your chances of putting yourself in good situations, it seems that there’s a fair amount of luck involved for even the most lethal drivers.

And unlike the heart-pumping thrill of a quickdraw in a first-person shooter or the adrenaline surge that builds as you fail plays on first and second down in Madden, there’s little residual satisfaction in the Destruction AllStars’ in-between moments. A chase that ends in a partial hit feels like a disappointment, rather than a minor success. The more time and energy you invest in a crash, the more you want the points and, more importantly, the satisfying sensation of crushing your opponent to bits. Even if you score and they don’t, it doesn’t feel like a win unless the car’s been smashed to smithereens.

You occasionally have the ability to make an opportunity for yourself using your characters’ unique car and abilities, called “breakers.” Charged by crashing or finding power-ups on foot, the hero cars and their skills add some much-needed depth and variety to your quest for car crashes. Each of the breakers, which include powerful speakers that hit nearby enemies, a giant blade on your hood that instantly slices through any car you ram, and good ol’ invisibility, give you an advantage to build a strategy around and, in some cases, an extra way to hit cars. The downside to the hero cars is that they’re fleeting; they crash just like any other and there’s no guarantee that you’ll get to use your car’s ability once you jump in. Each character also has an on-foot breaker, but… well, they aren’t as entertaining or effective as the ones you use in your hero car.

Very few things are as interesting when you’re on foot. Jumping in and out of cars is Destruction AllStars’ most novel idea, but that only serves to impede the car combat gameplay. Aside from bailing to avoid death (and minimizing the number of points your opponent can get for wrecking your car), you can jump on an opponent’s car and try to steal it by pressing a series of prompts before you get shaken off. Each level has a series of platforms only accessible on foot, which have power-ups that charge your special abilities.

Here’s the problem: Every second that you’re on foot is a second you aren’t crashing a car, which is the one thing you really want to do in this game. Stealing cars requires extremely precise timing and isn’t as useful as the tutorial makes it out to be. The platforming relies on some very finicky parkour mechanics that make all but the most straightforward platforming trickier than it needs to be. In the first week since launch, some players seem to have figured out strategies for earning points by tricking players into crashing into traps, but for the most part, you do not want to spend any more time outside of a car than you need to. Moreover, forcing players out of their cars becomes a huge hurdle for new players (or slower-learning players, since everyone’s new at launch), who spend less time in cars because they crash more often, which makes it harder for them to learn strategies and improve.

The on-foot gameplay plays a large role in Destruction AllStars’ true problem: It feels like there’s a lot of downtime. Even though there’s always a new car to find or an enemy to chase, there’s only one thing that’s really worth doing–crashing–which takes a lot of setup for a short-lived reward. Even with great looks and solid controls, you spend too much time spinning your wheels.

Destruction AllStars (playstation.com)

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folklore-and-fairytales · 3 years

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THE MAGICIAN'S TEA-PARTY - A FREE eStory

Little King Wistful slipped through the palace gates and went out into his kingdom to look for something new. He was only eight years old, so he was not a very big King; but he had been King as long as he could remember, and he had been looking for something new the whole time. Now, his kingdom was entirely made of islands, and in the days when the old King and Queen were alive these islands were known as the Cheerful Isles. But King Wistful changed their name soon after he came to the throne, and insisted on their being called the Monotonous Isles. For, strange as it may sound, this little King of eight years old thought his kingdom was the dullest and the ugliest and the most wearisome place in the world, and nothing that his nurses or his councillors could do ever succeeded in making him laugh and play like other little boys.

"Only look at the stupid things!" muttered his Majesty impatiently, as he stood and surveyed his kingdom from the top of a small, grassy hillock. "Five round islands in a row; always five round islands in a row! If only some of them were square, it would be something!"

At the bottom of the hill was a wood, one of those pale-green baby woods, where the trees are young and slender and nothing grows very plentifully except the bracken and the heather. And as the King stood and felt sorry for himself at the top of the hill, out from the wood at the bottom of the hill came the sound of a little girl's voice, singing a quaint little song. And this was the song:—

"Sing-song! Don't be long! Wistful, Wistful, come and play! Sing-song! It's very wrong To stay and stay and stay away!

The world is much too nice a place To make you pull so long a face; It's full of people being kind, And full of flowers for you to find;

There's heaps of folks for you to tease And all the naughtiness you please; To sulk is surely waste of time When all those trees are yours to climb!

Ting-a-ring! Make haste, King! I've something really nice to say; Ting-a-ring! A proper King Would not make me sing all day!"

King Wistful thrilled all over with excitement. Was something really going to happen at last? He had hardly time to think, however, before the little singer came out of the wood into the open. She wore a clean white pinafore, and on her head was a large white sunbonnet, and under the sunbonnet were two of the brightest brown eyes the King had ever seen. He stepped down the hill towards her, wondering how anything so pretty and so merry could have come into his kingdom; and at the same instant the little girl saw the King and came running up the hill towards him, so it was not long before they stood together, hand in hand, half-way down the hillside.

"Where did you come from and who are you and how long have you been here?" asked the King, breathlessly.

"I am Eyebright, of course," answered the little girl, smiling; "and I've been here always."

"Who taught you to sing that song about me?" demanded the King.

"The magician," answered Eyebright; "and he told me to sing it every day until you came. But you have been a long time coming!"

"I'm very sorry," replied his Majesty, apologetically; "you see, the magician did not tell me to come. In fact, I don't even know who the magician is."

"Are you not the King, then?" asked Eyebright, opening her great brown eyes as wide as they would go.

The little King felt it was hardly necessary to answer this; but he set his heels together and took off his crown and made her the best bow he had learned at his dancing-class, just to show beyond any doubt that he was the King. Eyebright still looked a little doubtful.

"Then how is it that you do not know the magician?" she asked him. "What is the use of being King, if you do not know everybody who lives in your kingdom?"

"It isn't any use; I never said I wanted to be King, did I?" said his Majesty, a little crossly. It was not pleasant to find that somebody else, and only a little girl in a sunbonnet, knew more about his kingdom than he did.

