#this is late because not only was i drawing two peeps & accessories; this is the first time i've drawn broly and was figuring him out

[sonikkuruzu]

@gokutober day 21! Today's prompt is "Food" so I drew Goku showing Broly some yummy Earth food

Prompts here - https://gokutober.tumblr.com/post/729317335347888128/gokutober-2023-prompts-are-here

[tsuki-chibi]

Blueberry Peach (Adrien AUGreste) Part 31: My Prince

Start from day one on AO3: Blueberry Peach

Or read the whole series on AO3: Fruitful verse

--------

"What do you think, son?" Tom asked, straightening the covers on the bed. He stood back and surveyed the room, then added, "I know it's probably a bit smaller than what you're used to, but -"

"It's perfect," Adrien said, a warm glow filling his chest. Tom had called him 'son'. Him.

He looked around at the room, which admittedly was about a third of the size of what he was used to. It was laid out similarly to Marinette's, with a loft bed. A desk had been set underneath the bed for his computer and schoolwork. On the opposite wall was a large bookcase which held all of his books, his games, and his DVDs. Next to that was his television and gaming consoles. Then there was a large window which caught the sun in the early morning. Adrien had already checked - if he stuck his head out the window and twisted to the right, Marinette's balcony was just a hop away.

The closet was only about half full, mostly because Adrien had left a lot of his clothes behind. Amélie had looked like she wanted to spit nails when she realized that almost all of Adrien’s clothing was made by Gabriel. On the one hand, it made sense. On the other hand, it meant Adrien was constantly a walking, talking advertise for his father’s company. Amélie had promised that he could get some new clothing this coming weekend, and Adrien was looking forward to it.

It had only been two weeks since Amélie had given her official permission for Adrien to move in with the Dupain-Chengs. Things had moved very quickly since then. Émilie's second funeral had been held on a quiet Sunday morning. Gabriel, of course, had not been in attendance. Adrien hadn't spoken to his father since the day Hawkmoth had been arrested, and he was perfectly fine with that.

This past weekend had been spent moving all of his things into the Dupain-Cheng’s spare bedroom. For now, the mansion was going to remain empty. Amélie and Félix had returned to London because Félix couldn't stay out of school any longer. But Amélie had promised that they would both come up on the train next weekend, and the weekend after that Adrien and Marinette were going to go to London to stay with them. Adrien was looking forward to that, but of course he had to deal with this week first. He hadn't been back to school since his father's arrest.

In short, the room might have been smaller, and it was a tiny bit crowded because Adrien had way more stuff than he had ever realized he did, but it was the manifestation of Adrien's dreams because it had been prepared for him by people who cared. Not just by an interior designer who was only interested in collecting a considerable paycheck.

"Well, I don't know about that," Tom said, drawing Adien’s attention back to him, but he gave a pleased smile.

'Adrien, we're going to be late for school,' Marinette thought.

"I have to go; we're going to be late," Adrien said out loud.

Tom chuckled. "Marinette remind you? That's a new one. Usually she's running downstairs at the last minute."

The flush of indignation through the bond made Adrien smile. "She heard that."

"The truth hurts," Tom said, a twinkle in his eye as he picked up Adrien's backpack. He passed it to Adrien. "Are you kids coming right home after school?"

"I think we might go get ice cream with our friends," Adrien said, slightly uncertain.

"That's fine," Tom said. "Your curfew is the same as Marinette's."

"Uh... okay?" Adrien said. "I can just... go?"

Tom's smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "Adrien, we told you that you didn't have to keep doing all those lessons and being a model unless you wanted to. You said you didn't want to. Did you change your mind?"

Adrien shook his head. "No."

"Then yes, you can just go when you want. Within reason, of course. But Sabine and I didn't invite you to live here so that we could control your every move," Tom said, gently patting Adrien's shoulder. "Now I have to get back downstairs to the bakery, and you need to get going. We're both going to have annoyed soulmates on our hands otherwise."

"Thanks," Adrien said quietly, and Tom smiled again at him.

'I told you,' Marinette thought, but it was kindly.

'I know you did. It's just hard to wrap my head around,' Adrien thought, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Not having every minute of the day scheduled was going to be an adjustment – but a nice one.

He followed Tom downstairs and found Marinette waiting for him. She greeted him with a smile, a kiss to his cheek, and a warm scone. As Adrien took a bite of the scone, she slipped a couple wedges of cheese into his pocket for Plagg.

'I love you,' Adrien thought, and she laughed.

'I love you too,' she thought. 'Now come on!'

They made it to class a few minutes before the bell rang. Madame Bustier wasn't there yet, and neither was Lila. Adrien found himself to be a little glad about that as he took a seat beside Chloé. She looked really good today, wearing a white sundress, black knee-high boots, and a cropped yellow cardigan. The Bee miraculous was a perfect accessory for her color-coordinated outfit.

"So how's the new place?" Chloé asked, propping her chin on her hand.