"What a very funny boy you are!" remarked Eyebright, without noticing his crossness. "I always thought it must be so splendid to be a King, and to have a banquet whenever you like, and never to go out without a procession, and to wear a crown instead of a sunbonnet, and—"

"That's all you know about it," interrupted the King, somewhat impolitely. "There aren't any banquets; and when there are, you only have stupid things with long names to eat, and you never know whether to eat them with a fork or a spoon, and it's always wrong whichever you do. And if you ask for jumbles or chocolate creams or plum-cake, you're told you mustn't spoil your dinner. And all the procession you ever get is a procession of nurses, who won't even let you step in a puddle if you want to!"

"Dear me," said Eyebright, "you're no better off than a little boy in an ordinary nursery!"

The little King drew himself up on tiptoe with great dignity. "Some of your remarks are most foolish," he said. "You forget that I have a kingdom of my own as well as a nursery. To be sure," he added sadly, "it is not much to boast of, for it is a very stupid kingdom, and nothing nice ever happens in it."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Eyebright. "Your kingdom is the nicest kingdom in the whole world!"

King Wistful had managed to keep his temper so far, but this was more than he could bear. "Rubbish!" he cried, completely forgetting his royal manners. "You come up the hill with me, and I'll show you what a stupid kingdom it is."

So they raced up to the top of the hill and looked down at the five round islands in a row. "There!" said King Wistful. "Did you ever see anything so dull?"

The little girl shook her head. "I think it is all as pretty as it can be," she said. "Look how the sun glints on the cornfields, and see the great red and blue patches of flowers—"

"But they're always the same flowers," complained his Majesty, yawning.

"They're supposed to be the same flowers, but they never are," answered Eyebright. "If you were to pick them—"

"Kings never pick flowers," he replied haughtily.

"Perhaps that is why you know so little about them," retorted Eyebright; and his Majesty began to feel he was not getting the best of it.

"Anyhow," he continued hastily, "you must own that the sea never changes."

"Oh!" said Eyebright; "that is because you have not learned the sea properly. It has ever so many different faces, and ever so many different voices, too."

The King turned and stared at her. "Are you a witch?" he asked wonderingly.

"No!" laughed Eyebright, merrily. "If I were, I would make you see things right instead of wrong." Then she suddenly scampered down the hill again. "Come along, quick!" she cried. "We'll go and ask the magician to disenchant you."

King Wistful had to run his hardest to catch her, for the little girl in the sunbonnet certainly knew how to put one foot in front of the other. But then, a sunbonnet is not so apt to tumble off a person's head as a crown, and that makes all the difference in a running race.

"Where does the magician live?" he panted, when he came up with her.

"In the middle island," she answered. "We'll find the boat and follow the river down to the sea." She plunged into the wood as she spoke, and threaded her way through the slender young trees, with his Majesty close at her heels. Sometimes the bracken was as tall as she was, but the boy behind could always see the sunbonnet bobbing up and down just ahead of him, and he followed it until they came out at the other side of the wood and found themselves on the banks of a charming little river. A small round boat like a tub, lined with pink rose-leaves, was waiting for them; and into this they both jumped.

"Oh, oh!" cried Eyebright, jumping up and down with delight. "The fairies are out to-day! Look at them—the purple ones in the loosestrife, and the pink and white ones in the comfrey, and—"

"You'll upset the boat if you don't sit still," interrupted the King, who felt cross because he could not see the fairies. "Let me have the oars and I'll take you down the stream."

"You need not do anything of the sort," said Eyebright; "for this is the boat the magician gave me, and it always takes you wherever you want to go."

So they just sat in the sunshine and floated lazily along, and they dabbled their hands in the water and made their sleeves as wet as they pleased, and they caught at the branches above as they passed under them, and they leaned over the side and stretched after everything that grew out of reach; and, in short, if they had not been in a fairy boat, it is very certain that they would have tumbled into the water several times before they reached their journey's end. Presently, the river widened out into the big calm sea; and after that, the boat quickened its speed and took them across to the middle island in no time at all, for the fairies know well enough that nobody wants to dawdle about in an open sea, where there are no tadpoles to catch and no trees that sweep their branches down to meet the water.

When the boat stopped, they found themselves on the edge of a shore covered with sea-lilac and yellow poppies, and wonderful shells that sang without being put to any one's ear; and just a little way along the beach was the magician's cave. There was no doubt about its being the right cave, for over the door of it was written in square acid tablets: "This is the magician's cave." Besides, the whole cave was dug out of a solid almond rock; and of course, any other person's cave would have been made of plain rock without any almonds in it.

"Come along," said Eyebright; and the two children walked up the beach and knocked at the magician's door and went in.

Some people might think that a cave on the sea-shore would be full of draughts and jellyfish and wet shrimps; but this particular cave was just like the nicest room that ever belonged to a castle-in-the-air. The wonder of it was, that whoever went into it found the very things he had never had and always wanted, and none of the things that he had always had and never wanted. So Eyebright immediately found a beautiful story-book, with a coloured picture on every page, and all the sad stories squeezed between the happy stories, so that no one who read it could ever cry for long at a time; while the King found the inside of a clock waiting to be picked to pieces, and an open pocket-knife with a bit of firewood lying handy, and a full-rigged schooner ready to be sailed. And they both saw the dear old magician, sitting in his arm-chair and smiling at them.

He was dressed in a long cloak, that always began by being a green cloak but changed every other minute to a different colour, according to the mood the magician was in; and as he was always in a nice mood, whether it was a sad or a merry one, his cloak always managed to be a nice colour. On his head was a high pointed hat, with crackers sticking out of it and a pattern worked all over it in caramels and preserved cherries; and he wore furry foxgloves on his hands to keep them warm, because he was not so young as he used to be. He had been practising as a magician for over a thousand years, but he did not look very old, for all that; he was what might be called pleasantly old, for he had soft white hair and a curly white beard and a pink complexion like a school-boy's. That is how a magician grows old when he has always been a jolly magician.

Eyebright ran straight up to him and climbed on his knee and hugged him. "I've brought the King to see you," she announced; "and we want you to be a nice, kind, lovely magician and help him to be disenchanted."

The magician stood up and shook hands with the King, just to make him feel at home; and the boy did not feel shy another minute, and quite forgot that he had never paid a visit before without a procession of nurses to look after him.

"You are very good children to call on me at tea-time," said the magician. "If there is one thing more than another that makes me feel the ache in my bones, it is having tea by myself. Now, would you like to have it on the floor, or shall I call up a table?"

The King, who had had his meals on a table all his life, voted for the floor; but when Eyebright said it would be more fun to see what would happen if they chose the table, he had to own that perhaps she was right. What happened was very simple: the magician just stamped on the floor, and a neat little table, covered with a nice white cloth, walked in at the door like any person and took up its position in the middle of the floor.

"Well!" exclaimed Eyebright; "I never knew tables could walk, before!"

"What do you suppose they have four legs for?" asked the magician, smiling.

"My nursery table does not walk," observed the little King.

"Ah," said the magician, wisely, "some tables do not know how to put two and two together. Now for some chairs!"

He stamped on the floor again, and two little arm-chairs bustled into the room as fast as their fat little legs would carry them. "You must excuse their being in such a hurry," said the magician; "they have been playing at musical chairs all their lives, you see. Now, while you are laying the table, I will boil the kettle. Crockery in the left-hand cupboard, and eatables in the right-hand cupboard!"

So the magician set to work and lighted the fire with peppermint-sticks, and the two children opened the doors of his wonderful cupboards. The crockery in the left-hand cupboard was the right sort of crockery, for none of it matched; so it did not take a minute to find a small pink cup and a green saucer for Eyebright, and a big blue cup and a red saucer for the magician, and a nice purple mug without any saucer at all for King Wistful. As for the right-hand cupboard, the little King was overjoyed when he found it stocked with jumbles and chocolate creams and plum-cake. "I am glad," he said with a sigh of relief, "that you don't keep seed-cake in your cupboard. Seed-cake always reminds me of eleven o'clock in the morning."

"Ah," said the magician, "the wymps saw to that, when they filled my cupboard for me, centuries ago. There's never any bread-and-butter in it, either—until you've had as much plum-cake as you can eat."

That was a delightful tea-party. The magician did not mind in the least when they made polite remarks about the food and told him his jumbles might have been kept a little longer with advantage, or that his chocolate creams were not quite so soft as some they had known. But they hastened to add that his tea was the nicest tea they had ever tasted because it had only a grown-up amount of milk in it, so he would have been rather a cross magician if he had minded. Nor did he raise any objection when they walked about in the middle of tea and took a look at the picture-book, or whittled away the piece of firewood, or danced round the cave and shouted because everything was so nice. And after tea there were all the magician's treasures to be turned out of odd nooks and corners and left about on the floor, and all his new quill pens to be tried, and his clean sheets of note-paper to be scribbled over. And when they were tired of exploring the cave and had eaten as much plum-cake as they wanted, the magician saw it was the right moment to begin telling them really true stories; and as he was a magician, of course his true stories were all fairy stories, which, as every one knows, are the only true stories in the world worth believing. But even the stories came to an end at last, and then both the children remembered at once why they had come to see the magician.

"Well, what can I do for you?" he asked, before they had time to say anything; for, truly, he would not have been a magician at all if he had not known what they were thinking about. He smiled so encouragingly that the little King answered him at once.

"It's like this," he began, "there's something wrong with the way I see things."

"Of course there is," said the magician: "the wymps threw dust in your eyes when you were a baby; and you cannot expect to see things in the same light as other people when the wymps have once thrown dust in your eyes."

"Why did they throw dust in my eyes?" asked little King Wistful.

"Usual reason," answered the magician, briefly. "They were not asked to your christening, that's all. If people will persist in leaving the wymps out when they give a party, they must take the consequences. However, as you were not to blame in the matter, the wymps would be the first to own that you ought not to be bewymped any longer. The best thing you can do is to go up to Wympland yourself and ask them to take away the spell."

The little King looked at Eyebright and hesitated. "It is a long way to go all alone," he remarked; and Eyebright immediately stepped up to him and took his hand.

"I'll come with you," she said; "I've always longed to go to the other side of the sun. How are we to get there, magician?"

"Well," answered the magician, "the usual way is to climb up a sunbeam, but that's not very quick and sunbeams are apt to be slippery in the dry weather. Shall I send you up in a flash of lightning or on the spur of a lark?"

"Spur of a lark!" echoed the King. "You mean on the spur of a moment, don't you?"

"Not a bit of it," answered the magician; "you'd never get up to Wympland on the spur of anything but a lark, I can tell you! You have to get up there very early in any case, if you want to be even with the wymps; so the best way is to rise with the lark. However, as it is getting rather late in the day for larks, I had better send you up in a lightning flash. Will you manage it alone, or shall I send a conductor with it?"

"Would the conductor show us the way?" asked Eyebright.

"Dear me, no," said the magician. "Lightning conductors never show anything but the stupidity of some people. Perhaps you'd better have the lightning without a conductor; so stand on one side, while I pick you out a nice quiet flash without any thunder hanging to it."

He took down a large sack, labelled Storms, from the shelf, untied the top and plunged his head into it. Eyebright stole a little closer to the King than before and hoped that nothing would go off with a bang.

"I say," said his Majesty, putting his arm round her, "it strikes me—"

"That is impossible," interrupted the magician in a stuffy voice from the middle of the sack, "for I've got it in both hands, and it isn't going to strike anybody so long as you treat it kindly. Now, off you go in a flash!"

And off they did go in something, though they never knew what it was, for they had no time to see anything before they found themselves dropped with a thud on the other side of the sun. For a moment or two they just lay where they had fallen without moving; then they sat up and rubbed their eyes and looked round.

"Oh!" exclaimed Eyebright, clasping her hands tight; "I had no idea it was like this."

Of course Eyebright knew no more about Wympland than she had learned in her geography lessons, and we all know how little geography books ever tell us about the really nice places in the world. So, although she knew as well as any other little girl that Wympland has no physical features and its inhabitants have no occupation, that its climate is dull and foggy and its government is a sleeping monarchy, she was not in the least prepared for what she did see.