"It's really, really good," Adrien said, smiling. Chloé had also offered him a room at the hotel, which he appreciated. It was nice to know he had options. He also liked that she had accepted that he was going to stay at Marinette’s without argument. He thought that Chloé might have finally understood how important she was to him, but more than that she had finally accepted it.

"Whenever you need a break, you can come play video games with me," Nino said from across the aisle.

"A break from what, exactly?" Marinette said, leaning over her desk and narrowing her eyes.

"Uh," Nino said. He cleared his throat. "I mean, whenever you need some guy time."

"I'll keep that in mind," Adrien said, trying not to laugh.

The door slid open and Lila came in. Adrien sighed to himself as he watched Marinette catch Chloé's eye. Both girls had an identical expression of mischief on their faces.

'I never should have made the two of you friends,' he thought.

'You shush,' Marinette thought at him. 'Let us have our fun.'

"Don't be ridiculous," Chloé said loudly, her voice perfectly pitched to carry. "Adrien won't need a break from his soulmate."

Instant silence.

"Wait, what?" Rose said in surprise. "Soulmate? Adrien found his soulmate?"

Chloé swung around to face her. "Yeah. He moved in with his soulmate over the weekend."

"Who is it?" Mylène asked, pointedly not looking at Lila.

"It's me," Marinette said, and she deliberately looked at Lila.

Lila's jaw dropped.

The class exploded.

"What the hell?!"

"Are you serious?!"

"Oh my god!"

Marinette's delight in the shocked, embarrassed look on Lila's face was enough to make Adrien smile too, though he tried to hide it. Chloé’s smirk stretched from ear to ear. They really were terrible, but there was no downplaying it now.

"Yes, we're serious," Adrien said, turning to face their classmates.

"So you've been soulmates this whole time?" Alix said, eyes wide. She looked like she was rethinking a lot, like two plus two was suddenly adding up to four when all along they’d thought it was three.

"Yup. They kept it secret because Adrien's dad is a jerk," Chloé said, idly examining her nails. Then she looked up with an innocent expression. "I knew because I was there when it happened at Daddy's party. Marinette tripped and dumped macarons all over Adrien."

Marinette flushed as everyone laughed.

"Did you have to tell them that?" she complained. “It was just a couple macarons! Not a whole tray!”

“I’m not sure that helps, Marinette,” Alya said, still giggling.

Chloé grinned. "But either way it's still true. Right, Adrikins?"

Adrien nodded. "The 100% truth, but I thought it was adorable," he said, giving Marinette a soft look. Marinette’s ire faded and she smiled back.

Lila's face was getting steadily redder. She had clearly worked out that Marinette and Adrien had been soulmates all along, but all she said was, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Why should I?" Adrien said coolly. "The people who needed to know already did."

Chloé snickered. "Yeah, so you basically spent like three weeks pretending you were a soulmate to a guy who already one," she told Lila. "And the rest of you thought Marinette and Adrien should break up!"

There were various guilty and uncomfortable looks, Alya included. Lila just looked even more embarrassed.

"Like Chloé said, we can tell people now because Adrien's dad isn't an issue," Marinette said, bringing the attention back to her. "He can't keep us apart. No one can." Her tone was challenging, and she looked Lila right in the eyes.

Lila looked away - and then, without a word, she slunk up the steps and sat down in the back row in what would normally be Nathaniel's place, but he was out sick today. Marinette looked satisfied as she lifted up her bag and set it on the empty seat beside her.

The rest of the class peppered Marinette and Adrien with questions until Madame Bustier arrived. She had already been told about this - Tom and Sabine had contacted the school to let them know last week - so she wasn't surprised to see it was the topic of conversation. She just smiled and gently urged the class to take out their books. No one heard a peep out of Lila for the rest of the day, and when classes let out, Lila grabbed her stuff, ran down the stairs, and out the door.

Adrien watched her go and didn’t feel bad. Lila had brought everything on herself. If she hadn’t made such a big deal of it, no one would have said a word to her about this. He didn’t think anyone would tease her too badly, but as word about him and Marinette spread, Lila was going to have to deal with the consequences of her lies. This might even lead to more and more people realizing she had been lying all along. It seemed like a fitting punishment.

‘Damn straight,’ Marinette thought, getting up. ‘Now, you and Chloé hurry up! I want ice cream.’

"Wanna come get ice cream?" Adrien said to Chloé, who seemed surprised by the invitation but nodded.

So it was that Adrien, Marinette, Chloé, Nino, and Alya made their way to André's little cart. André whipped up a concoction for Nino and Alya first, loudly proclaiming them to be an adorable couple who deserved a blend of coconut, pistachio and mango ice cream. Then he turned to Chloé. He looked at her for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought, then smiled and gave her two scoops: one of banana ice cream and one of chocolate. Chloé took her ice cream cone, looking pretty content, and stepped aside. Then it was Adrien's and Marinette's turn. They stepped up together.