"Well," said a voice somewhere near, "what do you think of it?"

Just in front of them a wymp was standing on his head, which is a wymp's favourite way of resting his legs. He seemed to expect an answer, so the King did his best to think of one that should be both polite and truthful. As a matter of fact, he did not think much of Wympland at all.

"It—it is rather full of fog, isn't it?" he began, a little nervously.

The wymp looked distinctly hurt; but before he had time to get angry Eyebright put things right in her quiet little way.

"I don't think it is yellow fog," she said; "it is more like dull sunshine."

The wymp fairly wympled when he heard this.

"You've hit it!" he cried in a delighted tone; "that's what it is really. It's the folks from the front of the sun who call it yellow fog; they're blinded by their own sunshine, they are. This is the back of the sun, you see, and the sunshine naturally loses a bit of its polish by the time it has worked through."

"I think I like bright sunshine best," observed the King.

"That is absurd!" said the wymp. "Why, you can't look at it without blinking, to begin with. In Wympland you get all the advantages of the sun and none of the drawbacks,—no sunblinds or sunstrokes or sunspots! You must be a stupid boy if you can't see that!"

"It is your fault, not mine," answered the King boldly; "you shouldn't have thrown dust in my eyes if you wanted me to see Wympland in the right light!"

The wymp turned several somersaults to show his amazement at the King's words, and finally stood thoughtfully on one leg.

"That's serious," he said. "We didn't know you'd ever come up here, or we shouldn't have done it. However, it can't be helped now, so you'd better go back again. It doesn't matter if you do see things wrong—at the front of the sun."

"But it does matter!" they both exclaimed; "and that's why we want you to take away the spell, please."

The wymp stood on his head again and shook it from side to side, which no one but a wymp could have done, considering the awkwardness of the position. "There's only one thing to be done," he said at last. "You must exchange eyes."

They stared at the wymp and then at each other. The little King began to think busily, but Eyebright spoke without thinking at all.

"Very well," she said. "How is it to be done?"

"Quite easy," answered the wymp, cheerfully. "All you've got to do is to wish with all your might to have the King's eyes instead of your own, and there you are!"

At that moment the King finished his thinking. "Stop!" he shouted. "If I take her eyes away, she will always see things wrong!"

But the King had spoken too late. Eyebright had already wished with all her might, and her eyes had turned as blue as deep water while his Majesty's were round and large and brown.

"What fun!" she cried, laughing happily. "Isn't it a nice change to have somebody else's eyes?"

The little King, however, was far too furious to listen to her.

"Stand up and let me knock you down!" he cried, shaking his fist at the wymp. "Look what you have done. She will see things wrong to the end of her days!"

"Don't be a foolish little boy," said the wymp, calmly. "Take her home and try to see things right yourself."

The King certainly did not take her home, nor himself either; but it is the truth that they both found themselves, the very next minute, standing on the top of the small green hillock and looking down at the kingdom of the Monotonous Isles.

"Hurrah!" shouted King Wistful, waving his crown joyfully. "What a beautiful kingdom I've got! Look how the sun glints on the cornfields, and see the great red and blue patches of flowers! Don't you think it is a beautiful kingdom?" he added, turning to the little girl in the sunbonnet.

Eyebright was distinctly puzzled. She thought she only saw five round islands in a row. But, of course, it was impossible that the King should be mistaken. So she looked once more over the kingdom of the Monotonous Isles and then back at the anxious face of the little King.

"Yes," she said softly, "it is, as you say, a beautiful kingdom." Then she ran down the hill and disappeared among the slender trees of the baby wood, and little King Wistful went home to bed.

There is a Queen now as well as a King of the Monotonous Isles. She has black hair and blue eyes, and she wears a crown instead of a sunbonnet, and she quite agrees with the King whenever he tells her how beautiful their kingdom is. And if this should seem remarkable to some people, it need only be remembered that the Queen sees everything with the King's eyes.

10% of the profit from the sale of this ebook will be donated to charities

====================

From: THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SUN - 8 illustrated original fairy stories by Evelyn Sharp

ISBN: 9788828320203

URL: https://store.streetlib.com/en/evelyn-sharp/the-other-side-of-the-sun-8-illustrated-original-fairy-stories

====================

#Other Side of the sun #evelyn sharp #folklore #fairy tales #childrens_stories #magician #tea party #magical #fairies