"Ah, young love," André said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I will get you something special. Yellow passionfruit to match his hair, blackberry for her hair..." He quickly scooped two balls of ice cream onto a cone, then added a third. "And lastly, blueberry peach to match her sky-blue stare and his pink lips! A perfect combination indeed!" He offered Adrien the ice cream cone.

"Thank you," Adrien said, taking the cone carefully. The combination of flavors was unusual but sounded delicious.

André tipped his hat to them. "A good day to you, my friends!" And then he headed off, whistling.

'Would you like the first taste, My Lady?' Adrien thought, scooping up a bit with the spoon and offering it to Marinette.

'Thank you, My Prince,' she thought back, her eyes twinkling, and opened her mouth. A flow of contentment came through the bond, so Adrien quickly scooped up some for himself to try. It really was as good as it had sounded. The fresh fruit taste danced across his tongue: a perfect medley of tart and sweet.

"Marinette, Adrien! Come on! Let's go walk along the Seine!" Alya called.

Adrien looked over at them, realizing that their three friends had walked ahead without them. Alya and Nino were chowing down on their ice cream, while Chloé was furtively sneaking tiny spoonful’s into her pocket for Pollen when Alya and Nino weren't looking.

It was nice. Nice to enjoy the warm afternoon sunshine with his soulmate, his partner, and their friends. Nice to not have to worry about familial or work pressure or akumas. Nice to see Chloé smiling and laughing with Alya and Nino.

He didn’t know what would happen with his father. But frankly, right now he didn’t care. He’d deal with it, like he had dealt with everything else, with Marinette at his side. The knowledge that his partner would be there was more than enough. They could deal with anything that came their way, especially with the help of their friends and family. His father couldn’t control him or anyone else anymore, and that was strangely freeing.

"I didn't know it could be like this," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, but of course Marinette heard. She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Aren't you glad I dropped those macarons on you now?" she asked playfully, and Adrien chuckled.

"I was glad for that from day one, but yeah. I really am," he said, pressing a quick kiss to her mouth. She tasted like fruity sugar.

But of course, the kiss only lasted for a moment before Alya called to them again. Adrien and Marinette ran to catch them. The five of them ended up finding a small spot on the banks of the Seine to sit and enjoy the sun. Adrien distracted Alya and Nino so that Marinette could sneak some ice cream to Tikki too. Even Plagg ate a little bit of it, though not before informing Marinette in a hissed whisper that cheese ice cream would've been a much better choice. Adrien would treasure Marinette's disgusted expression and feelings for the rest of his day.

For once, there was something right with the world, Adrien decided, when a fourteen-year-old boy could have this much fun with his friends on a lazy Monday afternoon. He smiled around at them all and wrapped his arm around Marinette's shoulders, contentedly breathing in the smell of her shampoo and basking in the contentment flowing through their bond. Chloé leaned against him on the other side, and Adrien wrapped an arm around her shoulders too. Nino, laughing, stole Alya's phone and leaned over to show them something on the screen, while Alya pouted and poked at him. Eventually Nino gave her phone back, and then gave her a kiss for good measure.

"Eww, no public displays of affection please!" Chloé said.

"Alya, stop kissing your boyfriend and show me that write-up you did of the new Fox and Turtle," Marinette said.

Nino sighed as Alya jerked away. "Rude, Mari."

"You'll survive," Marinette said with a grin.

"They were so cool!" Alya said gleefully, and Chloé gave a quiet, amused little snort. Marinette giggled too.

Adrien closed his eyes as their playful banter swirled around him, lifting his face to the sun like the cat that he was, and relaxed.

[avintagekiss24]

Wild Thoughts

I think I’m in love with Rihanna. Seriously. She and her outfits in the Wild Thoughts video are the inspiration for this story. Well, her and Beyonce from the On The Run fake trailer. Hope you enjoy :)

The air is sticky this time of night in Havana, but no one seems to care. The bar is packed, the patio even denser with bodies. The music is loud, the drinks are cold, and the air smells of the finest cigars. The band is soaked in their own sweat but they're having too good a time to stop now. The trumpet players dance along with the percussion beat, clapping their hands in enthusiasm before returning the brass to their lips. Bodies sway to and fro as their hands and fingers reach toward the ceiling. Men slink their arms around the waists of their women, pulling them deeper into their body as they wiggle and writhe to the beat. 

 Rick downs his brown liquid in one gulp, before sliding the short glass away from him, prompting the young bartender to hit him with another. He sits alone at the bar, Daryl leaving him hours ago with his favorite girl, Marcela. They weren't supposed to be in Cuba this long, just a few days, but the food and drinks and women always prove to be too much for the duo. A few days turns into a few weeks, into a few months. Daryl lays his head with Marcela, while Rick lays with anyone that'll take him. His flings will last a few weeks, a month or two maybe, but they always fall in love and he always takes the cue. It's time to go once their eyes start sparkling for Rick Grimes.

 He slides his crystal blues across the dance floor, looking for her. Three nights he's watched her and her dark haired, fair skinned friend dance until they can't stand. They accept drinks from most of the men in the bar, they laugh loudly, they even partake in the cigars. Two carefree, beautiful girls. Just how Rick likes them. He's only managed to catch the green-eyed girls name, Maggie. But every time someone calls for the dark skinned, toned bodied friend, something manages to drown out her name. Rick reaches for his fresh glass of scotch and takes a sip, leaning against the bar with his elbow. A flash of peach catches his eye and he flicks his orbs toward the bright intrusion.

There she is. In all her god given beauty. She stalks the floor like a lioness, almost gliding across it with a certainty that is unparalleled in any other woman. Her locs are loose tonight, hanging down her exposed shoulders. The previous two nights, it's been tied up. Once in a bun, once in a ponytail. But tonight, tonight those majestic, tightly coiled locs swing free as she moves through the crowd. They fall over her chest, calling attention to her perky, bouncing, full breasts and the fact that her shirt is see through. She's a proud woman. Her dark areola and her tight, thick nipples peeping through her crop top.

 God damn.

 Rick moves his head with her as she moves through the dancing bodies. His blues slink down to her tight flowered pants and he audibly takes in a breath. He'd love to be those pants. Grasping her supple, firm hips and thighs and ass in his hands. Whew. He turns to face the bar once he realizes she's headed toward that general direction. A second or two ticks by and he feels her small hand on his shoulder slightly, "Excuse me." Her light, whispery voice floats toward him like a gentle breeze washing over him and sticking to his damp skin. He moves slightly, allowing her to squeeze in between him and an older Hispanic man. 

 He finishes off his drink and slides the glass back toward the bar tender, tapping the hard surface with his fingers to get another, "And for you, ma'am?" The bartender asks.

 "Scotch please." She answers, just as dreamily and airy as her excuse me.

 Rick raises his eyebrows, smirking slightly. Stiff drink for such a tiny thing. He's impressed, thoroughly. Two drinks, identical, are thrown their way and they move in a succinct rhythm. She picks up her glass, Rick picks up his. She takes a quick sip, so does he. They even set their glasses back down on the bar at the same time, causing Rick to chuckle to himself. 

 "What's funny, mister?" She cuts her dark eyes toward him, tilting her face toward his.

 Rick chuckles again, shrugging slightly, "You're copying me."

 She clicks her tongue but giggles and he feels like God himself has bestowed a blessing upon him. All because he made her laugh, "Me? Copying you?" 

 "Yeah." His southern drawl seeps through his every word. She likes that. Reminds her of home.

 "Where are you from?" She asks suddenly, turning her body fully toward him. 

 "Atlanta." He answers simply. 

 Her breath almost catches in her throat. Her lips part as her mouth drops open slightly, her eyes wide. Rick's eyes fall to her lips as they suddenly curl up a little. A wondrous, curious little open smile playing on her lips. Her own eyes drop along him, taking in his build and how he carries himself, before they reconnect with his ocean blues. She places the glass to her mouth, running it slowly along her bottom lip before she tilts her head back to swallow it all. She slams it on the bar and grabs his large hand, "I wanna dance." 

 Rick wants to oblige her. He lets her grab his hand and drag him out onto the floor just as a solo guitarist begins a sultry rhythm. She wastes no time in enveloping him into her, resting her elbows on his shoulders and cocooning his head with her arms and hands. She starts her hips slow, rolling them into his groin in rhythm with the Spanish guitar. Rick tucks his head into the crook of her neck, his head beginning to swim as he breathes in her sweet aroma. She bites her lip, biting back the smirk on her face as her dark eyes roam along the side of his face. She pulls away from him and extends his arm with her as she backs away, those hips still swaying as her head falls back on her shoulders.

 Rick spins her suddenly, drawing a giggle from the temptress before he pulls her back into his body. He crushes her back to his front and dips his head to her shoulder, running his nose softly along her smooth skin. She laughs again and leans her head back on his shoulder as she grinds her supple behind into his crotch. She bites that plump bottom lip again and cuts her eyes back toward him as his strong hands roam along her flat stomach and down her hips. Her body feels good; and she knows it. He gets the feeling that he isn’t the first stranger she’s seduced with just a dance, and he probably won’t be the last, but that doesn’t bother him much. He’s been doing it himself for years.

 Within minutes of their first dance, everyone around them has disappeared. It’s just him and her, the faint sound of the guitar in the background, and his thoughts. He spins her again but this time brings her back face to face with him. He keeps a hold of her with one hand on the small of her back and the other intertwined with hers. She wiggles her leg in between his as he dips her quickly, another bright smile spreading on her face as she flushes with heat. Rick isn’t big on eye contact. Prolonged, lingering eye contact with women is a no go, because they usually take it the wrong way. But here he is, staring at her like his life depends on it. He couldn’t look away if he wanted to. That mischievous glint in her eye keeps him transfixed and makes his mind wander to the worst of places.