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blueanddeepblue · 7 years

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10/6

I've seen my dad once in the last seven years. We haven't spoken in the past year and a half. We're not even Facebook friends. When I came home from college one semester with a Rolling Stones CD with the song Bitch on it, he told me either the CD had to go, or I did. Before that, when I left for college, he told me I was throwing away a god-given gift by not playing college basketball. He may have been right about that one. ----- Right now A and I are sitting in the car in the middle of the Sturgeon River National Wilderness in Michigan's Upper Peninsula escaping the weather. Our tent is holding fast; it is both dry and secure, but I've spent too much of the past 24 hours losing to A at gin rummy to want to be trapped in there any longer. Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 15 is playing on the car radio, and we've reached the climax. Earlier, we ate dinner underneath a tarp in the cold and rain. Dinner was absolutely stellar. There were moments before the rain, as I got the fire going and A prepped our dinner, where the sun came out for a rare appearance, shooting light up towards the gold and red of oaks and birches and maples beginning their fall display. Our camp is along a bend in the river five miles down a dirt road, and we're the only campers here for the second night running. The solitude of the forest is immense after the din of tourists at several of our previous Michigan stops. Today when I went to rinse a dish in the river, a Bald Eagle flushed from his perch and A yelled "Up, up, up!" until I heard her above the babble of the rapids and looked to see him rise over the pines and out of sight. ----- I think some small portion of my love for birding is due to my dad. He would always point out hawks as he was driving, ducking his head so he could get a clearer vantage point beneath the windshield. I'm not sure he took much interest in birds in general, but he showed the excitement of a child whenever a hawk made a highway appearance. When he drove, he always had a toothpick to chew on, a holdover from his smoking days, which I never realized was the case until I quit smoking two and a half years ago. On the dashboard, he'd also keep a comb with all the rounded bristles knocked off so to better scratch his head as he drove. I don't remember him ever getting a traffic ticket. And one of his claims to fame was that he was never in a car accident, not even a fender bender. It's hard not to write about him in the past-tense. Sometimes I feel like the part of my life that had him in it was eons ago, and I was a different person. Now, when the family gets together for christmas, it feels whole and healthy, it doesn't feel like there's a missing piece; it feels like a weight has been lifted. But of course, there's this hole that exists, somewhere, even though I know it's better this way. This past week, talking with my uncle, I noticed, how he too, referred to his brother in the past-tense. ----- One of my favorite parts about traveling is the people you encounter. The relationships that A and I have fostered along this trip are of a certain mettle only tempered through the road. In Virginia we see my friend, Ava, and her and Mike's new baby, Onyx. They live on a farm on the bend in a creek near the Appalachian Trail with chickens and a garden and a self-built sauna and diesel powered hot-tub. They are the type of people who inspire you to do. To find ways to improve your life by your own means. To build a treehouse or learn to fly a plane. To live according to your own rules and not be bound by cultural norms. Ava and I met in undergrad, on a study abroad trip in Mexico. I've kept several friends from that study abroad trip, maybe because forging a friendship in a place outside your comfort zone helps you know that miles-between don't really matter. I remember joining Ava and her family one time at a Gary P Nunn concert in Luckenbach, Texas. I remember eating BBQ and dancing and having too many drinks and laughing at it all, every one of us crammed into the same small hotel room afterwards. I remember being struck by how her parents could still talk amicably after divorce. How they could even laugh a little at each other. How experiences could be shared because they were family. Seeing Ava and her own family is beautiful. We eat french toast and drink too much coffee. Mike is already out on the tractor, discussing methods of hauling brush with a neighbor. We leave feeling torn, lingering longer than intended, wishing we could stay to help the small community that's gathered to help cut down trees and make space for Onyx's outdoor play area. In D.C., we meet up with A's friend, Rhonda. We crash on her couch and wander the town, being tourists and visitors. Rhonda shows us the nearby farmer's market, and spoils us with drinks and stories and delicious meals. Years ago, A used to nanny Rhonda's boys, who are 16 and 14 now, all grown up with deep voices and polite manners, as driven and intent as their mother. Rhonda is a burst of constant energy, a whirlwind of goodness.The kind of person who radiates action and fortitude. As most everyone in D.C. does, Rhonda works in government, balancing home life and the nearly impossible demands of her job. In the garden, she found a caterpillar capable of devouring an entire tomato plant in one night. According to the internet, the appropriate remedy for such a pest is to cut it in half with a knife. Rhonda opts to leave him out on the sidewalk in hopes the birds will find him a tasty morsel. On a nearby leaf, a similar caterpillar is discovered, immobile, and riddled with white wasp larvae devouring it from the inside out. The best practice for a caterpillar being devoured from the inside out is to leave it alone, let nature to do its bidding. There is a theme brewing, a pattern; here, too, a father (but not a husband) stays involved with his kids, cajoles them about their homework, takes them rock climbing. ----- Later, in Pennsylvania, we stay two nights with my best friends' mom, Ann, and her husband Rocky. They live on a farm in the hills surrounded by cornfields and little villages with picturesque churches down winding country roads. When the wind blows, the corn rustles like the rattling of hollow bones, like a million wind chimes made of old newspaper. We have dinner on the patio overlooking the garden and the 100 year old barn and the next-door church and cemetery. We eat mussels and caprese and Rocky's own Golumpki recipe. Rocky and Ann regale us with stories of sailing adventures and hiking trips, tales of family and old friends, and opinions on politics and philosophy and life. I tend to wax poetic. Rocky tells good jokes. Evening on the patio turns into night and new bottles of wine keep appearing. It feels like home away from home. The next day we kayak on a nearby lake and lunch by a waterfall. The trip is also beginning to revolve around waterfalls. When we paddle back, there is a kingfisher and a little green heron and I can imagine the lake when the leaves fall. How it turns into a liquid carpet of gold and orange and red that the boat cuts through like a knife. In New York, we eat pho and gawk at passerby. Chinatown flows by, and we're mesmerized once again by the energy and the pace. New York is a city of no limits, no boundaries. In many ways, you are invisible. Always, everywhere, there is someone louder, more stylish, crazier, more artistic, or more outlandish than you. We stop to see A's friend who's opening a gallery. Later, we stay in the Bronx with my friend Jill, whose wife, Jess, is out of the country helping with hurricane relief. We share a dinner and beers and conversation, the three pillars of almost every good interaction. I fall asleep astounded at the goodness of people, at the way my life is surrounded by amazing people, humbled by the hospitality we're shown stop after stop. ----- My dad was 31 when I came along. In pictures from this era he appears rugged and handsome. He wears cut-off jean shorts and waterskis, barefoot, on some Texas lake, maybe even Canyon Lake, where I grew up. His hair is dark and wavy, and his eyes flicker a mystery, belying the thrill of speed, the roar of a powerboat, the splash of the wake against a barreled chest, strong arms. The pictures themselves have the golden tint of years past, the nostalgic glow of easy living. In one set of pictures, he sports a thick mustache and throws a football to friends. He drinks beer from the types of cans that advertisers have brought back into vogue now that enough time has lapsed, now that the trends have come full circle and they can again benefit from the aesthetics of collective memory. I did not know this version of my father. The one who lived easily among friends. The one who drank beer and waterskied and rode motorcycles and found ways to live fast and large. Or maybe I should say I did not often know this version of my father. Maybe these pictures of him are really card tricks, fanciful sleight-of-hand maneuvers that the mind plays on perception. Maybe the amber-tinged version of my dad is a mythology I've constructed, a story I've built up over the years to protect myself, to help explain why he's faded into the background of my life. Instead, I knew the version of my dad who couldn't handle it when the toothpaste wasn't rolled up from the bottom or the laundry didn't make it into the correct bin. The version who pulled us from sunday school because the message wasn't strong enough. Who changed the channel when beer commercials came on. Who had few friends that seemed to last. Who felt slighted and wronged by the world. Whose eyes shot sideways and clouded over with righteousness when he was begging to lose control. This too, is an illusion, a shifting myth tinged by the murkiness of memory. He also laughed at himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He took us fishing and played basketball with us, even though he grew up near Detroit, Michigan, where hockey is the sport of nobility, the sport his Texan kids would never quite comprehend. He wrestled on the floor with us or made himself into a launchpad at the pool, hurling us up and out across the water until we imagined ourselves to be birds, spaceships, shooting stars. ----- Here is a partial list of birds that A and I have seen thus far: Black-Throated Green Warbler Yellow Billed Cuckoo White Breasted Nuthatch Pileated Woodpecker Downy Woodpecker Black Buzzard Eastern Wood Peewee American Goldfinch Hooded Warbler Dark Eyed Junco Golden Crowned Kinglet Red Breasted Nuthatch Canada Goose House Sparrow Raven Grey Jay Green Heron Cedar Waxwing Blue Jay Belted Kingfisher Pine Warbler Northern Flicker Red Tailed Hawk Red Bellied Woodpecker Hairy Woodpecker American Robin Wild Turkey Crow Eastern European Starling Great Blue Heron Tufted Titmouse Brewers Blackbird Yellow Rumped Warbler Black Capped Chickadee Brown Thrasher Bald Eagle Wood Duck American Redstart Turkey Vulture White Throated Sparrow Least Flycatcher Ruby Crowned Kinglet Common Loon Hermit Thrush Northern Mockingbird Some of these are new birds, like the Hermit Thrush and American Redstart, birds that flash new color and make us hold our breath, or others that require we lean in to see the subtlety, those that mystify through the mundane. Some are as familiar as friends - a Kinglet among the underbrush. Other times, we jump to our binoculars at the flash of movement among the trees, against the sky, only to be disappointed by another mangy robin, another buzzard riding the thermals along the cliffs. We camp along every single one of the Great Lakes, marveling at the oceans of fresh water, at the gentle pulse of the waves lapping the shore or at the rainbow of color among the rounded stones. We stand underneath the falls at Niagara and on the boat that takes us in closer to where the mist shoots like needles into our eyes, where the sound is deafening as eternal thunder. Along the shores of Lake Michigan, we haul our camp chairs to the beach and look at the Milky Way among the night sky. We drink box wine and watch the fog roll in. Later, we swim in Superior, clear as glass all the way down to our toes. We emerge fresh and alive, reborn. We also run away from the biting flies, layer up to avoid the gnats, the mosquitos. Nature churns on according to its own whims. We're merely visitors here. ----- So much has gone by that I can't cram into this post. So many thoughts and feelings slipped through the cracks. Elusive. Flitted away. Things I glimpsed but that I could not identify. Ways to cinch the threads on this loose narrative. I am sitting in my sister's home in downtown Minneapolis. My niece is building blocks on the living room floor in front of me. I am aware that she is where the secret exists. That the most important person should always be the one right in front of me. That these memories I revisit and these things I chronicle are also fleeting. My sister and her husband have a wonderful family. The nieces share and play together wonderfully. Their home is wonderful and the meals we share around the table are wonderful. It's grey and rainy on the streets right now, but the warmth inside this home seems to stem from something deeper than an efficient central air system. My brothers camped with us in New York. We swam in the lake and fed spiders to the fish below the dock, watching them emerge from the depths like in the best Attenborough documentaries. We hiked around the lake. We watched a sunset explode over the hills behind us. We shared a fire and ate s'mores. We drank beers and swapped stories as the fog rolled in. I'm proud of my little brothers, who are bigger than me and have been for quite some time. I'm proud of their decisions and the people they've become - solid, thoughtful, caring, and articulate. I'm proud of their ability to grow up. Proud of their tenacity and perseverance. Proud of the kindness that seems innate. I'm proud of them. I'm proud of them all. My sister and brother back in Texas who aren't as much a part of this story merely because this trip and their paths have not yet intersected. I'm proud of the family we've become. The people we are. ----- There are no tidy endings here. No clean conclusions. Narratives seek a wrap-up, a way of putting all the pieces back together, but this is real life; it is neither as messy, nor as poetic as I make it seem in this account. I know that Dad is a part of the family we've become. I know that he, too, has much to be proud of. That he, too, should look at his grown children and see their success as part of his own. But I also know that he is broken. As all people share in brokenness. And that his brokenness keeps him from sharing in our success. Keeps him from calling, or writing, or staying meaningfully involved in any of our lives. In Michigan, we met up with Dad's brother and his wife. We kayaked down the Au Sable river and stayed at their home along the shores of Lake Huron. We slept with windows open to the sound of a lapping lake and woke to sunrises made of gold and fire. I wasn't planning on writing any of this. Not really. But somewhere along the dirt roads of the Upper Peninsula, or while passing a ski boat towed by an eager truck, or while walking on a sandy beach of Huron (all of these places of Dad's own childhood, fragments of the stories I remember him telling), or maybe even before all that, maybe before the trip began, I noticed a thread. Somewhere in all this space and beauty, somewhere in the rush of a waterfall, in the purple of a flower, somewhere between hiking-strides or in the sweep of a vista, I noticed a memory that hasn't quite yet finished playing itself out. A memory that is stranger still because it holds no finality, because there is still a chance at redemption, at a happy ending. So I'll put this here, mostly for my own benefit, like a soup simmering on low, to come back to at a later time. When I'm ready. And I'll walk with the realization that life isn't passed on, it's shared. That beauty is right in front of you, inviting you to get down and share with someone, inviting you to pick up the pieces and build something.