 Her skin on his. Her lips and teeth on his earlobe, just how he likes it. Those perky, bouncy breasts in his face and hands as she straddles him. The heat of her sex around his as he pumps into her. Fuck. He’d make her dance for him. Late at night, in the dark, with just the lights from the neon sign of the liquor store across the street from his room peering in the windows, splashing against her. He’d make her move slow in nothing but her bra and panties, biting that bottom lip as she runs her hands over her hips as she dances. Her hair in her face, her eyes on him, her Louboutins clicking against the floor as he throws crisp hundreds in the air for her. Mm, mm, mmm, what a sight.

 He sees her in a short, lace, white dress on the back of Daryl’s old motorcycle, her arms around Ricks waist as they ride out of town, her four-karat ring glinting in the sunlight. Grimes tattooed on her hip. Them sitting together on a California king in a presidential suite, overlooking New York city. Her legs crossed over his as they face each other, her hair piled high on her head as they count stacks and stacks of money from their score. Her laughing wildly as she lays back on the bed with her hands above her head as he fills her belly button with diamonds and kisses his way down to her silky center, the Dallas skyline just out their window. Her favorite accessory will be two pearl handled, hand engraved .45’s that she keeps tucked in her waistband, pulling them out as the three of them burst into a crowded bank.

 Her hair whipping around her face as she fires at the police cars behind them, Rick keeping his eyes on the road before them as he weaves the motorcycle in and out of traffic. She straddles him, her chest against his, her heart beating against his body as she squeezes the trigger over and over and over again. She’ll lose a heel in the chase. She’ll watch it bounce against the pavement before it disappears underneath the old Chevy that Daryl occupies. She squeezes her body to his as they cut through the wind and the city, sirens blaring, loud pops in the air. She’s scared this time. They aren’t losing the cops as quickly as they usually do and the streets are packed with traffic. Maybe they won’t make it.

 “I love you.” She’ll whisper, “No matter what, I love you.”

 Daryl will split from them, screeching down an alley and taking a few of the cop cars with him. They’ll all eventually get away, Rick carrying his bride out of city and along a dark, deserted highway. He pulls her into an old motel a few hours later. He carries her shaking body up to the room, ignoring Daryl’s frantic calls as he sets her on her feet and closes the door behind them. He kisses her deep and slow, cupping her face into his hands as he reassures her that they’re okay. He makes love to her all night long, wiping away her tears with his fingers as the police blow by the old motel, their sirens fading into the night as they move right past the thieves.

 Rick blinks. The visions of their life of crime gone. The smell of her fading as the guitarist in the corner finishes his song. She pulls away from him, letting her fingers linger in his for just a few moments more before she fully disconnects. She smirks again, danger and lust bouncing around in her eyes as she backs away, “Thank you for the dance, Atlanta.”

 “Rick.” He states, “It’s Rick.” She just smiles again in return, still sauntering backwards, “Tell me your name.” He asks as panic rises in his throat. She’s leaving, she’s really leaving.

 She laughs, licking her lips, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 He blinks again.

 She’s gone.

[dyl-crane]

self para, the other side.

FIVE. 

The candle flickered in the corner of her room, her Mother sitting behind her plaiting her Rapunzel long hair delicately. It was the most interaction that they had that day, another pageant won, another trophy for her shelf but not a shred of gratuity towards her daughter for being so obedient. Amber sat there, her small legs dangling off the stool ignoring the tugs of the comb that caused her eyes to water. Not a tear fell, she was a big girl and she would not cause a fuss, she had learnt long ago that this was meant to be the case at home. 

“Done,” her Mother’s voice was stern, “Now make sure when you get into bed then you’re careful. I can’t be bothered to keep having to unknot your hair, you turn too much.”

“Yes, Momma.” 

The door closed behind her and she used her hands to clamber from the stool which was only just half of her small body. Pulling back the sheets of her bed she clambered into her fresh, pure white sheets, careful not to make a crease as she lay down but the longer that she lay there, the more she stared at the open flame as it tossed and turned with the wind. A strange whisper in her mind filling her with concern that it may topple over and set her and her lovely bedroom alight. Her Mother would be so upset with her if she burnt her new silk nightie -- and all the accessories stored perfectly in her draws. This was the concern that kept her awake, unable to sleep. It felt like forever staring into that fire, the candle going further and further down into the wick but never blowing out until...

WHOOSH. 

A breath from somewhere unknown, there was nobody there, the door had not opened but as she lay there peeping out of her quilt, she felt strangely calm. The sensation of someone approaching from behind did not startle her and as the old woman sat on the edge of her bed, she looked up at her with widened blue eyes, “Who are you?”

“A friend,” the old lady responded simply and her hand was cold against Amber’s skin but the little girl simply nodded quietly, “Now go to sleep. Don’t worry about the fire.” 

And that was the first time it happened that a stranger appeared to speak to her but it was not the last.

EIGHT. 

Fingers wrapped around her wrist hard and she lurched out of the way of a second slap, a brazen look on her face, cheeks pink but no surprise registering on her features. Her Mother yanked her arm and brunette hair swung violently through the air, slapping them both with a strange stinging sensation left behind. “Just stop it, Honey! It’s time to grow up, you’re too old for imaginary friends and you’re embarrassing me.”

But Amber wasn’t listening, her gaze was fixed on the lake being them, a little boy in the water waving his arms. Eight year old legs kicked against her Mother’s grip and this was the first and only time she had ever fought against the tirade that she was expected to go along with no matter what. The stinging of her face, the fading of her Mother’s words, all of it meant nothing and with her struggle she eventually got away, a sprint giving way to her sliding down the dirty bank next to the water to grab at the boy. Her eyes were wide and frantic but as she reached out, he disappeared. Not into the water, into thin air. Another dirty trick.

“Robert!” She cried, “Robert, it’s okay! I’m here, come back!” 

Her Mother marched behind her, yanking her backwards by her shoulders so she was laying down, staring her right in the eye. There she noticed a look on her Mother’s face she had never seen before -- unable to identity emotions, really, she did not take it for what it was; SHOCK.

She was yanked to her feet a second late, “Never ever say that name again,” the glint in her Mother’s eye was all it too.

Obedience. “Yes, Momma.”

But as soon as they began to walk away she saw that little boy on the dirt bank once more, his clothes dripping with dirty water and a small smile on his face as he waved good bye. It would be another ten years before she saw him again, in her Mother’s family photo album, not in real life. He didn’t exist there anymore. 

FOURTEEN.

"Honey, focus.”

But she was. The test was laid out in front of her, her name was scrawled over the top. This was the sixth time she had sat it, she had been told the answers, ran through them, revised them. She had nodded in all the right places but still none of it had sunk in. Her mind was not capable of absorbing the information and through all of the shouting and orders and will to obey, it was just not happening. The words were meaningless and like her trophies now, she was losing her irony to her Mother. Left on a shelf in a dissatisfying manner, not quite what anyone asked for but a win all the same. 

The answer was wrong, she knew that as she handed it back but it made little difference to her Mother, who in the same irritated tone, only began to scream again and the words had all blended into one so many times that all she heard was the same mess of words. 

STUPID. IDIOT. WORTHLESS. TERRIBLE. HALF WIT.

She sat there and held the pencil as she drew again, the exact same problem, the exact same answer but tears appeared that could not be blinked away and none of her friends were around to offer a helping hand. Sometimes they had whispered her the answer, but now she was alone and her head was a whirring space incapable of coming up with an answer. There was something in the way of her educated mind, at times it came in bursts, knowledge that was not relating to anything but most of the time it was blocked and on paper it came out in nothingness. In incorrect answers. In ways that made her head spin. The paper became damp with her tears until pencil lines blurred into a mess.

“No wonder your Father didn’t want us. He probably already knew.”

But that didn’t hurt. It only hurt that she couldn’t make her Mother happy and a chest that should of been racked with rage was only racked with the sadness of being unable to do what she was engineered for -- please her.

EIGHTEEN.

Her Mother had framed a picture of her on the front page of a magazine, it was the first picture of her that had been worthy of gracing the walls in years. Hung beneath it were pictures of her Mother years before she had been born and the people she had known and Honey (because now she knew herself as this name) knew that one of them was her Father because there he stood with two horns coming from his head that grew, she tilted her head and watched as the picture began to leak, black spilling down the perfect white wall in gloops and her Father’s face becoming contorted with fear. She had never imagined the monster feeling that way, never imagined him having any feelings. It was strange. 

Her Mother called from the kitchen but she barely heard her. Once, twice, three times. Footsteps approached, “What are you looking at?” The voice was softer than normal, the woman behind her older and more tired than she had been in the years where she had mainly tormented her daughter. Now Honey was old enough, getting ready to leave the nest for a world that was meant to be scary but to her was nothing. 

“Pictures, if you listen to them then they can tell a whole story,” Honey responded and when she looked at her Mother, an airy smile touched her lips.

Her Mother looked at the pictures for a mere second, a sigh leaving her body that seemed heavy, “I’ll never understand you. You’re nothing like either of us.”

Honey’s eyes stayed on the dripping picture as the horns receded into her Father’s dead, as the fear disappeared and the black gloop began to recollect where it belonged and then looked at her Mother’s where it hung as one beautiful portrait of a brunette woman with big blue eyes and a smile, but she saw the tear stricken cheeks. She felt the heart break. Her fingers tingled, and she knew her Mother was wrong. She stepped forwards and took the picture from the wall and held it in her hands, “Nobody is alike, Momma, but you set me on fire with you and you need to stop burning. Please. He’s gone.” 

Her Mother stared at her, taken aback.