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olwog · 7 years

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Soo Peeps, Today we’ll learn that ‘up’ is not necessarily the top and that fish and chips are best bought from a fish and chip shop!

I’ve planned a route from Runswick Bay to Whitby on OS Maps and sent it off to George Preston (Tracker George) for his scrutiny as he likes to plot the route on a physical map. it worked well in the past although I’ve never had an issue using my iPhone to follow the route it’s great to have a belt and braces regime if it did decide to go belly up.

A number of chums are on holiday or taking a break and our leader is touring the battle sites of the world wars over the channel. The plan is to take the car to Whitby and park up then catch the bus using our old farts passes (OFP’s) back to Runswick Bay. We’ll then walk the coastline back to Whitby followed by fish and chips at one of the multitude of outlets near the docks or the bridge. It’s just under ten miles and there’s a bit of ‘up’ to challenge and keep us fit.

The cost of the car park is somewhat eye-watering at £7 but I’m told there’s nothing that Whitby can do about it as it’s set by Scarborough Council. We make out way across the road to the bus station calling for a swift coffee on the way in to the station. As we pass there’s the sound of a steam engine and with the aid of a short and not too elegant canter I manage to get a couple of distance photos for the album. Whilst the engine is quite a distance away as it changes ends to pull the train back to Goathland it leaves a fabulous mix of smells from the burning of the coal and the extensive plume of steam.

It’s a mix that I grew up with. I lived near the main north/south line that carried traffic from Edinburgh to London Kings Cross and the mix of sulphurous carbon and steam brought many memories flooding back.

I would be about four when I was allowed to sit on the five bar crossing-gate at Castle Hills to watch the huge steamers make their way along what we called the Low Line. Most of them would be heading to or from Middlesbrough and beyond but some would be stopping at the extensive shunting yards that were part of the industrial and rural activity of the North End of Northallerton. There were various facilities for loading and unloading trains and if a little boy like me wanted to watch a lot of train activity he would only need to tell his dad. If he was lucky, the next Sunday his dad would take him to a particular bridge a little further along the line where he could be picked up and plonked down on the sandstone coping stones of the bridge. He was then pinned by his dad’s arms wrapped around his body and hands pushing down on the tops of his legs. There’d be no possibility of falling and the little lad could experience engines in full steam passing under the bridge and bathing him in smoke and steam for several seconds then the manmade fog would begin to disperse and the shunting yard would reappear with the engine either drifting right into the sidings or heading straight on through Low Gates which had magically closed to the one car, several carts and a mix of people on bikes and on foot.

Most things were transported by train then including cattle. There were facilities at both North End and the Main Station to load beasts onto the cattle trucks and thence to wherever. I’m not sure about animal welfare but I do remember the plaintive moos, baas and occasional squeals of pigs as one of them would upset another in the confines of the trucks.

As we got a little older we’d pluck up enough courage to stand on the embankment near the signal and when a train was stopped as the semaphore arm was set by the signalman and the oil light shone through a piece of red glass we’d ask the driver if we could stand on the footplate until he reached the next signal about 200 yards along the track. I remember being puzzled by the fact that the glass to indicate stop was as red as can be (and I’m colour blind) but the glass that was supposed to be green was actually blue, I was later to discover that this was because the oil light was yellow and the result of the two colours was, in fact, red!

If the driver had been stopped at this signal then the next signal would almost certainly be clear to indicate to the driver he could proceed so they were always a little reticent to concede to our request; however, if you ask enough drivers then there’s always one that will eventually cave in and we’d get our ride. It was thrilling to be standing there as the fireman opened the firebox using the long metal lever that was riveted to the firebox cover which in turn was made of some thick metal. As it was drawn to one side the heat would hit our legs and he’d throw a couple of shovels of coal into the gaping furnace then he’d close it again. The only thing that seemed to insulate him from the heat of the lever was an oily looking rag that he stuffed into a belt that he’d have hanging loosely around his overalls. There were gauges and more levers and the driver showed us the one that he called the regulator. It always seemed to be stiff as he pulled or beat it with the palm of his hand whilst pulling either a piece of cord or another small lever to blow the whistle twice. If he hit it too hard the wheels would skid as metal on metal doesn’t induce the sort of friction that you’d get from rubber and tarmac but I didn’t know that yet.

Sometimes, if we were lucky, the signal wouldn’t change for several minutes and these periods were gold dust as the driver of the fireman would show us the gauges and dials and tell us what they did. There was one dial that showed the pressure in the boiler and when it got to a particular red mark there would be the most excruciating noise as the safety valve would activate and steam would escape in the most horrendous shrill eruption and the engine would be engulfed in steam. I remember that this noise was probably the loudest I’d ever experienced and it hurt my ears. The driver and fireman would laugh and gesture to us to put our fingers on the little flap of skin, which I’d later be told in a biology lesson is called the tragus, and push it into our ear with our fingers and this helped but it really was intolerably loud.

On a couple of occasions, we were allowed to pull the string for the whistle and it became the subject of conversation for weeks. Getting off was always a little more challenging as the embankment was far steeper along the line and he’d only have seconds to stop as the signalman wouldn’t be best pleased if this little treat was witnessed. The metal steps were at huge intervals for little legs and he’d hold our hands or arms as we kicked our feet around until they found safe footing then he’d lower us until we shouted, “I’m down”.

We’d scramble up the embankment before he moved the train and then walk back along the top past Baker’s barn and back to the level crossing. This was done through beds of nettles and as we’d only be in shorts they’d leave us with angry, itchy and painful rashes of spots that we’d rub dock leaves on. I’m not sure there is any pharmacological effect from a dock leaf but it always felt better and what we’d just done soon had us forgetting the imitation anyway. We rarely asked again on the same day, our hearts were beating fast and we’d barely be able to speak for excitement but the tales that we told and kudos we got in the playground was incalculable.

Of course, this degree of what you might call ‘reckless generosity’ would result in instant dismissal these days but that was in the mid-1950’s and times were different.

All this is going through my mind when Pete’s voice comes through the fog in my brain, “You alright”.

“Just want to take a snap through here”, says I and Pete promptly speeds through the alleyway and after a brief pause, looks around the corner and gives me the thumbs up that no one is coming and I can get my shot looking out of the harbour and across at the Abbey, it’s not the best as there is a lamp post in the way but you win some you lose some and I get more than my fair share of gooduns. When it comes to taking a picture Pete’s usually ahead of the game and I appreciate his thoughtfulness in checking there are no people going to accidentally spoil it.