“Love is hard, isn’t it?” Honey let out a small laugh as she picked up her bag, the extendable handle of her suitcase flipping out with the guidance of her hand, “I understand.”

And as she turned, her Mother did not follow her out onto the doorstep but when she looked back at the closed door, she saw Robert standing on the doorstep with dried clothes and the same small smile on his face and knew that she would be alright. Even if she would never understand her. Maybe that was just a part of life. She loved her none the less.

[olwog]

etSo Peeps, it’s day 2 and we’re walking from Sutton Bank to Osmotherley. There appears to be some road issues so Ted’s Taxi takes us the pretty route that includes a trip up Bolton Bank and an approach to Sutton Bank that I’ve not taken but is very picturesque. It’s raining and the forecast is poor for the day so we’re well togged out in our waterproof best. Billy Connelly once said that there is no such thing as bad weather, it’s just bad preparation and we’re certainly not that.

  As Ted drives off we make our way towards the Sutton Bluff and what is generally considered the best view in England then begin our walk along the bluff towards Garbutt Wood. As we emerge from the trees  we’re met with some fabulous views of Gormire looking North West and the beautiful Vales of York and Mowbray. The Pennines are just a blur a today due to the fine rain that’s falling and the wind that’s blowing the heavy cloud across the sky. There’s no misery here though, we’re upbeat and looking forward to a bacon sandwich at High Paradise Cafe which is about an hour and half from here. We make a few photographs and take in the sights, I’ve actually included some photographs made on sunny days from this ridge, today the views are merely good but on the days that we’re blessed with blue skies and fluffy white clouds, they’re spectacular and the “Best View In England” title that’s signposted at the cafe in the car park is entirely appropriate.

We’re heading towards White Mare Crag now and I remember a legend that was retold in wonderful detail by Peter Turton, a North Yorkshire Moors National Park Volunteer and I include it here…

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The story begins with the Abbot of Rievaulx Abbey. The Abbot owned a white Arab mare, which had been presented to the Abbey. The Abbot took ownership of the horse, as he thought much more of worldly possessions than religious duties. The mare by nature was mild and gentle, but take her up on the moor and give her full rein, and then she showed her true worth.

In nearby Helmsley Castle lived a Knight, Sir Harry de Scriven, who was as fond of good living as the Abbot. He too had a favourite steed, a black stallion with the name of Nightwind. He and Nightwind had a reputation for never having been beaten in the chase. Not surprisingly there existed a considerable jealousy between the Knight and the Abbot.

One day after a hunting trip the Knight passed the inn on Hambleton Plain and decided to call in. Who should be there but the Abbot. The two men ate and drank together whilst night came on and with it a strong storm wind which promised snow. After a number of hours Sir Harry seemingly recalled a message for the Abbot. A yeoman farmer who a few miles away over the plain was very ill and had asked the Knight to summon the Abbot to come to shrive and pray with him before it was too late.

Sir Harry offered the use of Nightwind, surprisingly the Abbot accepted the offer and also agreed that the Knight, riding the white mare, should accompany him so far along the road, to show the way. The two men mounted hastily and rode off. The wind was blowing wildly; both horses felt the nervous excitement of the coming storm and somehow the ride moved almost imperceptibly into a race between the powerful black horse and the fleet white mare, and their riders.

The mare took the lead but Nightwind, carrying the heavy Abbott, slowly drew abreast and then took the lead. Sir Harry grew angry and the sound of the Abbott’s mocking laughter from ahead did nothing to abate his fury. He lashed the mare, he swore at her, he swore at the Abbot and Nightwind, and then he swore at himself as he realised that the Abbot had not been fooled. The heavier man had the heavier horse, and for all Sir Harry’s skill in the hunt he couldn’t hope to catch Nightwind.

Riding blindly on and on, using his whip mercilessly, Sir Harry completely forgot the landscape and where they were heading. It was too late when he finally realised that the horses were almost at the edge of Hambleton Plain with an eight hundred foot drop before them. A momentary struggle to stop the mare failed, her headlong pace was too great and so with a sickening plunge horse and man went over the cliff edge.

As Sir Harry and the mare plummeted down towards the sharp rocks below, the Abbot appeared to sprout a pair of horns and a long forked tail and where there had been feet in the stirrups there were now a pair of pointed hooves!

Nightwind’s rider called above the sound of the storm: “Sir Harry de Scriven beware of the stones But a novice like you must expect broken bones If you must play a trick on Old Nick! I’ll see you below when I visit the sick!”

With those words ringing in his ears Sir Harry crashed to his death along with the little white mare.

And the Abbot? He and Nightwind disappeared into the waters of Lake Gormire at the bottom of the crag. A great hiss of steam went up as the lake boiled for a moment.

Lake Gormire towards Sutton Bank Yet that’s not quite the end.

Until not so many years ago, people living under the Hambleton Hills would tell you how, when the night was stormy, the spectre of the terrified white mare could be seen plunging over the crag towards the stones below until suddenly she disappeared into thin air.