We manage to drink half of our mugs of coffee and tea when Tracker George announces it’s only five minutes to bus departing so we make our way around the corner to the bus station where our ride to Runswick is waiting.

The bus journey is worth the cost for the scenery alone, North Yorkshire at its best with rolling hills, a goodly bank (Lythe Bank), a few small woods and the beautiful North Sea, although, a little quiet today. To clarify, it’s worth the cost if we were paying but our OFP’s obviate all of that.

At Runswick we disembark along with a number of other walkers whilst a couple who’ve been staying at Brunswick are standing at the other side waiting to go to Sandsend, they’re also walking to Whitby but missing the best part of the walk; ah well!

Dave advises the path adjacent to the hotel for the simple reason that I’d never gone that route before. it enables a great view of the bay and we stop at the top to allow Pete to fall over and me to get a couple of good photos looking into the sea. Pete’s OK if a little shaken and as always he looks on the bright side. “I’m glad I’m not in shorts”, says he, “I could have scrubbed my knees”. So there you go, no negativity here but the rest of us are so forgiving and he’s subject to a deluge of quips about sobriety and age.

Towards the bottom of the path Dave points out a toilet and as we’re all of an age where the prostate is bigger than bladder we avail ourselves of the facilities whilst Pete pretends he knows what he’s doing with his camera and snaps a couple of great shots with me in them.

Onwards and in this case downward and we’re on the beach for a few hundred yards then turn right into the cut immediately after Hobb Holes and begin the ascent to the aptly named High Cliff. It’s about a quarter of a mile but the rise is a good three hundred feet and we stop a couple of times purely to take in the view of course. On one of these stops, we meet Steve. Steve usually walks the Norfolk coast and the contrast is immense if a little challenging on the stretches like this one, although an odd stop to look out through the shrubs at the bay below, mitigates any pain.

From here it’s a steady ‘up’ to Kettleness then reasonably flat along the cliff edge with great views of the North Sea and all of the sea traffic heading towards Teesport, it’s a great sight and verifies what we already know, it’s big and it’s busy.

Teesport handles over 6,000 vessels per year and the annual cargo tonnage is 56,000,000 tonnes. You can argue the case for it being second or third largest in the country and be right or wrong each time, what can be said is that it’s up there amongst the biggest and best and we can be proud.

I’m lost in thought during this part of the walk, the sun is shining and there really isn’t a cloud in the sky, by that I don’t mean that there’s only a few, I mean it literally and the result is that sea takes on a deep blue that is rarely seen and quite beautiful. It’s also as flat calm as you’re going to get so that the excitement of huge breakers hitting the rocks and cliffs is replaced by a gentle solitude even though there are four of us and it’s induced by the stillness of the day.

As we approach Sandsend Tracker George goes off-piste and beckons us to follow him and he points through a couple of thin shrubs to a cutting that leads to a tunnel. It’s the old Sandsend line and in it’s day would be responsible for carrying alum and other minerals from the mines hereabout. A figure of £235,000 was budgeted in the 1860’s and, like all things contemporary, wasn’t nearly enough as the final cost amounted to over £650,000.

It would be easy to miss this delight and I would urge you to take a few minutes to have a look and go ‘on-line’ if you’ll pardon the pun and read all about it, it’s fascinating.

Now we’re walking carefully down some very steep wooden steps through the woods towards the other end of the tunnel, clearly, it would have been easier to walk through but it has been barricaded and I’m not sure about the safety even if it were open.

At the other side we’re back out in the open and following the old track bed for about a mile then down a little more and we’re on the seafront near Witzend Cafe requisitioning a bench seat with a perfect view of the sea whilst we eat a snack to get us up the last hill to Whitby – we don’t want to ruin appetites for the fish and chip reward at the end.

As we sit we’re entertained by a small sea creature and a guessing game ensues.

“It’s a seal”

“No, it’s seaweed”

“No, it’s a baby seal”

“It looks like a piece of wood”

This game continues as we nibble our way through what the farmers would call our ‘llowance. The ‘llownace was a sandwich accompanied by a flask of tea in the fields when we were ‘tatie pickin’. Towards the end of this delightful break, the ‘thing’ is rolling alarmingly towards the shore when Pete says what we all hoped, “I hope it’s not a baby seal…” as it flopped like a corpse as what was left of the already small waves rolled it onto the sand.

Dave was the one brave enough to investigate and came back with the welcome message that it was seaweed; all relieved now, we set off again.

It’s pathway now as we walk along the seafront. We get an occasional smile and “only 35 miles to go” from some folks who think we’re walking the Cleveland Way. We are actually walking the way but not all the way so we just smile back and nod.

The next mile is a little tedious as we negotiate our way past small groups of people who take up the width of the path then as we approach the golf course it becomes clear again.

Beyond the golf course and we turn left to regain the path on the edge of the cliffs and enter Whitby via West Cliff with mandatory photos at the whale jawbones then down into Khyber Pass and onto the fish quay turning left over the bridge and into the Dolphin for fish and chips and, in Pete’s case, a chicken pie. If you use this hotel, and please do, bare in mind that only fish and chip shops do the best fish and chips, I may well come back here in the future but it will be a chicken pie!

Satiated, we’re dragged kicking and screaming to Arguments Yard for a photograph by Snapper Pete then we close the loop via the bridge which has obligingly opened to enable us to take photographs and by coincidence also let a couple of boats through to the upper harbour. It’s at this point that we note the height of the tide and I’m glad I looked at the chart before deciding on the upper or lower routes of some of this route.

It’s an excellent walk of just over 9 miles and you can add a mile if you wander aimlessly around Whitby.

Feel free to share and like if you wish. Enjoy the snaps…G..x

Runswick Bay to Whitby in the Sunshine Soo Peeps, Today we’ll learn that ‘up’ is not necessarily the top and that fish and chips are best bought from a fish and chip shop!

#Cleveland Way #Kettleness #Landscapes #North Yorkshire Moors #Photographs #Photos #Pictures #Runswick Bay #Saltburn #Sandsend #Scarborough #Walking #Walks #Whitby #Yorkshire #Yorkshire Moors

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