And the dark bottomless Lake Gormire – well everyone knows that’s an entrance to Hell.

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With the above in mind complete with a shudder that’s not only due to the rain, we make our way along the softer grass of Boltby Scar, Sneck Yate Bank past Low Paradise Farm and then up to our first objective, a bacon sandwich from High Paradise Farm.

The Cleveland Way meanders through the farm so you can’t miss it and the welcome from a very quirky and wonderfully cheerful Ginny is worth the call.

“Come in or go out but close the door”, is her opener, “It’s cold with the door open”. My pet hate is the type of person that stands in a doorway holding the door open whilst they conduct a conversation with someone outside so her direct approach is welcome by me and I’m amused. She’s also delivered it with a smile so there’s no malice intended and certainly none taken. I like this place already.

There are fresh scones, seriously rich fresh cream cake and various other homemade offerings together with coffees and teas but we’re here because of the bacon butty and it’s delivered on a fresh baguette; for the first time today we go quiet!

After drying off and warming through we avail ourselves of the toilet facilities which are somewhat cosy in as much as there would be no risks to the health of a swinging cat because there isn’t enough room to swing it but they are immaculately clean and very welcome.

As an aside, I’m not sure what sort of parties or clientele the The Cleveland Way and/or this part of North Yorkshire draws but there is a sign that prohibits the flushing of contraceptives down the toilet! Hmm, now I wonder, ‘High Paradise Farm’, where did it get its name?

We leave the lovely Ginny with a cheery wave and a smile that will keep us warm for the next few miles.

As we exit the courtyard the Pilgrim beckons us to follow Tony, Ginny’s step dad and owner. He gives us a conducted tour of the barn and pens containing these well cared for animals, some of which will be decorating plates in the coming months. They don’t know this of course and in the meantime, they’re enjoying the best of care. We make a few more photographs and Pete captures a particularly good one of the Pilgrim and her new best friend, a goat.

We make our way across Kepwick Moor and turn left at White Gill Head onto the ambiguously named Hambleton Street that is also called the Cleveland Way. We’re on Black Hambleton now and on the descent. The track is strewn with rocks and is not pleasant to walk on but it doesn’t last long before we’re on to a smoother surface and before we know it we’re at Square Corner and ready for “the steps”.

The steps down to Oakdale are treacherous due to the rain and the moss. We adopt a very cautious approach as there are random stones that look no different to the others but are covered with lichen that is almost imperceptible and this coupled with the rain renders them like teflon and there is more than one occasion when you hear a “Whoa…” or “Bugger..” or worse as someone’s foot slips away from them and sticks become an essential accessory to remaining upright. We fire our cameras up of course but on this occasion they’re redundant and we reach the bridge at the bottom of this little gorge without incident.

Oakdale Lower is now history and Oakdale Upper has been tastefully landscaped so we’re treated to a lovely view of rabbits playing near the water and two geese of some sort landing on the water. I love moments like this and whilst it could have been improved if the weather had been better it is still a wonderful late spring view and much appreciated.

Minutes later and we’re passing a house that has a fabulous garden that is being improved each time we use this route. The owner is lugging some huge planks about with the help of his partner and it is obvious how much work goes into making it look like this.

We’re along the lane now and see Pete just a blur in the distance, he’s made a phone call to Briege at the Osmotherley fish and chip shop to order a cod and chips and with the image in his head he’s all but jogging to get there before she closes at half two, we smile.

George is talking about Mediterranean cuisine and discussing the relative merits of Spanish, Greek and English sandwiches but the conversation dies as salad, feta and Greek olives are suggested as optimal especially in Greek sunshine.

We arrive in the Queen Catherine following a brief encounter with cod and chips sitting on the cross and as we pass the bar George resurrects the conversation regarding sandwiches.

“So what would you say to a Greek sandwich?”, asks George as we take our seats in the corner…

There’s a silence for a nanosecond and if there’d been a piano playing in the bar it would have stopped!

Someone went into a semi crouch with shoulders hunched as the beer they were drinking came blurting out and tears welled in silent hysteric laughter.

Still in gourmet mode, George asks again what a Greek sandwich is. Someone has googled said question and George is looking at the phone screen, first tilting his head one way, then the other. He even turned the ‘phone upside down shaking his head.

“I think I’ll swerve on the Greek sandwich”, says George; the rest of us are still recovering…

The walk is 18km and easy. The views are stunning in sunny weather and although we didn’t get any today it certainly proved that Gortex is indeed waterproof.

Enjoy the photos. I’ve also added some from another walk when it was sunny for your interest…G..x

Cleveland Way – Sutton Bank to Osmotherley etSo Peeps, it’s day 2 and we’re walking from Sutton Bank to Osmotherley. There appears to be some road issues so Ted’s Taxi takes us the pretty route that includes a trip up Bolton Bank and an approach to Sutton Bank that I’ve not taken but is very picturesque.